Page 6 of Beautiful Ugly
“Thank you.”
Kitty nods then opens her desk drawer again, this time taking out a checkbook. I didn’t know those things still existed. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“What does it look like? I’m writing you a check so you can buy yourself a new coat with buttons that don’t fall off—it can get pretty chilly in the Highlands at this time of year—and I want to know that you have enough money to feed yourself and Columbo.” She signs the check and slides it across the desk. It’s for a very generous amount of her own money. “You can pay me back when we sell the next book. I’ll email you all the details for Amberly and directions on how to find the cabin. Now get out of my office,” she says with a wink.
I am forty years old, but there are tears in my eyes. “Thank you, truly.”
“Success is often the result of a series of failures. Try to remember that. You never learn anything from success, but failure can teach you everything about a person. Especially yourself. I believe in you,” Kitty says.
It makes me so happy to hear her say that.
It also makes me sad because she shouldn’t.
ONLY OPTION
Are there any benefits to losing it all? I think about that a lot. Your thoughts can change shape when you have too much time on your hands. Overthinking the things youthinkyou need to worry about, under-thinking the things you should. The only good thing about losing everything is having nothing left to lose. I check out of the world’s worst hotel, then load up the car with two suitcases filled with clothes, supplies, and books. I pack up my laptop and anything else I might need for a three-month stay on a remote Scottish island. Then I grab Columbo, and we set off toward a new chapter in my life. I hope it might be happier than the last.
It takes ten hours to drive from London to Scotland. Besides essential pit stops, I’m in the fast lane for most of the journey. My Mini is old and battered and has seen better days, but it still functions. Most of the time. Like me. Just past Glasgow, the view beyond my windscreen transforms into something spectacular. Trees in every shade of green, giant glistening lochs, and snow-capped mountains stretch out in every direction. My eyes, which had felt tired, are now wide open. Everything within my field of vision seems to be on a different scale. There is an infinite amountof unspoiled space, and the world seems bigger, or perhaps I am smaller.
A couple of hours later, beyond Glencoe and Fort William and still mesmerized by the spectacular views, I realize I haven’t seen much of the world for years. I have locked myself away from reality, too busy writing—when I still could—but I wasn’t reallyliving. Merely existing inside my own head. Then grieving for everything and everyone I have lost. Not just my wife. Over the last ten years I let my relationships with real people drift while I obsessed over fictional ones. My work became my everything. I ignored invitations, and most calls, texts, and emails, because I was always too busy writing the real world away. Besides, I didn’t need anyone else when I had Abby.
The realization deflates me a little, a new list of regrets writing themselves inside my mind. I drive on through this moment of grief, still in awe of the boundless beauty outside the window. I don’t stop, even though I would like to. There isn’t time. The ferry to the Isle of Amberly operates only twice a week, and I’m anxious not to miss the next sailing. According to what I read online, tickets cannot be booked in advance and can only be purchased on the vessel. From the few pictures I found of the island, it looks even more stunning than everything I have seen on my journey, so hopefully this epic road trip will be worth it.
When we finally arrive, late at night, the moonlit sea mirrors the coal-black sky in an unfamiliar bay. The satnav appears to think it has successfully led us to the “ferry terminal,” which looks more like a bus shelter in front of a rickety wooden jetty. There is literally nothing and nobody else here. I climb out of the car and the cold air feels like a slap. I stretch my tired bones, easing the cramp caused by too many hours of sitting in one position, and let the dog out to do the same. All I can find to confirm that I’m in the right place is a handwritten sign saying amberly ferry with a list of sailing times scrawled beneath. They areentirely different from the times I found online, and the next ferry isn’t due until tomorrow morning. I check my phone and see that I have no signal. There are no people, or houses, or any buildings at all, just a vast stretch of coast. There isn’t even a vending machine. Columbo looks unimpressed.
“Sorry, boy. It looks like we’re sleeping in the car.”
The following morning, we are woken by the sound of squawking seagulls. I’ve barely slept and feel drunk with tiredness, but when I open my eyes I am greeted by the most spectacular sunrise. The sky is stained the color of crushed cranberries, looking like a painting composed of angry brushstrokes over a picture-postcard white sandy bay. When we arrived last night it was so dark that I was completely unaware of the stunning views, but now I can see rugged countryside dotted with purple heather on one side of the road, and a seemingly endless pristine coast on the other. I spot the outline of a small island in the distance, sitting pretty on the horizon—my first glimpse of Amberly.
We have been joined by two more cars and a black van, which has a quirky Highland cow logo on the side, and they are all parked next to the jetty. There is still no sign of a ferry—despite the handwritten timetable suggesting it is due—and I noticed there were no details for return sailings; all of the specified times are for one way only. Given that there seems to be no danger of an imminent departure I take Columbo for a short walk along the beach. The wind gently pushes me forward and ruffles my hair, the smell of the ocean floods my senses, and a taste of sea salt lingers on my tongue.
The sun is a faster riser than I am. Its golden yellow reflection dances on the surface of the sea, like a shimmering pathway from the mainland to Amberly. With the cloudless blue sky, calm turquoise water, and perfect white sand, this place looks morelike the Caribbean than the Scottish Highlands. Only the cold gives our actual location away, stinging my face and creeping beneath my clothes. The air is so cool and fresh and pure compared with London. I greedily gulp it down, filling my lungs, feeling awake, alive, and a little bit excited for what might be a second chance.
The sea’s calming sound is hypnotic and reminds me of where we used to live. Our old “not forever home.” Then I think about that night, the sound of rain and the waves crashing on the rocks below the cliff road, the last time I heard her voice. My wife is always trespassing on my thoughts. Even now.
Memories of when we first met play in my mind like a scene from a favorite film, and I wonder if I might have edited them over time into something more meaningful than it was. I know some people thought she just decided to leave me when she disappeared. But even if she was going to leave me, I know she’d never stage something so dramatic. Abby isn’t like that.
I try to pack my feelings away in a box inside my head. Like I always do.
They tend to let themselves back out.
As I walk, Columbo runs back and forth kicking up clouds of sand, chasing any loitering seagulls. I pick up a smooth dark gray stone and skim it across the surface of the sea. It bounces three times before disappearing and the dog runs into the shallow water. He’s chasing something he’ll never find, but we’re all guilty of that. I turn and spot an old Volvo with a horse trailer pull up to join the other cars in the distance, back where we are parked. A hatch opens, and I see that the horse trailer has been converted into a small food truck. The smell of cooking soon mingles with the scent of the ocean and my stomach rumbles. I haven’t had much of an appetite lately but I am suddenly ravenous.
“Come on, Columbo. Breakfast is served.”
Back in the car, with coffee, a bacon sandwich, and sausagesfor the dog, I stare out at the sea. It’s not as calm as before, and the once perfect blue sky is now covered in bruises. The ferry was due half an hour ago, but all I can see on the horizon is what looks like an old fishing boat. The other drivers turn on their engines as it approaches the jetty, and I feel a little nauseated as I read the name on the side of the vessel:AMBERLY FERRY. As ferries go, it’stiny. I’m reminded of a Fisher-Price toy ferry I owned as a child, which only had room for two plastic cars. Admittedly, this is slightly bigger, but it’s old and rusty, and looks so unseaworthy that I’m surprised it floats.
The other drivers—who have clearly done this before—move their vehicles to form an orderly line at the front of the old wooden jetty. The sight of it makes me think of a scene fromJaws. One by one, they drive onto the ferry before I’ve even managed to put on my seat belt or turn on the engine. I see someone up ahead checking the cars before they board, leaning down to peer inside each vehicle before allowing anyone onto the boat as though looking for stowaways. I think it’s a man at first, mainly because of their height and the way they are dressed—faded baggy blue jeans and an enormous yellow jacket that looks like it could double as a life raft. But as she walks toward the Mini, I can see it is a very tall woman. She’s a good twenty years older than me, and has shiny black hair tied off her face in a short ponytail. She leans down and I lower my window.
“Can I help you?” she asks in a thick Scottish accent.
“Hope so. I’m trying to get to Amberly.”
She stares at me for a long time as though she doesn’t understand what I said or thinks I am dangerously stupid. “Sorry, I canny help. It’s out of season.”
I stare back. “What does that mean?”
“It means the Isle of Amberly Trust owns the island. It is home to thousands of protected trees and a community of just twenty-five people.Visitorsare permitted on the island only from May toJuly. Even if I could let you on board—which I can’t—you’d have no way of getting back again for days and nowhere to stay—”