Page 45 of Beautiful Ugly
“You are changing the world. One story at a time.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. I believe in you,” I said, but she still looked so unhappy. I didn’t understand it then and I still don’t know why. I kissed her again then whispered, “I hope you die in your sleep.”
She smiled. “I love you too, Grady Green. Always and forever.”
A week later she disappeared.
LEAD BALLOON
Itry to leave my past where it belongs and focus on the future. Things are going to be different with this book. Things are going to be great. That’s what I keep telling myself because that’s what I need to believe or I won’t be able to go through with it. I park outside Christie’s Corner Shop then head inside before I can change my mind.
“What’s this then?” Cora asks, as I meander over to the cash register.
“A parcel I’d like to send to London.”
“Right you are,” she says, and I can tell the nosy old bat is desperate to know what it is.
“It’s my new book,” I say to save her asking, and she beams at me. “Do you have a copy of the ferry timetable?” Her face falls, she looks away and shakes her head.
“No.”
“Who does?”
She shrugs. “I’m sure someone else in the village must have one, but I haven’t left the island for years. Sorry, can’t help. But I can get this sent off for you. How about a KitKat to celebrate?” she asks while I search inside my wallet for something to pay with.“I’ve popped it in this paper bag along with a little something else,” she says when I look up. “My treat.”
I feel good when I step back out onto the street. Optimistic.Happyeven. It feels strange. Cora said the parcel should leave on the mail boat today, which means that Kitty could, in theory, have the new book on her desk in London as soon as tomorrow. I’m excited and I want to celebrate with someone, and with more than a chocolate bar, but I can’t use my phone to call anyone and, even if I could, I can’t think of anyone I would call. The pub catches my eye. It’s been a long time since I had a decent pint and I could really do with one.
I let Columbo out of the Land Rover and we amble over to The Stumble Inn. My heart starts to sink when I read the sign:OPEN THURSDAY TO SUNDAY. I’ve been working so hard that I still don’t know what day of the week it is. The days tend to bend and blur into one another when I am writing. There is a sign above the door too, stating the landlords’ names. It used to be a legal requirement, but I haven’t seen one for a while, and I’ve never seen one quite like this. It’s a brass plate with black letters:
SIDNEY AND ARABELLA KING
Licensed to serve intoxicating liquor, wine, and beer. With the intention of getting you horribly drunk.
I try the pub door and find myself overwhelmed with joy when it opens.
The pub is rather lovely inside. A traditional old inn with low ceilings, wooden beams, and a surprisingly large selection of beer on tap. There is an eclectic collection of tables as well as wooden booths on one side of the pub. There is also a row of rickety-looking stools in front of the ancient bar. Everything is cozy and low lit, the kind of place you want to spend time with people. Except that, just like on all the other occasions when Ihave visited the village, there is no one here. Nobody. Not a single person. I’m considering helping myself to a drink when a woman I’m guessing must be Arabella walks out behind the bar. She’s in her thirties, and is wearing a pretty dress and a friendly smile.
“What can I get you?” she asks in a London accent.
“A pint please. Is there something on tap you can recommend?”
She smiles and I see a shiny gold tooth. “I’m rather partial to Dark Island myself.”
“Sounds... perfect.” I notice a big old scar on her arm as she starts to pull me a pint. “Interesting sign outside, and in here too,” I say, nodding toward the chalkboard behind the bar. It says drinks are half price during “sad hour.”
“Thank you. It started as a bit of fun, swapping happy hour for sad hour, but then I thought it made more sense. Not everyone likes to drown their sorrows, some people like to swim in them.”
“Though not today it seems,” I say, looking around the empty pub.
“It’s always like this when the tourist season ends. We open up the island for visitors for a few months each summer, and we make most of our money then. Same with almost all of the businesses on the island—the Highland Cow Candles sell all year long, but most places rely on the tourists once a year to get by. I’m glad of all the money the visitors generate, but I’m even more glad when they all leave! I prefer it when things are quiet.”
“Me too. You don’t happen to have a timetable for the ferry, do you?” I ask and she shakes her head. “Not to worry. Do you do food?”
She puts the pint glass down in front of me and shakes her head again. “Only the variety that comes in packets.”
“Then I’ll have some cheese and onion crisps.”