Page 78 of Beautiful Ugly
“I’m very well. How are you?” I ask, taking a basket and heading off down the aisle.
“Mustn’t grumble, mustn’t complain—”
“Before a rainbow there is always rain,” I say, finishing her little rhyme. She laughs and so do I. I carry on down the aisle, grabbing the things I need, and when I get back to the checkout I look at the selection of newspapers. They’re a few days old—like everything else, they only get delivered to the island twice a week if and when the ferry sails—but I can see what I’m looking for—a three-day-old copy ofThe Sunday Times.
“Did you look already?” I ask Cora as I put one in my basket. Her smile gives her away.
“I’m afraid I did. I couldn’t wait.”
“And?”
“Don’t you want to look for yourself?”
I suppose I do. I open the newspaper, find the relevant page, and there it is—The Sunday Timesbestseller list. I can’t help smiling when I see my name at the top of it next toBeautiful Ugly, which was published last week. Kitty will have known days ago, but she had no way of telling me. The phone line, once genuinely broken, never did get repaired.
“You must be so proud. I know we all are,” Cora says, smiling with all of her teeth.
“Thank you,” I say, folding the newspaper and paying for the rest of my things.
“It’s good for you and good for us.”
“It is indeed. There aren’t any letters for me are there?”
I sent Kitty a new book last week, and I haven’t heard back from her yet.
“Afraid not, but this came from the mainland for you,” Cora says, lifting a very expensive bottle of champagne wrapped in a red ribbon onto the counter.
Columbo is waiting outside the shop and greets me with a wagging tail. My boy is looking older, but he’s still the most affectionate dog in the world. I can’t imagine life without him. His shiny black fur has a few gray hairs these days, especially around his chin. I have a few more gray hairs of my own. Old age sneaks up on us all like an unwelcome thief.
Sandy strolls toward us, about to head inside the shop herself.
“How are you, Grady?”
“Can’t complain. How are you?”
“Never better,” she says. I’m not sure she’s ever forgiven me for leaving her in the cave, but I’m glad we’re on speaking terms. She leans down to stroke Columbo. “You know, I always wanted a black Labrador. If you ever need someone to take care of him, I’m your woman,” she adds before patting me on the shoulder and disappearing inside.
Columbo and I cross the immaculate village green and I glanceover at the new church roof. It’s looking good. The Isle of Amberly Trust has taken care of a lot of community issues in the last few months, mainly becauseBeautiful Uglygot a big advance.
“Hello, Grady,” says Arabella coming out of The Stumble Inn. “Congratulations on the bestseller! The chef made fish-and-chips just for you,” she says, handing me a takeaway box.
They all know already. Of course they do.
“Thank you, that’s so kind. I couldn’t be happier!” I say.
Sometimes I think we are all the unreliable narrators of our own lives.
I climb into the old Land Rover and hear the crackle of a walkie-talkie, but it’s mine. I have my own these days. I’m officially a member ofthe community. I have learned a lot since I came here. A lot about myself and a lot about the world, as though this place has opened my eyes to all the things I couldn’t see before. No man is an island, but a woman can be if she needs to be.
My reflection in the rearview mirror startles me, but apart from the dark circles that have made themselves at home beneath my eyes, I look well enough. I still have trouble sleeping, and my head is often filled with unfinished thoughts and conversations I never had but should have, but Dr. Highsmith prescribed some very strong sedatives. They seem to do the trick at times like this; when I’m too exhausted to function but still can’t sleep. The new pills knock me out every time. I see the doctor every second Tuesday—if the weather permits the interisland ferry to sail—and she seems very keen to keep me in good health. They all do. Cora often adds green vegetables to my shopping basket when I’m not looking. I don’t even have to pay for them. So long as I keep writing, I think they’ll all take good enough care of me.
When Columbo and I get back to the cabin I light the wood-burning stove before slipping the pretty matchbox with a robin on the front inside my pocket. I think of that little robin as the only bird on this island, and I like to keep it close and safe. Thereare frequent power cuts here too, so I always keep the matches handy, and there’s only one match left, so I must remember to buy more next time I visit the shop.
I open the champagne and tuck into my fish-and-chips. It feels like a real treat and I savor every sip and every mouthful. I receive a modest salary, far less money than I know my books are generating, but that’s okay; it was never about the money. I just wanted to tell my stories. I’m published in forty countries these days andBeautiful Uglyhas been made into a film. The premiere is in London next month. I was invited but won’t be attending. I pick up the Magic 8 Ball that I now know was Abby’s when she was a child, and ask it the question I’ve asked so many times before.
“Will I ever leave this island?”
DON’T COUNT ON IT, the screen tells me.