Page 77 of Beautiful Ugly

“You don’t have a home, Grady. You don’t have anything or anyone anymore. Only your books. Could you write another so that the islanders can let you live here?”

A tear rolls down my cheek. “I don’t know.”

“That’s fair enough. Nobody really knows anything. The only certainty in life is uncertainty. We’re all just a bad roll of the dice away from being right back at the bottom of the ladder we spent our whole lives climbing. I do need an answer, though. It’s decision time. They’re waiting,” Kitty says, staring at the walkie-talkie on the table.

ONLY CHOICE

Your future here isn’t just for me or you to decide,” Kitty says. “Ultimately it is up to the islanders whether you can stay. They’ve all been involved in this little experiment from the beginning. Sandy brought you here knowing exactly who you were. Cora Christie kept everyone informed of your movements with regular walkie-talkie updates, and opened any letters you sent or received at the post office. It sounds as though Midge gave a terrific performance—Hollywood was crazy not to turn her into a star—though she does sometimes stray from the script. Travers climbed one of the ancient trees to cut down a phone line when you realized that the old red phone box did in fact work. Only Morag—Midge and Sandy’s elderly mother—didn’t like what was happening and tried to warn you. The manuscript for Charles Whittaker’s Book Ten was deliberately left hidden beneath the floorboards for you to find, and everyone else played their part until you finished writing your own version of the novel. I’ve told them how much money I think I could get for it, but it will be significantly more for a two-book deal—possibly enough to mean they won’t have to allow visitors on the island for a whole year—and we want to make you an offer.”

I shake my head. “What offer?”

“I’m speaking as your agent now, Grady. Listen carefully andthinkbefore you make a decision, because sometimes the only choice is the right choice. The way I see it, you’ve been served a triple-decker shit sandwich with a side of completely fucked, but it’s exactly what you ordered. You and Charlie have a lot in common. You’re both writers who like your own company. He didn’t like to do interviews if he didn’t have to, didn’t like doing events or going to book festivals, and he wasn’t interested in awards unless they were voted for by real readers—he was a writer who simply wanted to write. Like you. Which is why I think this could work. There aren’t many of my clients who I could send here. Most of them have family and friends who would miss them, notice if they disappeared, but nobody even knows that you’re here.

“It’s been tough for the islanders since Charlie died. Without the income from his book deals, foreign rights, TV options, and royalties, they had to find other ways to fund the island. The sheepskin rugs, the pottery, and the Highland Cow candles only make a modest amount of money. The real money-spinner is tourism, but nobody wants to havevisitorshere all year round. And, as you know, they don’t likemenbeing here at all. It’s bad enough that they have to let visitors in for a few months every summer, coming here with their bags and their burdens, their never-ending complaints and shocking sense of entitlement. Invading this beautiful island with their noise and rubbish from the mainland, polluting the place with their opinions and their hate. You could help protect the island from all of that for a whole year. I’ve been talking with the board of the Isle of Amberly Trust, and despite some scruples about your behavior, they would like to offer you a permanent position as resident writer.”

I stare at her. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Charlie wrote fast, at least two books a year, but he rarelylet anyone read them and only nine were published. He was a bit too good at killing his darlings. Charlie only wanted to publish his best work, but there were plenty of unseen, unread novels tucked away in drawers when he died, either partly completed or just in need of an edit. I thought you were finished, but you can still write. You might be struggling to find the initial sparks, the ideas, but Charles had plenty of those and you’ve already proved that you can bring his darlings back to life.

“This is a great opportunity for you, a chance to really focus on writing the best books that you can. You can publishBeautiful Ugly; I’ll sell it for you. It was Charlie’s idea but you’ve made it your own; it’s your voice I hear on those pages and it’s your name that should be on the cover, not his. Thisarrangementcould be good for everyone. But any money you make from the books, minus my fifteen percent, goes to the Isle of Amberly Trust. It was never about the money for you anyway, was it, Grady? You just wanted to write good books.”

I stare at her, wondering if she has any idea how crazy she sounds.

“Why don’t you have a drop of whiskey? You’re trembling and I know this is a lot to take in,” she says, pouring me a glass. I drink it and she pours again.

“And if I do write another book, then what?” I ask.

“If it’s good—it needs to be a bestseller—then you write another. And another one after that.”

“And if it’s bad? Or if I can’t write? Or won’t?” I ask, hearing the tremor in my voice.

“Look, the women on this island aren’tcrazy. Yes, Sandy killed the music man thirty years ago, but I don’t think anyone should hold that against her. The previous writer drowning when he tried to leave was anaccident. Burying both bodies in the graveyard was simply best for all concerned. But the islanders aren’t in the habit ofkillingpeople—”

“Thank goodness. For a moment I thought you were saying that—”

“Unless they deserve it. There is a plot already marked out for you behind Saint Lucy’s Church. It’s a nice shady spot, away from the others so that you can be as alone in death as you were in life. The islanders are making an exception for you; you really ought to be more grateful. Men are not allowed to live on this island, and there’s no way for you to leave. I strongly suggest you don’t try; it won’t end well for you if you do.”

I stand up and feel dizzy. My eyes feel heavy and I realize that there must have been something in my drink. The room starts to spin, a kaleidoscope of the flames in the wood-burning stove and Kitty’s face. When I try to speak my words come out slowly and slurred.

“But what about Abby?”

“It was her idea,” Kitty says. “Thiswas what you wanted, remember? Solitude and silence to write your precious books. Sometimes giving people what they think they want is the best way to show them what they had.”

“What I want is to leave this island.”

“Nobody really leaves this island, not even me. None of us can escape who we are. Do you need a little time to think about your options?” Kitty asks, looking so sincere and caring. “The way I see it, you have no money, nowhere to live, no prospects, no future, no hope. Don’t you see? Accepting the offer, staying on the island, and delivering a bestseller every yeariswhat you wanted. You should be happy,” Kitty says. My eyelids are so heavy. I blink a few times but the world is too bright, too loud, too awful. “Why don’t you sleep on it?” she suggests. “Sleeping on something always helps me to know what to do.”

I close my eyes and everything fades to black.

ONE YEAR LATER...

VIRTUAL REALITY

GRADY

The story of my life has unfolded in ways I could never have imagined.

“Hello, Grady! How are you today?” Cora asks as I step inside Christie’s Corner Shop. The little bell above the door tinkles as I close it and I smile.