If all we need is love, why do we always want more?
I dial her number. Again. Finally, she answers.
“I’m on my way, almost there,” my wife says without me having
to ask. I can hear that she is driving, so she is heading home, but
almost there sounds like a lie. She has a habit of stretching the truth
into something more agreeable these days.
“You said you would be here,” I reply, sounding like a petulant
child instead of a grown man. “This is important to me.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll be there soon, promise. I’ve picked up
fish-and-chips.”
Fish-and-chips is how we have celebrated almost every major
milestone. It’s what we ate on our first date, when we got engaged,
the day I got an agent, and when we bought our dream house. I’m
a little in love with this old thatched cottage on the south coast, just
over an hour from London but a million miles from the city. Our only
neighbors these days are sheep. Tonight, fish-and-chips was how I
hoped we might celebrate my first New York Times bestseller,
washed down with a bottle of champagne I’ve been saving for five
years. My editor in America said she would call if it was good news,
but it’s nearly 9:00 P.M. (4:00 P.M. in New York) and she hasn’t been
in touch. Nobody has.
“Heard anything?” Abby asks. I hear her turn on the windscreen
wipers, and I picture the rain streaming down the glass like tears.
“Not yet.”
“Well, get off the phone or they won’t be able to get through,”
she says and hangs up.
Abby was supposed to be by my side when I got the call, but
she’s late home. Again. She loves what she does—working as an
investigative journalist and finding good stories about bad people.
Men, mostly. My wife’s whole life has been mapped out by her moral
compass and an insatiable desire to expose wrongdoing, but I worry
about her upsetting someone she shouldn’t. Abby has been receiving
anonymous threats sent to the newspaper where she works. She’s
become so paranoid that she’s started recording all of her incoming
calls, but she still won’t quit.
My wife tells stories that matter, trying to save the world from
itself.
I tell stories that matter to me.
My books have always been a place to hide myself inside myself
when the real world gets too loud.
Marriage is made of a million beautiful and ugly moments
stitched together into a shared tapestry of memories, all of which
are viewed and remembered slightly differently, like two people
staring at the same painting from opposite ends of a room. I didn’t
believe in love when I was younger. There wasn’t enough love to go
around in our house when I was growing up, so I spent my
childhood hiding inside books and dreaming of writing my own.
Based on my parents’ relationship happily married was an oxymoron,
so marriage was something else I didn’t believe in. Until I met Abby.
She changed the way I looked at the world and she changed my
mind about love. She made me feel things I didn’t know I was
capable of feeling, and I could never love anyone the way I love my
wife.
When we first got together, we couldn’t keep our hands off each
other. If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still remember the
first time she let me touch her. Her perfect face, the softness of her
skin, the delicate floral scent of her shiny dark hair, the taste of her
mouth, the way she gasped when I pushed myself inside her. We
used to stay up all night, sometimes just to talk, to tell each other
our stories. Keeping the spark alive when you’ve been married as
long as we have isn’t easy. I try, but what’s important changes as we
grow older. At least, I think it does. It has for me. What we have
now is all I ever wanted.
I
Columbo wanders into the room, wagging his tail as though he
hasn’t seen me for days, even though it has been less than five
minutes since he fell asleep in the kitchen. He sits by my side and
stares at the phone in my hand as though he is waiting for it to ring
too. I prefer dogs to humans. Dogs are loyal. My wife bought
Columbo for me as a surprise when he was a puppy. She said she
thought I needed companionship, and we’ve been inseparable since.
Abby worries about how much time I spend on my own and doesn’t
seem to understand that I prefer solitude. I need quiet to write, and
if
can’t write it feels like I can’t breathe. Besides, I have my
characters for company and I prefer them to real people too. My
characters don’t lie—at least, not to me—but before Abby, there
wasn’t anyone I could trust. People rarely do what they say they will
or what they should. The only thing I don’t like about being alone is
the amount of time it forces me to spend with myself.
My path to becoming a bestselling author has been bumpy to say
the least. I am the overnight success story that was ten years in the
making, and for a long time I felt like the understudy in my own life.
There were years of obscurity, shitty reviews, disappointing sales,
and being dropped by multiple publishers. I was on the verge of
giving up, but then I met my wife and she introduced me to my
dream agent. Everything changed after that, so you could say I owe
her everything. Writing books is the only thing that makes me truly
happy. I know Abby’s job is important, and that I just make things
up for a living, but I so badly wanted her to be by my side tonight. If
my latest book really is a New York Times bestseller she might be
proud of me again. Look at me the way she used to.
My mobile buzzes, and my editor’s name lights up on the screen.
My fingers are trembling as I answer the call.
“Grady, it’s me,” Elizabeth says. I can’t tell from her neutral tone
whether the news is good. “We’re all here, the entire publishing
team. Kitty is on the line too.”
“Hi, Grady!” The glee in my agent’s voice ends the suspense, and
I surprise myself when I start to cry. Big, fat tears roll down my
cheeks, and I’m relieved nobody—except a large black Labrador—
can see me. The dog looks up as though concerned.
My editor continues, no longer able to disguise her excitement.
“So, as you know, there’s been a lot of buzz around this book and
we’re all so happy to have worked on it. We love you, and we love
your books, which makes it even more wonderful to be able to tell
you that … you are a New York Times bestseller.”
There is cheering and screaming on the other end of the line. My
legs seem to give way, and I find myself folding down toward the
floor until I sit cross-legged, like the child who dreamed of being an
author all those years ago. Columbo wags his tail and licks my face,
and though I appreciate his unlimited affection, I wish my wife was
here. My success still seems unreal to me and I don’t recognize my
own life in this moment. It feels too good to be true. Which makes
me worry that maybe it isn’t.
“Is this real?” I whisper.
“Yes!” my agent yells.
“I can’t believe it,” I say, unable to hide the wobble in my voice.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you. This means so much to me, I…”
I
can’t seem to speak. I am filled with gratitude and
astonishment.
“Are you still there, Grady?” my agent asks.
“Yes. I’m just so…” It takes me a while to find the right word.
“Happy,” I say eventually, trying on this unfamiliar emotion to see if
it still fits. I think I might have to grow into it. “Thank you. All of
you. I’m completely overwhelmed and so grateful.”
I think this might be the best day of my life, and I wanted to
share it with her.
Instead, it’s just me and the dog, and he’s already gone back to
sleep.
I do my best to properly thank all the people who made this
dream come true: my amazing agent, my wonderful editor, brilliant
publicist, the fantastic sales and marketing teams. Then the call I’ve
waited forever for ends, and suddenly everything is quiet. Too quiet.
I am alone again. I pour myself a little glass of whiskey from one of
the good bottles, then sit in silence, letting the news sink in. I want
to treasure this special moment and hold on to it for as long as I
can. When I have composed myself, I call my wife. I want to
surprise her. I can picture Abby’s mobile attached to the dashboard
of her car, displaying her journey on a moving map just like always.
The phone barely rings before she answers.
“Well?” she asks, her voice oozing expectation. I wish I could see
her face.
“You are speaking to the author of a New York Times bestseller.”
She screams. “Oh my god! I knew it. I’m so proud of you!” I can
hear genuine emotion in her voice and think my wife, who never
cries, might be crying. “I love you,” she says. I can’t remember when
we last said that we loved each other. We used to say it every day. I
like the sound of her words and how they make me feel. Like when
you hear an old song you haven’t heard for years on the radio, one
you used to love.
“I’m almost home,” she says, interrupting my mess of nostalgic
thoughts. “Take the champagne out and—”
I hear the sound of screeching brakes, then silence.
“What’s happened?” I ask. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?”
The silence continues, but then I hear her voice again. “I’m fine,
but … there’s a woman lying in the road.”
“What? Did you hit her?”
“No! Of course not. She was already there, that’s why I stopped,”
Abby says.
“Where are you now?”
“I’m on the cliff road. I’m going to get out and see if—”
“No!” I shout.
“What do you mean, no? I can’t leave her lying in the lane, she
might be hurt.”
“Then call the police. You’re almost home. Do not get out of the
car.”
“If you’re worried about the fish-and-chips getting cold—”
“I’m worried about you.”
She sighs and I hear the faint click as she releases her seat belt.
“I think you’ve read too many Stephen King books—”
I think doing the right thing isn’t always the right thing to do.
“Please don’t get out of the car,” I say.
“What if it were me in the road? Wouldn’t you want someone to
stop and help?”
“Wait, don’t hang up!”
“Fine, if it makes you feel better.” It has never been possible to
change my wife’s mind about anything. The more you urge her not
to do something, the more determined she is to do it. Abby opens
the car door. “I love you,” she says again. By the time I think to say
it back it’s too late. She must have left her phone attached to the
dashboard because all I can hear is the sound of her footsteps as
she walks away.
One minute goes by, then another.
I can still hear the indicator and the windscreen wipers.
Five minutes later the call is still connected, but I can’t hear
Abby.
Have you ever known something terrible was about to happen
before it did?
Or felt an overwhelming, inexplicable fear that someone you
loved was in danger?
I am holding the phone pressed to my ear and have started
pacing.
“Can you hear me?” I ask, but she doesn’t answer.
Then I hear footsteps again.
It sounds as though Abby might be getting back into the car, but
she still doesn’t reply.
The only thing I can hear is the sound of someone breathing.
It does not sound like my wife.
A moment ago, I was happier than I had ever been. Now I am
paralyzed with fear.
This is the worst best day of my life.
I know the stretch of road she is on. It leads directly to the
coast, and is not far from the house. The nearest building is a mile
away, there is nobody close by I can call for help. I start walking.
Then I run. I’m still holding the phone to my ear with one hand,
breathless but calling her name. She doesn’t answer.
The night is too dark, too cold, too wet. There are no streetlights
in the countryside, only shadows. All I can see is an anthracite sky
speckled with stars, a silhouette of fields on one side of the road,
and a moon-stained sea on the other. All I can hear are the waves
slamming into the cliff, and my own labored breaths. I see her car
parked on the verge, and I slow down, taking in the scene. The
headlights are still on, the indicators are flashing, and the driver’s
door is open.
But Abby isn’t here.
There is no sign of a person lying in the road either. No signs of
life at all.
I spin around, squinting into the darkness at the empty lanes and
rolling hills. I shout her name and hear my voice echo on the phone
attached to the dashboard. She is still on the call to me. Except that
she isn’t. The fish-and-chips are still on the passenger seat, along
with Abby’s handbag. I look inside it, but nothing appears to have
been stolen. The only unfamiliar thing in the car is a white gift box. I
open the lid and see a creepy-looking antique doll with shiny dark
hair and dressed in a red coat. Her big blue glass eyes seem to stare
right at me, and her mouth has been sewn shut.
I take another look around, but everything is still and silent and
black.
“Where are you?” I shout.
But Abby doesn’t answer.
My wife has disappeared.
ONE YEAR LATER …
GOOD GRIEF
“You look bloody terrible. Good grief, I barely recognize you,” my
agent says as I enter her office. It seems like such an odd
expression. Can grief ever be good?
“It’s nice to see you too,” I tell her.
“I’m not insulting you; I’m describing you.”
Kitty Goldman never sugarcoats her words. She gives me a hug,
then sits back down behind her desk where she has always looked
most at home. I see that a few more wrinkles have dared to
decorate her face since the last time we met, and I like that she
doesn’t try to hide her age. What you see is what you get, but not
everyone sees her the way I do. Not many people get this close. I’ve
never known exactly how old Kitty is—it’s one of many questions I
daren’t ask—but if I had to guess, I’d say early seventies. She’s
wearing a pink tweed skirt suit and smells of perfume. Chanel, I
think. She peers over her designer glasses.
“And I see you brought Columbo with you?” she says, staring
down at the black Labrador making himself comfortable on her
expensive-looking rug.
“Yes. Sorry. I hope that’s okay. I don’t have anyone who can
keep an eye on him, and I can’t leave him alone in the hotel during
the day.”
And there it is—the head tilt of sympathy. The pity I’ve become
so familiar with makes itself at home on her face and I have to look
away. It’s been a year since my wife disappeared. Everyone who
knows what happened looks at me this way now, and I can’t bear it.
I’ve grown weary of people saying, “I’m sorry for your loss.” I’m sure
they are sorry, for a while, until they forget all about it and continue
with their lives. And why shouldn’t they? They didn’t lose their
reason for living. That would be me.
I stare down at my shoes, unpolished and badly worn at the
heel. Kitty speed-dials her latest assistant—sitting right outside the
office—and asks her to get us some tea and biscuits. Since Abby
disappeared I often forget to eat. I can’t write either and I find it
difficult to sleep. My nightmares are always the same, and it feels
like I can’t breathe when I wake up. I didn’t just lose my wife. I had
everything I ever wanted and I lost it all.
I still don’t know what happened to Abby.
I don’t even know if she’s alive.
It’s that, more than anything, the not knowing, that keeps me
awake at night.
I
glance around the beautifully decorated office, anything to
avoid Kitty’s stare and the questions I know are coming. It doesn’t
look like an office. It’s far more stylish, like a mini library or
something you might find in a boutique hotel, designed by someone
with expensive taste. I take in all the bespoke wooden bookcases
crammed full of her clients’ books—including mine. I was Kitty’s
biggest client for a while. She has newer, younger, hungrier, frankly
better writers on her list these days. Ones who can still write.
My eyes wander until they find the framed picture of Abby on
Kitty’s desk. I wondered if it would still be here or if she might have
hidden it in a drawer. Some people think hiding their grief will make
it go away, but in my experience it only makes it hurt more. Grief is
only ever yours; it’s not something you can share, but at least there
is someone else who thinks about Abby as often as I do. Kitty is my
wife’s godmother, and I sometimes think I only have an agent
because Abby begged her to represent me.
Kitty Goldman is one of the biggest literary agents in the country.
She took me on ten years ago when I was still a youngish author. My
career was going nowhere except a series of dead ends, but she saw
something in my writing that nobody else had and took a chance on
me. The result was five bestsellers in the UK and several awards.
Kitty sold the translation rights to my books in forty countries, then
last year I had my first New York Times bestseller in America. It all
feels like it might have been a dream now. Being unable to write for
so long, and with all my belongings in storage, it is surreal to see a
book with the name Grady Green on the cover again. I wonder if
there will ever be another. The problem with reaching the top is that
there is only one direction left to go: down.
“How are you?” Kitty asks, snapping me out of my self-pity. It’s a
simple question but I’m unsure how to answer.
The police gave up looking for Abby a few weeks after her car
was found abandoned, despite finding the red coat she had been
wearing. A dog walker discovered it half a mile along the coast the
day after she vanished. It was soaking wet and badly torn. My wife
has been “missing” for over a year but—according to the law—she
cannot be presumed dead until seven years have passed. When
other people lose a loved one there is a funeral or a service of some
kind. But not for me. And not for Abby. The disappeared are not the
same as the departed. People tell me I need to move on, but how
can I? Without some form of closure I am trapped inside a sad and
lonely limbo, desperate to know the truth but terrified of what it
might be.
I’ve never been good with finances—Abby always took care of
that side of things—and when I checked our joint account after she
disappeared there was a large amount of money missing. According
to the statements I’d never bothered to look at before, she’d made
several big withdrawals in the months before she vanished. We’d
overstretched ourselves when we bought the house, and I couldn’t
afford to pay the mortgage on my own. With no new publishing
deals, I was forced to sell it for far less than it was worth at a time
when the housing market was crashing. Meaning I still owed the
bank money. I sold most of our furniture too in an attempt to make
ends meet, then rented a flat in London for a few months, paying a
frankly extortionate amount to a landlord who knew I was
desperate. I thought a change of scenery might help, but it didn’t.
Instead, it just drained away what little money I had left. Now I’m
living in a one-star hotel, surviving on royalties from my previous
books, unable to write another. Unable to do anything much at all
except obsess over what happened that night. My life has been
unraveling ever since.
“I’m okay,” I lie, attempting a weak smile and sparing us both the
truth. The smiling version of myself I used to present to the rest of
the world is someone I don’t recognize or remember. Pretending is
harder than it used to be. “How are you?” I ask.
Kitty raises an eyebrow as though she sees the real me, despite
my best efforts to be someone better. She has played the role of
parent in my life more than once, especially in the days after what
happened. I didn’t have anyone else I could turn to, and as my
wife’s godmother, Kitty was just as devastated by Abby’s
disappearance. Agenting is a funny business and far more complex
than most people imagine. It requires one person to perform many
roles: first reader, editor, manager, therapist, surrogate parent, boss,
and friend.
My agent is the only person I still trust.
“You don’t look okay,” she says.
I try to see myself through her eyes; it isn’t a pretty picture.
I shrug, partly in apology, partly in despair. “I’ve been having
trouble sleeping since—”
“I can see that. The dark circles beneath your eyes and the
vacant expression are a bit of a giveaway. And you’ve lost weight.
I’m worried about you, Grady.”
I’d be worried about me too if I wasn’t so goddamn tired. Months
of insomnia has turned me into my shadow and I exist in a cloud of
foggy slow motion. I don’t remember what it feels like not to be
exhausted, confused, lost. I’m in urgent need of a haircut, and my
clothes all look like they belong in a charity shop. As if on cue, my
jacket button falls off and lands on Kitty’s desk with a sad plink. It’s
as though my clothes are trying to say what I can’t: I’m broken.
Kitty stares at the button, and her face says what she doesn’t. Then
her assistant taps on the glass door before bringing in a tray with
some tea.
“I invited you in today because we need to talk,” Kitty says when
we are alone again.
We need to talk is never a good start to any conversation.
I think she’s going to drop me from her client list.
I don’t blame her. When she thinks about me she must think of
her missing goddaughter, and that can’t be easy. Plus, if I’m not
making any money, then she isn’t either. Fifteen percent of nothing
is nothing. If I were her, I’d want to cut all ties with me too: A writer
who can’t write is one of the saddest creatures in the world.
I clear my throat like a nervous schoolboy. “I know I haven’t
written anything you can sell for a while but—”
“Your publisher wants their advance back,” Kitty interrupts. “It
was a two-book deal and since we’ve never delivered a second novel
—”
“I can’t pay them back. I don’t have anything left.”
“I guessed that much, so I told them to fuck off, but I do think
we need to come up with a plan,” she says, and I’m relieved to hear
she’s still on my side. Still fighting in my corner. The only one who
ever has.
“It’s not easy to write in the worst hotel in the city. I’m kept
awake most nights by drunk people walking past my window, and
during the day all I can hear is traffic and building works. The walls
are paper thin, and there are constant interruptions and noise,” I
say, feeling as pathetic as I sound. I have never understood authors
who choose to write in cafés or anywhere with other people or
distractions. I need quiet.
“What happened to the flat?”
I shrug again. “I couldn’t pay the rent anymore.”
Her forehead folds into a worried frown. “Why didn’t you tell me?
I’m scared to ask, but how is the new book coming along?”
I’ve only written one chapter, and I’ve rewritten it at least one
hundred times.
“It’s … coming along,” I lie.
“Is there anything you could share with me?”
I only have one thousand words. According to my contract, I
need ninety-nine thousand more.
I nod. “Soon, I think.”
“Or even a proposal or synopsis if you have one?”
I have no idea what happens beyond the first chapter, and I think
I probably need to delete that and start again.
“Sure,” I say.
Kitty’s mobile rings, and she stares at it as though it has offended
her. “Sorry, I have to take this.”
“No problem.”
She composes her face into one of pure displeasure, then picks
up the phone. “If that’s your best offer, then let’s not waste any
more of my time. I’m seriously jealous of all the people who have
never met you. Six figures or fuck off,” she says, then hangs up.
Kitty likes telling people to fuck off. I’ve always been scared she
might say it to me one day. “Where were we?” she asks, her voice
composed and friendly again. She gently nudges the side of her
glasses as though they aren’t straight. They are. “Oh, yes. You were
pretending that the novel is coming along, while I suspect you
haven’t written a word since the last time we spoke.” I try not to
smile. Or cry. Someone knowing me so well is still uncomfortable for
me. “I think we might require something stronger than tea today,”
Kitty says, taking out a bottle of expensive-looking scotch and
pouring two glasses. “We’ve been working together for a long time,
and I’ve always tried to do what I believe is best for you, for your
books and your career.” This is it. Here it comes. The goodbye
speech. She’s given up on me and how can I blame her when I’ve
given up on myself. Kitty has a reputation for being ruthless and for
dumping authors as soon as they stop being successful, as though
she fears failure might be contagious and infect the rest of her client
list. That said, she’s never been anything but kind to me. Until now.
Kitty reaches inside her desk drawer, and I wonder whether she is
about to tear up my contract in front of me.
“I’ve given this a lot of thought over the last few weeks and
months—”
“I know I can write another book.” I blurt out the words and they
sound almost true.
“So do I,” she says. “And I want to help you.” Kitty puts a
Polaroid photo on the desk. It’s of an old log cabin surrounded by
tall trees. “When a client of mine died a few years ago, he left me
this in his will,” she says, tapping the photo with a manicured nail.
Pink to match the tweed suit. “It was his writing shed in the Scottish
Highlands.”
I fear the correct response is eluding me. “Lucky you?”
“I’ve not had a chance to visit it myself since he left it to me.
Scotland is a bit of a trek and I haven’t had a holiday for five years,
but I’m told the cabin has beautiful views, and Charlie certainly
found it to be a productive place.” I frown. “Charles Whittaker,” she
says, as though I might not know who that is when the whole world
knows who that is. Charles Whittaker used to be one of the biggest
bestsellers in the business, but he hadn’t published a new book for
years. I often wondered what happened to him. “Charlie always said
that his tenth novel was going to be his best, but he died before
writing it, and he was a secretive soul, wouldn’t even tell me the
title. He wrote several bestsellers in that cabin when he was at the
peak of his career, but now it’s just sitting there, empty. You’d be
doing me a favor, really.”
I stare at her. “You want me to go to Scotland?”
“Not if you’d rather stay in that shit show of a hotel. And I should
probably point out that this little hideaway isn’t on the mainland. It’s
on the Isle of Amberly.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Which is one of many reasons why Charles was so fond of the
place—it’s very much off the beaten trail. There’ll be no noise. No
interruptions. No distractions. He needed the world to be quiet in
order to write, just like you. Couldn’t write a word when life was too
loud.”
“I … don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes. The cabin means free accommodation until you get
back on your feet.”
“I might just need to think—”
“Of course. Maybe this isn’t a good idea.” She nudges her
designer glasses again, peering over them at me, and I fear I might
have offended her. “It’s very quiet and very peaceful—apparently—
but by all accounts it is a bit isolated. And rural life is not for
everyone. There aren’t many people on the island…”
“Sounds perfect. You know I need things to be quiet to write and
I just haven’t been able to, with everything—”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps it was wrong of me to suggest it.” She
puts the photo back in the desk drawer, slams it shut, and pops a
cigarette between her lips. “You don’t mind, do you?” she asks,
lighting it before I can answer. I shake my head even though I do
and despite the fact smoking in offices has been illegal for several
years. “I don’t want to interfere or make matters worse,” Kitty says,
exhaling a cloud of smoke. “And I do worry that my other authors
might feel jealous if they found out. I haven’t offered the place to
anyone else, and you know how some authors can get: Jealous.
Paranoid. Crazy.”
“I won’t tell anyone about it. I think it sounds wonderful.”
“Good. That’s settled then.” She taps the ash from the end of her
cigarette into a small silver AGENT OF THE YEAR trophy on her desk.
“Take three months. Take the dog—he’ll love it up there. Rest, walk,
read, sleep … and who knows, maybe you might even be able to
write. I’ll tell the publishers to take a hike for now. There are plenty
of other publishers out there, you write me a new book and I’ll find
you one. I know you can do it.”
“I don’t know if I can write without her.”
Kitty stares at me, then at the picture of Abby on her desk.
The head tilt of sympathy returns and her voice softens.
“You’ve spent long enough grieving, Grady. As much as it breaks
my heart to say this, I don’t think Abby is coming back. She’s gone
and you need to try to move on. So do I.” Her words hurt us both. I
see the tears in her eyes before she blinks them away.
I do want to write another book. I just don’t know if I can after
what happened. Grief is a patient thief and steals far more than
people who have never known it realize. My wife once said that I
was only truly happy when I was writing, and I’m starting to think
that might be true because I’ve never felt as broken as I do now.
Being an author was the best job in the world until it wasn’t. Maybe
this is what I need to be able to write again.
I can’t find the right words so say the simplest ones.
“Thank you.”
Kitty nods then opens her desk drawer again, this time taking out
a checkbook. I didn’t know those things still existed. “What are you
doing?” I ask.
“What does it look like? I’m writing you a check so you can buy
yourself a new coat with buttons that don’t fall off—it can get pretty
chilly in the Highlands at this time of year—and I want to know that
you have enough money to feed yourself and Columbo.” She signs
the check and slides it across the desk. It’s for a very generous
amount of her own money. “You can pay me back when we sell the
next book. I’ll email you all the details for Amberly and directions on
how to find the cabin. Now get out of my office,” she says with a
wink.
I am forty years old, but there are tears in my eyes. “Thank you,
truly.”
“Success is often the result of a series of failures. Try to
remember that. You never learn anything from success, but failure
can teach you everything about a person. Especially yourself. I
believe in you,” Kitty says.
It makes me so happy to hear her say that.
It also makes me sad because she shouldn’t.
ONLY OPTION
Are there any benefits to losing it all? I think about that a lot. Your
thoughts can change shape when you have too much time on your
hands. Overthinking the things you think you need to worry about,
under-thinking the things you should. The only good thing about
losing everything is having nothing left to lose. I check out of the
world’s worst hotel, then load up the car with two suitcases filled
with clothes, supplies, and books. I pack up my laptop and anything
else I might need for a three-month stay on a remote Scottish
island. Then I grab Columbo, and we set off toward a new chapter in
my life. I hope it might be happier than the last.
It takes ten hours to drive from London to Scotland. Besides
essential pit stops, I’m in the fast lane for most of the journey. My
Mini is old and battered and has seen better days, but it still
functions. Most of the time. Like me. Just past Glasgow, the view
beyond my windscreen transforms into something spectacular. Trees
in every shade of green, giant glistening lochs, and snowcapped
mountains stretch out in every direction. My eyes, which had felt
tired, are now wide open. Everything within my field of vision seems
to be on a different scale. There is an infinite amount of unspoiled
space, and the world seems bigger, or perhaps I am smaller.
A couple of hours later, beyond Glencoe and Fort William and still
mesmerized by the spectacular views, I realize I haven’t seen much
of the world for years. I have locked myself away from reality, too
busy writing—when I still could—but I wasn’t really living. Merely
existing inside my own head. Then grieving for everything and
everyone I have lost. Not just my wife. Over the last ten years I let
my relationships with real people drift while I obsessed over fictional
ones. My work became my everything. I ignored invitations, and
most calls, texts, and emails, because I was always too busy writing
the real world away. Besides, I didn’t need anyone else when I had
Abby.
The realization deflates me a little, a new list of regrets writing
themselves inside my mind. I drive on through this moment of grief,
still in awe of the boundless beauty outside the window. I don’t stop,
even though I would like to. There isn’t time. The ferry to the Isle of
Amberly operates only twice a week, and I’m anxious not to miss the
next sailing. According to what I read online, tickets cannot be
booked in advance and can only be purchased on the vessel. From
the few pictures I found of the island, it looks even more stunning
than everything I have seen on my journey, so hopefully this epic
road trip will be worth it.
When we finally arrive, late at night, the moonlit sea mirrors the
coal-black sky in an unfamiliar bay. The satnav appears to think it
has successfully led us to the “ferry terminal,” which looks more like
a bus shelter in front of a rickety wooden jetty. There is literally
nothing and nobody else here. I climb out of the car and the cold air
feels like a slap. I stretch my tired bones, easing the cramp caused
by too many hours of sitting in one position, and let the dog out to
do the same. All I can find to confirm that I’m in the right place is a
handwritten sign saying AMBERLY FERRY with a list of sailing times
scrawled beneath. They are entirely different from the times I found
online, and the next ferry isn’t due until tomorrow morning. I check
my phone and see that I have no signal. There are no people, or
houses, or any buildings at all, just a vast stretch of coast. There
isn’t even a vending machine. Columbo looks unimpressed.
“Sorry, boy. It looks like we’re sleeping in the car.”
The following morning, we are woken by the sound of squawking
seagulls. I’ve barely slept and feel drunk with tiredness, but when I
open my eyes I am greeted by the most spectacular sunrise. The sky
is stained the color of crushed cranberries, looking like a painting
composed of angry brushstrokes over a picture-postcard white sandy
bay. When we arrived last night it was so dark that I was completely
unaware of the stunning views, but now I can see rugged
countryside dotted with purple heather on one side of the road, and
a seemingly endless pristine coast on the other. I spot the outline of
a small island in the distance, sitting pretty on the horizon—my first
glimpse of Amberly.
We have been joined by two more cars and a black van, which
has a quirky Highland cow logo on the side, and they are all parked
next to the jetty. There is still no sign of a ferry—despite the
handwritten timetable suggesting it is due—and I noticed there were
no details for return sailings; all of the specified times are for one
way only. Given that there seems to be no danger of an imminent
departure I take Columbo for a short walk along the beach. The
wind gently pushes me forward and ruffles my hair, the smell of the
ocean floods my senses, and a taste of sea salt lingers on my
tongue.
The sun is a faster riser than I am. Its golden yellow reflection
dances on the surface of the sea, like a shimmering pathway from
the mainland to Amberly. With the cloudless blue sky, calm turquoise
water, and perfect white sand, this place looks more like the
Caribbean than the Scottish Highlands. Only the cold gives our
actual location away, stinging my face and creeping beneath my
clothes. The air is so cool and fresh and pure compared with
London. I greedily gulp it down, filling my lungs, feeling awake,
alive, and a little bit excited for what might be a second chance.
The sea’s calming sound is hypnotic and reminds me of where we
used to live. Our old “not forever home.” Then I think about that
night, the sound of rain and the waves crashing on the rocks below
the cliff road, the last time I heard her voice. My wife is always
trespassing on my thoughts. Even now.
Memories of when we first met play in my mind like a scene from
a favorite film, and I wonder if I might have edited them over time
into something more meaningful than it was. I know some people
thought she just decided to leave me when she disappeared. But
even if she was going to leave me, I know she’d never stage
something so dramatic. Abby isn’t like that.
I try to pack my feelings away in a box inside my head. Like I
always do.
They tend to let themselves back out.
As I walk, Columbo runs back and forth kicking up clouds of
sand, chasing any loitering seagulls. I pick up a smooth dark gray
stone and skim it across the surface of the sea. It bounces three
times before disappearing and the dog runs into the shallow water.
He’s chasing something he’ll never find, but we’re all guilty of that. I
turn and spot an old Volvo with a horse trailer pull up to join the
other cars in the distance, back where we are parked. A hatch
opens, and I see that the horse trailer has been converted into a
small food truck. The smell of cooking soon mingles with the scent
of the ocean and my stomach rumbles. I haven’t had much of an
appetite lately but I am suddenly ravenous.
“Come on, Columbo. Breakfast is served.”
Back in the car, with coffee, a bacon sandwich, and sausages for
the dog, I stare out at the sea. It’s not as calm as before, and the
once perfect blue sky is now covered in bruises. The ferry was due
half an hour ago, but all I can see on the horizon is what looks like
an old fishing boat. The other drivers turn on their engines as it
approaches the jetty, and I feel a little nauseated as I read the name
on the side of the vessel: AMBERLY FERRY. As ferries go, it’s tiny. I’m
reminded of a Fisher-Price toy ferry I owned as a child, which only
had room for two plastic cars. Admittedly, this is slightly bigger, but
it’s old and rusty, and looks so unseaworthy that I’m surprised it
floats.
The other drivers—who have clearly done this before—move their
vehicles to form an orderly line at the front of the old wooden jetty.
The sight of it makes me think of a scene from Jaws. One by one,
they drive onto the ferry before I’ve even managed to put on my
seat belt or turn on the engine. I see someone up ahead checking
the cars before they board, leaning down to peer inside each vehicle
before allowing anyone onto the boat as though looking for
stowaways. I think it’s a man at first, mainly because of their height
and the way they are dressed—faded baggy blue jeans and an
enormous yellow jacket that looks like it could double as a life raft.
But as she walks toward the Mini, I can see it is a very tall woman.
She’s a good twenty years older than me, and has shiny black hair
tied off her face in a short ponytail. She leans down and I lower my
window.
“Can I help you?” she asks in a thick Scottish accent.
“Hope so. I’m trying to get to Amberly.”
She stares at me for a long time as though she doesn’t
understand what I said or thinks I am dangerously stupid. “Sorry, I
canny help. It’s out of season.”
I stare back. “What does that mean?”
“It means the Isle of Amberly Trust owns the island. It is home to
thousands of protected trees and a community of just twenty-five
people. Visitors are permitted on the island only from May to July.
Even if I could let you on board—which I can’t—you’d have no way
of getting back again for days and nowhere to stay—”
“But I do,” I insist. “I’ve been invited to stay for three months.”
Her makeup-free eyes narrow into suspicious slits. “By who?”
“Kitty Goldman. She owns a cabin there.”
She shakes her head. “Never heard of her, and I’ve lived on
Amberly all my life.”
“She inherited it from Charles Whittaker.”
The exceptionally tall woman stares at the island in the distance
before studying my face, and her expression is hard to read. Then
she smiles.
“Charlie’s bonnie old writing cabin? Good for you. Well, you’d
best grab your things and get on board then. Your car should be
safe parked up here for a wee while at least.”
“Can I not take the car on the ferry? It looks like there’s room.”
“Visitors are not permitted to bring vehicles to the island.”
“What? But I have all my stuff…”
The woman’s weathered face folds into a weary frown. I see
myself through her eyes and try again. I need this woman to help
me.
“I’m sorry. I’ve had a long journey—”
“Haven’t we all,” she interrupts, as though I have already taken
up too much of her time. “You can bring as much as you can carry,
or you can stay on the mainland. Them’s the rules, and that’s the
only option, I’m afraid.” Only option. What a ridiculous expression.
Only means one, and one option means none. “The choice is yours.
You’ve got as long as it takes me to get a sausage sandwich from
the food truck to make up your mind,” she says, then walks away.
I have always been rather slow at making quick decisions, but
this one seems simple enough. I grab a rucksack filled with
Columbo’s food and things, a suitcase filled with mine, and throw my
satchel containing my laptop and notepads on my shoulder. I can’t
carry anything else, not even the bag of food I packed, but I grab a
packet of milk chocolate digestives and shove it in my jacket pocket.
That will have to do for now. I lock the car and hurry toward the
boat, Columbo trotting at my side just as the ferrywoman returns
with her breakfast. She takes a large bite of her sausage sandwich
and ketchup oozes out, landing on her chin. She curses, wipes it
with a white paper napkin, and the resulting stain looks like blood.
“Decision made?” she asks, and I nod. “Then welcome aboard,”
she says with a smile, before taking another bite.
The seagulls squawk and scream, flapping their dirty white wings
as if protesting, and circling above the ferry as it breaks free from
the jetty. Their wingspan is vast, casting swooping shadows across
the deck, and when I look up, I see that the tips of their beaks are
red, as though dipped in blood too. They descend and dive so that I
have to duck out of the way, and the ugly noise they make almost
sounds like a warning:
Go back. Go back. Go back.
I’m sure it is just the exhaustion and my imagination playing
tricks on me, and I notice the birds do not stalk us for long. They
retreat toward the mainland when the ferry pulls away, slowly sailing
out of the bay.
The sun has fully risen now, and everything is a dazzling shade of
blue. It’s hard to tell where the sea stops and the sky begins. The
Hebridean Sea is rough and the other passengers all stay inside their
vehicles, but that isn’t an option for us. Columbo and I make our
way to the front of the ferry and I sit my things and myself on a
metal bench on the exposed deck. It’s cold, and we get showered
with an occasional mist of sea spray, but the view of the Isle of
Amberly is utterly mesmerizing. A halo of white sand and a turquoise
sea surrounds the tiny island, making it look like a mirage and this
feel like a dream. A pod of dolphins leaps from the waves the ferry
has created as though they are escorting us on our voyage, and my
face stretches into an unfamiliar smile.
Our adventure might have had a tricky beginning, but this is
beautiful, and I experience something like hope for the first time in a
long time. Perhaps Kitty was right, and this is the fresh start I so
desperately need, a second chance to get my life and career back on
track. My agent is almost always right. I look around the deck,
wondering if anyone else has spotted the dolphins, and that’s when I
see her. She’s wearing the same bright red coat she had a year ago,
the one she was wearing the night she disappeared, and is standing
at the back of the boat, staring right at me. I shiver, not just from
the cold, and it feels like time stops for a moment. Columbo barks,
breaking the spell. I glance down to see what he is growling at—it
turns out he was looking in the same direction as me, at her—but
when I turn back, she is gone. It all happened so fast that it feels
like I might have imagined it, but the woman I saw was the spitting
image of my missing wife.
AWFULLY GOOD
Reading people used to be something I was good at, but lately I
don’t trust my own judgment. I don’t even trust my own eyes.
Insomnia sometimes causes the edges of my reality to bend and
blur, but the woman really did look like Abby. I grab the bags and
Columbo’s lead and hurry toward the other end of the boat, weaving
through the parked cars. The rocking motion causes me to lose my
balance and stumble and I grab hold of a grubby railing to steady
myself. When I look up whoever I saw is still gone. If she was ever
there in the first place. When you lose someone you love you see
them everywhere.
She looked so real. I spin around and hurry between the cars
again, peering inside the windows. I study every face I see but none
of them are her. The black van with its tinted windows is harder to
see inside and I step away, feeling like a fool. I am delirious with
exhaustion, confusion, and grief. Maybe driving all the way to
Scotland and spending a night sleeping in the car wasn’t a good idea
when I’m already so very tired. I can’t remember what it’s like not to
feel completely shattered. And broken. And alone. I convince myself
that I must have imagined it. That I must have imagined her. It’s a
human affliction to see what we want instead of what is really there.
My mind wanders inside the memory of another boat we were
once on together. A much nicer one than this. It must be almost a
decade ago, but I still remember that day so clearly. I had booked a
three-night cruise on the Dalmatian Coast as a surprise anniversary
gift. We boarded in Croatia, and despite a mix-up with the booking
resulting in a cabin with twin beds, it was supposed to be a romantic
getaway. Abby was already behaving strangely and sent me to the
bar to get us some drinks. When I returned to our tiny cabin with a
couple of overpriced cocktails, I could hear music inside, the familiar
sound of Nina Simone. I opened the door and discovered Abby
dancing to “Feeling Good.” The kind of slow dancing that was funny
and sexy at the same time. She had her back to me, as though she
didn’t know I was there, and she was miming the words and
swaying her hips slowly from side to side in time with the music. All
she wore was a smile, very short white shorts, and her bra, and I
still remember how the white lace looked so bright against her
tanned skin. I can picture her face when I close my eyes, and it’s her
eyes I remember most. They were the bluest I’ve ever seen. It was
like staring into the ocean and wanting to drown.
“There you are,” she said when I put the drinks on the bedside
table.
“Here I am.”
“I hope you die in your sleep.”
I looked up, thought perhaps I’d misheard. “What?”
“I hope you die in your sleep. I’ve been thinking about it lately—
death—and it’s got to be the best way to go. If you truly loved
someone, that’s how you’d want them to die, and I love you more
than anything. So I hope you die in your sleep.”
We said that to each other every night before we went to bed
from then on.
I hope you die in your sleep was our way of saying I love you.
“And because I love you so much I got you a little something for
this trip.” She produced a white captain’s hat and put it on my head
before wrapping her arms around my neck and pressing herself up
against me. “You’re my captain of everything,” she whispered,
unzipping my jeans. Her hand made short work of getting me hard,
and then she stopped, looking over at the twin beds. “Would you
prefer to take me port or starboard, Captain?”
We made use of every surface in that cabin when we made love
that afternoon. I took my time and gave her what she wanted;
pleasing her always turned me on. Then it was my turn. It was the
only good part of the trip. As soon as we set sail she said she felt
seasick and didn’t leave the cabin for three days. She didn’t admit it