Page 54 of Beautiful Ugly
I turn down a bumpy track and soon I see the sea. “This is where you live?”
“No, this is where I work. I like being close to the ocean. I find it calming.”
But she hates the ocean.
There is a small white wooden building in the distance, in front of a vast white sandy beach. There is nothing else here. No other buildings. No other people.
“What is this place?” I ask. “It’s beautiful.”
“If you mean this part of the island, it’s called Dead End Bay. If you mean the building, it’s the island pottery.”
I try my best to keep the conversation going. To find out as much as I can.
“Looks like a lovely spot. How long have you worked here?”
“I’ve owned the place for almost a year.”
It couldn’t be any longer because she was still with me before that.
My mind is a mess of thoughts I don’t know how to untangle. Feelings I know I should have but can’t quite reach. I don’t understand what is happening or whether this is real.
But shelooksreal.
And shesoundsreal.
We park up and I stare at the sign above the building. It seems the name of my missing wife’s new business is the name I just borrowed for my book: Beautiful Ugly.
GENUINE IMITATION
Are you okay?” she asks.
I can’t answer. My brain feels like it is made of wool and I think the situation has overwhelmed me. I feel like I might cry, which is something I haven’t done since the night she disappeared. How can she not know who I am? Concern clouds her face and distorts her features. I stare at her, this woman wearing a red coat who looks and sounds just like my missing wife. But then her face blurs and twists into something different, someone I do not know or recognize. She’s staring at me, waiting for an answer, but I can’t speak. It feels like waking up from a nightmare only to discover it wasn’t a dream.
A year is a long time but itisher. There is no other explanation. Unless she had a secret twin? I study her again and survey the changes in the face I once knew so well. If it isn’t her—and I’m almost certain it is—it’s like looking at a genuine imitation. Her skin is more tanned—Abby was always so careful to wear sunscreen—her dark hair is longer, and it looks wavy and natural instead of heavily styled. She’s thinner too; her cheekbones are more prominent than they used to be. She looks well, apart from the cut on her head. She’s wearing clothes Abby wouldn’t havebeen seen dead—or alive—in. Casual was never her style, and I definitely never saw her wearing dungarees. I remember the newspaper articles again. Someone on the island wanted me to know that Abby was here. If it really is her. It’s her eyes that make her look unfamiliar. They should be blue, not brown. I can’t help staring at them, but doing so clearly makes her uncomfortable.
“Thank you for the lift,” she says, reaching for the door of the Land Rover.
“Wait, I didn’t catch your name.”
“My name is Aubrey.”
No it isn’t.
But Aubrey does sound a lot like Abby.
Maybe she doesn’t know she’s lying.
It doesn’t make sense. How could she possibly have forgotten her old life, her job, the house we renovated? We thought it would be our forever home but I guess nothing lasts forever. How could she forget our dog, our marriage, us, me?
She opens the door and starts to climb out. “Areyou okay?” she asks again. “I’m the one who was just run off the road but you’re looking a bit pale and clammy. If you’re in shock I don’t want you driving into someone else. Do you want to come in for a glass of water?”
I am in shock and I do want to go inside because I don’t believe a word she is saying.
“There are a lot of breakable things in the pottery. Maybe leave Columbo here for now so his tail doesn’t knock them all over.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
Columbo jumps into the driver’s seat—always his favorite spot—as soon as I walk away.