Page 62 of Beautiful Ugly
Meeting the man my wife had married was something I struggled to prepare myself for.
Finding out that she married awomanis too much to process.
I replay the conversation with Abby in my mind and realize that she never used the wordhusbandwhen she told me she was married. When she said Travers was the island’s “tree doctor” I had pictured a big tall lumberjack of a guy, maybe with a beard. I was secretly hoping my rival would have a beer belly, bad breath, problematic body odor, and a touch of baldness perhaps—I still have a full head of hair. I knew I would compare myself to him—how could I not—but I didn’t imagine this. It seems she has married a beautiful woman who is ten years younger than me. Somehow that feels like an even bigger insult to my manhood. Travers is wearing jeans and a simple white shirt and looks effortlessly stunning. Her perfect face is makeup-free—she’s not even trying—and yet I can’t take my eyes off her. Her extremely green eyes are taking me in too, and I wonder if she knows who I am. I have never truly understood the termdevastatingly beautifuluntil now, but that’s exactly what this woman is. And having met my wife’s newwife, I do feel devastated.
“Is Abby here?” I ask and she frowns. “I meanAubrey.” My voice sounds peculiar and I cough to clear my throat. Whatever first impression I am making it is not good.
“She’s not home,” Travers says.
“I saw her bike outside—”
She tilts her head and folds her arms. “I’m sorry,whoare you?”
“I’m staying at Charles Whittaker’s cabin for a while.” Her facestays exactly the same. “While I write,” I add, and her expression shifts.
“Oh,the author. Why are you looking for my wife?” Her words feel like a slap.
She used to be married to me.
“I wonder if I could ask how the two of you met? And when? And if she lived here as a child?” As soon as I say the words out loud I can hear what strange questions those are.
“You could ask, but if you did I’d probably tell you to mind your own business. I don’t mean to sound rude,” she says, sounding rude. “But this is not a great time.”
In desperation, I take the Beautiful Ugly pamphlet from the pottery out of my pocket. I unfold it to reveal the photo of Abby and hold it out for Travers to see. “The woman in this picture, your wife, looks a lot like someone I used to know.”
“Is that so?” she says, frowning down at the photo then back at me.
I look at it too and a second later I start to feel dizzy with confusion. The photo of the woman who owns Beautiful Ugly is not of Abby.
They share the same hair color, style, and length but she is not my wife. I don’t understand. When I picked this pamphlet up in the pottery yesterday the photo was of her. I saw her with my own eyes. I watched her, I listened to her; itwasher. But then how do I explain this? Who is this woman in the photo? According to the pamphlet, she is Aubrey Fairlight, the owner of the pottery, but this is not who I met yesterday. I think about my wife, who I could never imagine living somewhere like this and making pots all day. Abby who would never wear dungarees, or ride a bike, or live in a big modern house with no features or personality. She was a self-confessed workaholic. She spent more time in the newsroom than she ever did at home, always chasingthe next story. Always trying to uncover the truth. Of course the woman I met yesterday isn’t Abby. How could she be?
Iamlosing my mind. This confirms it.
I feel so unsteady I have to lean against the house to prop myself up.
“Are you okay?” the devastatingly beautiful woman asks.
No.
MAN-CHILD
One week before she disappeared
ABBY
I always wanted children, but he didn’t, and I guess I let him talk me out of it during the first few years we were together. He made it seem as though what we had was enough. But then—maybe because so many people we knew had started having families—it began to feel as though something was missing. At least it did for me. He had his books and in many ways they were his children. I only had him and only when he was present, which he often wasn’t even if sitting right beside me. I missed the child I never had.
I’ve been accused of being a workaholic all my life, but I think when you find something that you believe in and are passionate about, it does sometimes take over. I tend to beat myself up when I don’t get things quite right. I so badly want to be good at what I do, but that determination to do better,bebetter, is sometimes overwhelming. It makes me withdraw into myself, pull away from the people who have chosen to love me. I know I can be distant and difficult to be around when I am working. And I’m always working.
But he did know that about me from the start.
I’m trying to do the right thing for us, not just me.
The woman in black shifts in her seat. Our time is almost up. She has other people to see and other problems to solve.
“I hope this conversation has been useful?” she says.
“It has. Thank you. The thing is, he doesn’t want children and that makes us incompatible. I married a man-child and I can see that now. He is selfish and stubborn and he doesn’t support me in my career the way I have supported him. He chooses his books over me, every single time.”