Page 43 of Beautiful Ugly
One was a victim of domestic abuse who called the police for help when she was badly beaten by her husband. In a recorded call she was told by a senior officer (who has since been suspended as a result of this article) that the police were too busy to deal with “silly rows” between husbands and wives. She called a second time later that night and explained in a calm and coherent voice that she thought her husband was going to kill her. The woman was told all the shelters were full and offered a tent in the middle of winter. Listening to the recording of that call, to a vulnerable woman begging for help and in fear of her life, is even more harrowing when you see photos of what happened next.
That night, her husband beat her unconscious. He broke her arm in two places and she lost several teeth. Her head injuries were so severe, doctors put her in an induced coma and she was in the hospital for six weeks. She has since relocated to the (continued page 11)
I read the article twice. I don’t know who the woman Abby wrote about was, but I do know that my wife often campaigned for victims of domestic abuse. As we all should. I don’t understand any man who could hit a woman, but then most acts of violence baffle and appall me. This is the third article that someone has left for me to find inside the cabin. I have a rule about the number three, one that cannot be ignored. Something happened to Abby. She had a habit of upsetting the wrong kind of people. She put herself in danger and I can’t help thinking I might be in danger now too.
OLD NEWS
First thing in the morning, I grab the manuscript and the dog and jump in the Land Rover. Nothing spooky or strange happened while I was writing. Everything was fine. Good. Great even. Nothing but peace and quiet; the perfect writing conditions. But now I keep hearing things, seeing things, finding things again. The latest newspaper clipping wasn’t slipped beneath the cabin door, someone let themselves in. I don’t know why someone wants me to see old articles Abby wrote before she disappeared—it’s a cruel thing to do to a man who lost their wife—but I no longer care. My plan today is to send the manuscript, then find out when the ferry is next sailing back to the mainland. I thought this island was the perfect place for a writer. It all seemed sonice. But places, like people, can often seem nice at first, until you get to know the real them and see them for what they are. My books mean everything to me but nothing is worth living in fear. I’ll head back toward London, find another dirt-cheap hotel if I have to. It’s only until Kitty can sell the new novel and I can get a new place of my own to call home. I just hope she likes the book. My whole future depends on it.
We drive out of the forest and onto the coast road and everything is blue. The cloudless sky and the calm sea are almost exactly the same shade, making it hard to tell them apart. As though there is no horizon. The weather feels like a good sign, or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. Sending the book to my agent has always been the most stressful part of the process for me. I don’t talk about the books—with anyone—until I have finished them. It’s just how I have always worked. I’m fine with collaborating, and I always listen to my agent, my first readers, and my editors, because there are always ways to make any book better, and of course I want my books to be as good as they can possibly be. But this stage, before I send the book, it is all mine. And this one is perfect.
I wish I had someone to celebrate with.
Women used to flirt with me a lot more than they do now. They flirted with me when I was young, because everyone flirts when they are young. Then they flirted with me when I was borderline old because they thought I was successful. Now that I am neither young nor successful, flirting is an endangered species in my world. Even if I think a woman is flirting with me, I daren’t do anything about it in case I’ve misread the situation. Beautiful women have always made me make poor choices. I remember one publication day when I somehow made the right one.
Even when you’ve had a smidgen of success, publishing doesn’t always go according to plan. Kitty sold one of my favorite books to a lovely editor, who unfortunately got fired two weeks after I had signed a contract. As a result, the publishers dumped me on another editor who made it very clear from our first meeting that she didn’t like me (fair enough) or my books (slightly more problematic). The months leading up to publication were filled with anxiety and unanswered emails, and when I dared to ask about publicity, I was informed I’d be working with someone “whoseskill set matches our ambitions for the book.” She was the office intern.
On publication day I was asked to come to London for an “organized” book signing. On the train to the city I saw endless posters for other authors who were being published that week, billboards in every station displaying their work, tables containing teetering piles of their books at the front of every store. I struggled to find a single copy of my own novel anywhere, which might have been less soul destroying if it hadn’t been my favorite. The publicist was an hour late, and most of the bookshops we visited—on the book signing she’d organized—didn’t even have the book in stock. I had to spell my name repeatedly while they tapped it into their computers and shook their heads, and the whole experience was as excruciating and uncomfortable for the booksellers as it was for me. The publicist was too busy looking at her Instagram account to notice.
There were no events for the book, no interviews, nothing much of anything. Crickets could have made more noise to promote it. I felt like old news, a has-been who never was, and at the end of what was a horrible day, I went back to my hotel room and lay in the dark for a while wondering if my career was over. It wasn’t the first time my dwindling confidence as a writer had been torn to shreds. You can’t do this job without confidence, so when people stamp on it, or steal it, you have to learn to protect yourself. I needed a drink. I always needed a drink. I also needed to call my wife. Abby was the only person who might have been able to make me feel better. I’d already texted her to say what a complete disaster the day had been, but she was too busy working to properly talk. As always.
I’d received a rare piece of physical fan mail via my agent the previous day. The reader had been incredibly kind and complimentary about my work, said she was my biggest fan, and had even written her number at the bottom of the note. She wrotethat she was sure I was too busy, but invited me to meet her for a drink if I was ever in London. I normally told my wife everything, but confess I didn’t tell her about this. I looked the mystery fan up online; she had a quirky surname and it wasn’t too difficult to find photos of her on social media. In one heavily filtered picture she was even posing with my book, and she was stunning. It was the sort of thing that never happened to me and I admit it did make me feel better about myself; having a young woman flirt with me and tell me I was good at something. Especially when the rest of the world was making it very clear that I wasn’t. I sat in the hotel room, stared at her number, and thought about what I would say if I called her. She was so kind and lovely, and I was feeling so sad and lonely. I’m the first to admit that men can be very stupid.
I was relieving the hotel mini bar of its contents when she knocked on my bedroom door.
My wife, not my biggest fan, and I was very happy to see her.
Abby was holding a bottle of champagne and I was so shocked by the surprise visit that at first I didn’t know what to say.
She pretended to walk away. “Well, if you don’t want me to come in...”
I grabbed her hand and pulled her inside the room. “This is a nice surprise.”
“Is it?” Abby said. “Oh, good. I was worried you had another woman in here for a moment. You sounded so down in your messages; I didn’t like the idea of you being alone and sad on publication day. Here, open this.” She handed me the bottle while she hunted for two glasses. “Was today really so bad?” she asked.
“It wasn’t great. Only one of the bookshops knew who I was and had the books in stock.” I popped the cork and poured the champagne.
“Well, one is better than none isn’t it?”
“They sat me down at a table with a pile of fifty books and putup a sign that saidQUEUE HERE. Do you know how many people queued up to meet me and get a signed copy?”
“Oh dear,” she said. “I’m scared to guess.”
“One. I sat there for over an hour and only one woman came up to me with a book to sign. It wasn’t even my book. It was a copy ofThe Edge. She thought I was Charles Whittaker. In some ways I was flattered, but the guy was twice my age when he died. Do I really look that old?” Abby pulled a face, but not the one I was expecting. “Oh my god, you think I look like him too—”
“No! Of course not, I’m sorry. What did you do?”
“What could I do? I signed it. ‘Happy reading, best wishes, Charles.’”
She laughed then, but it wasn’t her real laugh and I could tell she was distracted by something. Work probably. There was an awkward moment where neither of us seemed to know what to say and it felt like I’d missed something.
“Well, cheers,” she said, raising her glass.
“Yes. Cheers to Charles.” I took a big gulp of my drink.
“No! Cheers to you and your book. May it fly off the shelves!”
“It would have to beonthe shelves in order to fly off them—”