Page 56 of Beautiful Ugly
She beams at me and it hurts a little; I have missed that smile so much.
“Thank you. Do you want the ten-cent tour while you finish your tea?” I nod and follow her through the pottery. “It all started out as a hobby, really. A form of escapism I suppose, to take my mind off what a terrible world we live in. I use a traditional wheel, and I glaze every piece of pottery myself. But the best bit is outside.” She opens the back door, which leads directly to the beach, and I follow her, the volume of the sea so loud now she has to raise her voice. “When the pieces are ready each one is fired in this ancient wood-fired kiln,” she says, standing next to a tiny stone structure behind the pottery. It looks like an old mausoleum. She heaves open a heavy-looking metal door to reveal something resembling a medieval prison cell.
“Thiswas all that was here when I bought the land,” she explains, looking bewilderingly proud. “I put all the pieces I make on these shelves beneath the chimney, then seal the whole thing up. In the old days they used to brick it up, then open it one brick at a time three days later, but I added this removable fireproof door to speed up the process. I light small fires through these little holes around the bottom, and keep shoving in kindling andwood until it gets nice and hot, like an oven. Then I keep it burning for two days and two nights. This kiln would have been built hundreds of years ago to fire pottery, and now it’s where I make mine. Unlike mass-produced factory products, every single thing I make is individual. Unique. Just like the people who will own them. Some people think that something being a different shade makes it imperfect. They even use the term ‘different’ as though it were an ugly word. I choose to see the world differently, and I think there is much beauty to be found in imperfection. And I love that something beautiful can come out of something so ugly.”
“Is that why you called the place Beautiful Ugly?” I ask as we step back inside.
She stops and stares at me.
“We live in a world filled with hate and hurt, these are dark times, but there is still love and light if you look for it. Everyone you know is capable of being both good and bad. And one man’s right is another man’s wrong. We have built a society that places far too much importance on a phony idea of beauty and perfection. The world is full of people behaving like clones, all trying to look, sound, and be the same. Too busy constantly comparing themselves to each other on tiny screens to see the bigger picture. I’ve accepted that I can’t change the world, but I do believe that uniqueness is something to be celebrated, not feared or frowned upon. Life is beautiful and life is ugly and we have to learn to live with both sides of that same coin and see the light in the darkness. The world is Beautiful Ugly, relationships are Beautiful Ugly, love is Beautiful Ugly. Understanding that makes life easier to live with.”
Abby disappears behind the desk I saw earlier then says, “Beautiful Ugly was the only name that felt right because I believe that’s what life is, and my work is my life. Anyway, I don’t want to keep you too long when Columbo is waiting in the car.”
That’s the second time she mentioned him. I don’t remember telling her his name.
She starts looking inside the drawers then holds up a ring. “There it is, found it, thank goodness. For obvious reasons I always take my jewelry off when I’m working.” She nods in the direction of the pottery wheel. “But doing so sometimes gets me into trouble. Especially when people accuse me of losing my wedding ring.”
Her words dismantle me.
I stare open-mouthed as she slides the white gold band onto her finger.
“You’remarried?” I say, feeling as though I’ve been punched in the chest.
“No need to sound so surprised! Gosh, look at the time. I don’t wish to sound rude, but I need to be getting home or my better half will be wondering where I am.”
BITTERSWEET
One Week Before She Disappeared
ABBY
“Have you told anyone else that you want to leave your husband?” Hearing the woman in black say those words out loud makes the concept more real. Which makes the idea more frightening. I shake my head. I haven’t said a word to anyone about it because it’s nobody else’s business. “Do you think he knows?” she asks.
That is a difficult question to answer.
“I think he knows I am unhappy. But I’ve been unhappy for such a long time, maybe he doesn’t notice anymore. Maybe, like me, he finds it hard to imagine us being apart when we’ve been together for so long. So it doesn’t occur to him that I might actually leave.”
“You sound as though you have already made up your mind.”
“I know.”
“But then why talk to me about it if you have already decided?”
It’s a good question and there are a lot of answers. I only give her one.
“Because I’m scared.”
When I spend too long thinking about how and why our marriage unraveled, my memory tends to wander to happier times. We weren’t always the us we are now. Which is probably why I am so afraid of walking away. What if I never meet someone who can make me thathappy again? Because we were happy, before. Nobody has ever made me happier than he did. But nobody has ever made me feel this sad either. Is being with someone who used to love you better than being alone?
A few months ago, he said he had found the perfect property for sale.Fixer-upperwas an understatement. The location was great—for him, not so much for me—but being a little farther out meant we got more for our money. Unlike where we were living, this place had a view, and he was excited about the idea of renovating something, making it our own. I think we both thought that fixing that broken old building would fix whatever was broken in our marriage. For a while, I think it did. But there were problems with the project—just as there always are with these things—and the builders kept asking for more money. Money we didn’t have. There comes a point with everything in life where there is no turning back. We had spent an extortionate amount on architect fees and jumped through seemingly endless hoops to get planning permission, the builders made constant noise, and dust, and complaints, and demands, and the months that followed were not happy ones. Renovating an old property only sounds romantic if you’ve never done it. When the builders discovered something unexpected I wished we never had.
“The builders found something today,” I said one night as soon as he walked in the door. He’d been away for a few days at a book festival, and I confess I had enjoyed myself while he was gone. Because he works from home he was always there, and I never got to spend any time alone, even on the rare occasions when I did have a day off. While he was away, I watched old movies, ate food he didn’t like, and danced around the house listening to Nina Simone while drinking white wine—he prefers red—and it was bliss. Until the builders knocked on the door.
“The builders finding something doesn’t sound good,” he said, hanging his coat on a hook. “What is it this time and how much will it costto fix it?” he asked, pouring himself a glass of wine from the bottle that was already open. The project had cost more than double the original quote by then, and things were tight. He hadn’t sold a new book for a while—mainly due to the fact he hadn’t written one—and he always had a head-in-the-sand approach to finances. I often worried that he might lose everything—including the house—if I wasn’t around to keep on top of things.
“No dead bodies or bones or anything like that,” I said. “But they did find something when they were digging the new foundations...”
“Keeping people in suspense is my job.”