Page 55 of Beautiful Ugly

“I’m surprised they let you drive Whitty’s old Land Rover,” Abby says as we head toward the pottery.

“They?”

“The Amberly Island Trust hasa lotof rules. Including thatvisitorsaren’t allowed cars on the island. Plus an old car like that isn’t remotely environmentally friendly. The island is tiny. I don’t know why everyone can’t get around on a bike like me.”

“You don’t drive?”

She shakes her head. “Why would I? Amberly is only six miles long and five miles wide, I never even bothered to learn.”

Abby loved to drive and she loved her car.

There is a large, prominent logo on the wall depicting a Highland cow. I remember seeing the same thing on the side of the black van on the ferry the day I arrived. Maybe it was Abby that I saw then. Maybe she’s been here the whole time, right under my nose. When she reaches inside her pocket and takes out a set of keys, I see something on her wrist. A tattoo. My wife didn’t have any tattoos; she hated them.

“What does that mean?” I ask, staring at the unfamiliar swirls staining her skin.

She holds up her hand, the way someone would if they were looking at a watch, and instead reads the ink-stained words.

“La’kesh,” she says, as though I should know what that is. “It means my other self. I’m sorry, now that we’re standing face-to-face youdolook familiar. Have we met before?”

ABSOLUTE CHAOS

She opens the door and we step inside a small but impressive building. It’s a modern timber-framed structure, with a lot of glass and a lot of light. Huge windows offer incredible views of the ocean and an endless stretch of white sand. There are tables and shelves everywhere displaying vases, pots, jugs, mugs, and bowls, and I notice that almost all of them are stained turquoise, with hints of blue and green. They look hand-painted and the colors remind me of the sea.

“I make everything myself,” she says, pride shining in her eyes. She takes off her red coat and hangs it on a stand near the door. “Sorry the place is a bit of a mess. There aren’t normally any visitors at this time of year and life has been absolute chaos recently. Take a look around if you like. I’m just going to patch this up.” She points to the cut on her forehead. “Then I’ll get you that glass of water, unless you’d prefer tea?”

“Tea would be great, thank you.”

It will take longer for her to make tea, which gives me more time to think. And more time to snoop. She disappears out the back and I head straight over to the desk in the corner. It’s a little too neat and tidy, but there is something of interest. A report from the Isleof Amberly Trust about their annual meeting. I start to read the first page listing the members present:

Sandy MacIntyre, Island Sheriff.

Midge MacIntyre, Island Secretary and Island Treasurer.

Cora Christie, of Christie’s Corner Shop and Head of Island Retail.

I quickly scan the rest of the page and see that there are twenty-five names, which means twenty-five possible suspects, one of whom must know what is really going on here because someone does. I take the report and hide it in my pocket to read later, then I wander around the rest of the pottery, being careful not to bump into or break anything. I pick up a pamphlet from one of the display tables and see that it has the same logo as the sign outside—a Highland cow. There is a description of the pottery and a picture of my wife. Sure enough, it says her name is Aubrey. Aubrey Fairlight.

BEAUTIFUL UGLY

Unique yet functional pottery, inspired by the sea.

Abby hates the sea.

“Here you are,” she says, holding two ceramic turquoise mugs. They are just like the ones on display but contain steaming hot liquid. She stares at the pamphlet in my hand.

“Don’t mind if I keep this do you?” I ask.

“Not at all. I’ve got boxes of them and can always print more.”

“Thank you,” I say as she hands one of the mugs to me. She has cleaned her face and has a small Band-Aid on her forehead.It looks like one designed for children, with a colorful picture of a unicorn. I have so many questions, but I don’t know where to start or what to say. She clearly doesn’t know who I am, or can’t remember me, and it feels like I need to tread carefully. I take a sip of the not-altogether unpleasant tea.

“So...” she says, and I realize that she wants me to go.

I can’t leave yet.

I take another sip and she smiles politely—exactly the way Abby did when she didn’t want to hurt someone’s feelings. How can she not know me? How can she not remember us?

“Your work, everything on display, is beautiful,” I say in an attempt to keep her talking.