Page 5 of Beautiful Ugly
I nod. “Soon, I think.”
“Or even a proposal or synopsis if you have one?”
I have no idea what happens beyond the first chapter, and I think I probably need to delete that and start again.
“Sure,” I say.
Kitty’s mobile rings, and she stares at it as though it has offended her. “Sorry, I have to take this.”
“No problem.”
She composes her face into one of pure displeasure, then picks up the phone. “If that’s your best offer, then let’s not waste any more of my time. I’m seriously jealous of all the people who have never met you. Six figures or fuck off,” she says, then hangs up. Kitty likes telling people to fuck off. I’ve always been scared she might say it to me one day. “Where were we?” she asks, her voice composed andfriendly again. She gently nudges the side of her glasses as though they aren’t straight. They are. “Oh, yes. You were pretending that the novel iscoming along, while I suspect you haven’t written a word since the last time we spoke.” I try not to smile. Or cry. Someone knowing me so well is still uncomfortable for me. “I think we might require something stronger than tea today,” Kitty says, taking out a bottle of expensive-looking scotch and pouring two glasses. “We’ve been working together for a long time, and I’ve always tried to do what I believe is best for you, for your books and your career.” This is it. Here it comes. The goodbye speech. She’s given up on me and how can I blame her when I’ve given up on myself. Kitty has a reputation for being ruthless and for dumping authors as soon as they stop being successful, as though she fears failure might be contagious and infect the rest of her client list. That said, she’s never been anything but kind to me. Until now. Kitty reaches inside her desk drawer, and I wonder whether she is about to tear up my contract in front of me.
“I’ve given this a lot of thought over the last few weeks and months—”
“I know I can write another book.” I blurt out the words and they sound almost true.
“So do I,” she says. “And I want to help you.” Kitty puts a Polaroid photo on the desk. It’s of an old log cabin surrounded by tall trees. “When a client of mine died a few years ago, he left me this in his will,” she says, tapping the photo with a manicured nail. Pink to match the tweed suit. “It was his writing shed in the Scottish Highlands.”
I fear the correct response is eluding me. “Lucky you?”
“I’ve not had a chance to visit it myself since he left it to me. Scotland is a bit of a trek and I haven’t had a holiday for five years, but I’m told the cabin has beautiful views, and Charlie certainly found it to be a productive place.” I frown. “CharlesWhittaker,” she says, as though I might not know who that is when the wholeworld knows who that is. Charles Whittaker used to be one of the biggest bestsellers in the business, but he hadn’t published a new book for years. I often wondered what happened to him. “Charlie always said that his tenth novel was going to be his best, but he died before writing it, and he was a secretive soul, wouldn’t even tell me the title. He wrote several bestsellers in that cabin when he was at the peak of his career, but now it’s just sitting there, empty. You’d be doing me a favor, really.”
I stare at her. “You want me to go toScotland?”
“Not if you’d rather stay in that shit show of a hotel. And I should probably point out that this little hideaway isn’t on the mainland. It’s on the Isle of Amberly.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Which is one of many reasons why Charles was so fond of the place—it’s very much off the beaten trail. There’ll benonoise.Nointerruptions.Nodistractions. He needed the world to be quiet in order to write, just like you. Couldn’t write a word when life was too loud.”
“I... don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes. The cabin means free accommodation until you get back on your feet.”
“I might just need to think—”
“Of course. Maybe this isn’t a good idea.” She nudges her designer glasses again, peering over them at me, and I fear I might have offended her. “It’s very quiet and very peaceful—apparently—but by all accounts it is a bit isolated. And rural life is not for everyone. There aren’t manypeopleon the island...”
“Sounds perfect. You know I need things to be quiet to write and I just haven’t been able to, with everything—”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps it was wrong of me to suggest it.” She puts the photo back in the desk drawer, slams it shut, and pops a cigarette between her lips. “You don’t mind, do you?” she asks, lighting it before I can answer. I shake my head even though I doand despite the fact smoking in offices has been illegal for several years. “I don’t want to interfere or make matters worse,” Kitty says, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “And I do worry that my other authors might feel jealous if they found out. I haven’t offered the place to anyone else, and you know how some authors can get: Jealous. Paranoid.Crazy.”
“I won’t tell anyone about it. I think it sounds wonderful.”
“Good. That’s settled then.” She taps the ash from the end of her cigarette into a small silver agent of the year trophy on her desk. “Take three months. Take the dog—he’ll love it up there. Rest, walk, read,sleep... and who knows, maybe you might even be able to write. I’ll tell the publishers to take a hike for now. There are plenty of other publishers out there, you write me a new book and I’ll find you one. I know you can do it.”
“I don’t know if I can write without her.”
Kitty stares at me, then at the picture of Abby on her desk.
The head tilt of sympathy returns and her voice softens.
“You’ve spent long enough grieving, Grady. As much as it breaks my heart to say this, I don’t think Abby is coming back. She’s gone and you need to try to move on. So do I.” Her words hurt us both. I see the tears in her eyes before she blinks them away.
I do want to write another book. I just don’t know if I can after what happened. Grief is a patient thief and steals far more than people who have never known it realize. My wife once said that I was only truly happy when I was writing, and I’m starting to think that might be true because I’ve never felt as broken as I do now. Being an author was the best job in the world until it wasn’t. Maybe this is what I need to be able to write again.
I can’t find the right words so say the simplest ones.