Page 61 of Beautiful Ugly

But I do none of those things.

I am paralyzed with fear as the dark shape of a person finishes crawling and starts to slowly stand. My heart is thudding so fast and so loud inside my chest I am sure they must be able to hear it. I close my eyes when they turn to face me. Like a child who thinks they can’t be seen by a monster iftheycan’t seeit. I have never been a brave man. When it comes to fight or flight I guess I am a coward; I’ll choose to run every time. But I can’t even move.

I hear them lean down then, looming over me until their face is so close to mine I can feel their breath. For a brief moment I think it is Abby because I can smell her perfume. But when I open my eyes, all I see is the shadow of a person with branches instead of arms and twisted twigs instead of fingers. Part man, part tree, some sort oftree man.

I scream.

Columbo barks and I open my eyes for real this time, and nobody except my dog is sitting on the bed beside me. His hot breath in my face, his eyes filled with inexplicable joy, his tail wagging and thumping loudly on the duvet. Itwasjust a dream. There was nobody hiding beneath my bed—except maybe for the dog—and I feel like an idiot. My racing heart starts to calm down and I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand.

I am trapped on this island in so many ways: I can’t leave unless a boat will take me, I don’t have any money to stay anywhere else for long if I do, and now my missing wife is here and I need to understand how and why. My options seem to be growing smaller every day and it feels like the walls of my world are closing in. Iremind myself that what happened was only a dream. Nobody was really hiding under the bed. And nobody knows about Charles Whittaker’s book, or what I’ve done. Nobody knows except me.

It’s only when I sit up that I feel the cool breeze on my skin. I look over toward the door I remember locking, and see that it has been left slightly open.

HONEST THIEF

Someone was here in the cabin while I was sleeping. It isn’t the first time that someone has let themselves in, but it never happened while I was here before. In bed. Unconscious. Someone has been spying on me since I arrived on the island. I’m sure of it now, and for some reason I am convinced it washim—Travers, the so-called tree doctor who Abby married—and I think that’s what my subconscious was trying to tell me in my dream. My wife’s new husband has been watching her old one. Which means he knows who I am even if she doesn’t. But who is he? And how has he tricked her into forgetting her old life with me?

I find the Isle of Amberly Trust report that I swiped from Abby’s desk and scan the list of attendees until I see what I’m looking for. “Travers Fairlight, of The Croft. Island Ranger.”Island Ranger.Hardly an impressive job title. But thenHas-Been Authordoesn’t sound very attractive either. I need to stop comparing myself to a man I have never met and do something to fix this. I find the map of Amberly and see that The Croft is at the top of the island. Now that I have a car it’s not so far away. Maybe Travers knows what really happened and what is going on here. He’s stolen my wife so let’s see if he’s at least an honest thief. Because he must know whetherthe woman he married has lost her memory, and whether she has always lived here. I grab the keys for the Land Rover and head out early, taking Columbo with me in case whoever let themselves in last night decides to come back.

My fragile ego can’t stop obsessing about why Abby might choose this man over me. Success is as subjective as history. I might not have been as successful as I’d hoped, but I’m still proud of the books I have written. My whole career was a series of self-portraits, even though I didn’t know it at the time. In all of my previous novels I have written about the things I am most afraid of. I think it is my way of processing what scares me most about the world: the terrible things human beings are capable of doing to each other. We are a peculiar species.

The three basic fundamental fears that all humans experience are:

Fear of death.

Fear of abandonment.

Fear of failure.

I experience all three on a daily basis. I fear death because I don’t think I have achieved much with my life, and I fear I will be forgotten. I’ve already been abandoned by the people who were supposed to love me the most—my parents—so it’s no wonder that fear of abandonment is something that haunts me. It’s also why I find it so difficult to trust people. Fear of failure, well, I don’t know what it is like not to live in perpetual fear of not living up to your own expectations. I should be a better person but there are some things it is too late for me to succeed at. I have always hidden my fears and myself inside my books rather than face facts or confront reality. Well, not this time. I’m going to find out the truth and nothing is going to slow me down or get in my way.

Until the walkie-talkie crackles as I drive along the main road.

I hit the brakes of the Land Rover, stop and listen, but hear nothing.

When I drive on it crackles again, but nobody speaks. Maybe it’s broken.

With the help of the map it doesn’t take too long to find The Croft. It’s a modern wooden house at the end of a private lane. Hidden away. Secluded. I feel a strange sense of excitement tinged with dread as I park outside. This is where my wife has been living all this time. I’ve dressed myself up a bit for the occasion, I do not know why. My hair is still a tad wild-looking—I haven’t had it cut since I arrived on the island—but I’ve had a shave and I’m wearing my best shirt. I came here to see the new husband for myself, ask him a question or two, but I notice that Abby’s old-fashioned bike—with its wicker basket and childish bells—is leaning against the porch. So I know I’m in the right place. And I know she is at home. Which is good, because I am going to confront her about a past she may or may not remember too. Our past. I need to know what happened after she disappeared, and how she ended up here. She is the only person who can tell me.

I knock on the door but there is no answer. I feel like I’m trespassing when I walk around the back but I do it anyway. When I still can’t see or hear any signs of life, I peer through the windows. It’s a modern open-plan layout with industrial furnishings lacking in personality. The kind of place Abby would hate. I raise my hands to the sides of my head to shield my eyes from the sunlight, trying to get a better view inside the house. Then I hear a voice behind me.

“Can I help you?”

It’s one of my top three favorite passive-aggressive terms, along with,No offense, but...andCorrect me if I’m wrong...I can tell from their tone that this person does not want tohelpme.

I turn to see a ridiculously attractive woman with long dark hair. She’s in her thirties, looks like a film star, and for a moment I am rendered speechless by her beauty.

“I’m looking for Travers,” I say.

“Then I guess you found her.”

Her?

My mind is properly blown.

“You’reTravers?”

“Last time I checked,” she says. “And you are?”