Page 9 of Beautiful Ugly
I have nowhere else to go and my agent took pity on me.
“I’m a writer,” I say.
“Are you now? Good for you. Good. For. You.” She nods a few times then looks back at the winding road. “We’ve had a fair few writers stay on the island. I’ve lost count of all the creative souls I’ve met over the years who come here for a holiday and never leave. They seem to find the place inspiring. What sort of books do you write?”
I don’t write anything anymore. I can’t remember how.
“Oh, wow.Thisis beautiful,” I say as we turn a corner revealing a spectacular view of a valley below. I’ve always been good at changing the subject when the subject is one I don’t like. We are approaching a small village surrounded by craggy emerald hills. There is a forest in the distance and, beyond that, the sea. I notice that the sky has darkened to a threatening shade of gray, and I fear Sandy might have been right about a storm.
“Aye, it is the most beautiful place in the world,” she replies, with a look of wonder as though she too is seeing Amberly for the first time.
There is an ancient-looking old stone church called Saint Lucy’s in the middle of the village, with an elaborate wooden lychgate. An immaculate village green with striped grass separates the church from a row of three small, pretty thatched cottages, and I can see that The Stumble Inn is indeed a pub. The black van I remember from the ferry with its Highland cow logo is parked outside a shop and several people are helping to unload it, carrying boxes of what looks like fresh food inside.
“The island might be small, but she takes care of her own, and I’m sure you’ll find anything you need,” Sandy says. “We all help each other out. I hope you’re community minded; it’s the best way to be. Everyone that can helps to unload the weekly deliveries, which is what you can see happening now. Many hands make light work, as my grandpa used to say. That’s Christie’s CornerShop, the only general store on Amberly. It’s also the post office should you have something you want to send in the mail. The islanders own everything on the island—you won’t find any supermarkets or fast-food establishments here—onlylocalbusinesses run bylocalpeople. If you have any special requests for food—or drink—during your stay, Cora Christie can order them for you, and they’ll be on the next ferry over—”
“About the ferry, I noticed that the timetable only showed sailingstoAmberly. There didn’t seem to be any details for sailings going back to the mainland. Is there a timetable for the return journey somewhere?”
“You’re not leaving so soon, are you?” she asks.
“No. But—”
“Well, once you’ve been here for a little while, you’ll probably...”
I stop hearing what she is saying because I see her again.
My wife.
“Stop the truck,” I say, interrupting Sandy mid-speech.
“What?”
“Stop the truck.Please.”
As soon as she does, I fling open the rusty door and run back toward the black van I saw Abby climb out of. I hurry inside the shop, but she isn’t there. Everyone who is stops and stares at me as though I am a madman.
“Where did she go?” I ask nobody in particular.
“Who?” asks an elderly lady in a shopkeeper’s apron standing behind the cash register. Her eyes are too big for her face, and her pale skin is heavily lined.
“My... there was a woman. She just got out of the van and came in here wearing a red coat and carrying a box—”
“You must mean Meera,” the shopkeeper says, looking increasingly perplexed. She squints at a woman holding a box of vegetables—who I am guessing is Meera—who is indeed wearinga red coat. Just like the person I saw on the ferry. Just like Abby the last time I saw her. She has the same dark hair too, but other than that, she looksnothinglike my wife. I glance around, but nobody else inside the shop fits the description. This woman must be who I saw.
“I’m sorry, I...”
I feel as though I might be losing my mind, and everyone in the shop is staring at me in a way that suggests they agree. The police found Abby’s red coat not long after she disappeared. Nobody is walking around wearing it now. It’s all in my head.
“Sorry,” I say again, retreating as fast as possible. “I thought you were someone else.”
I have to stop doing this.
I imagine seeing Abby everywhere.
And I still think about her every day and every night; I don’t know how not to. I lie awake wondering if she is dead or whether she might be alive somewhere, living a life without me. If she is alive, I wonder where she is and if she misses me as much as I miss her.
She is a wound that won’t heal.
“What was that about?” asks Sandy when I get back in the truck.