Page 27

OLD NEWS

F irst thing in the morning, I grab the manuscript and the dog and jump in the Land Rover. Nothing spooky or strange happened while I was writing. Everything was fine. Good. Great even. Nothing but peace and quiet; the perfect writing conditions. But now I keep hearing things, seeing things, finding things again. The latest newspaper clipping wasn’t slipped beneath the cabin door, someone let themselves in. I don’t know why someone wants me to see old articles Abby wrote before she disappeared—it’s a cruel thing to do to a man who lost their wife—but I no longer care. My plan today is to send the manuscript, then find out when the ferry is next sailing back to the mainland. I thought this island was the perfect place for a writer. It all seemed so nice . But places, like people, can often seem nice at first, until you get to know the real them and see them for what they are. My books mean everything to me but nothing is worth living in fear. I’ll head back toward London, find another dirt-cheap hotel if I have to. It’s only until Kitty can sell the new novel and I can get a new place of my own to call home. I just hope she likes the book. My whole future depends on it.

We drive out of the forest and onto the coast road and everything is blue. The cloudless sky and the calm sea are almost exactly the same shade, making it hard to tell them apart. As though there is no horizon. The weather feels like a good sign, or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. Sending the book to my agent has always been the most stressful part of the process for me. I don’t talk about the books—with anyone—until I have finished them. It’s just how I have always worked. I’m fine with collaborating, and I always listen to my agent, my first readers, and my editors, because there are always ways to make any book better, and of course I want my books to be as good as they can possibly be. But this stage, before I send the book, it is all mine. And this one is perfect.

I wish I had someone to celebrate with.

Women used to flirt with me a lot more than they do now. They flirted with me when I was young, because everyone flirts when they are young. Then they flirted with me when I was borderline old because they thought I was successful. Now that I am neither young nor successful, flirting is an endangered species in my world. Even if I think a woman is flirting with me, I daren’t do anything about it in case I’ve misread the situation. Beautiful women have always made me make poor choices. I remember one publication day when I somehow made the right one.

Even when you’ve had a smidgen of success, publishing doesn’t always go according to plan. Kitty sold one of my favorite books to a lovely editor, who unfortunately got fired two weeks after I had signed a contract. As a result, the publishers dumped me on another editor who made it very clear from our first meeting that she didn’t like me (fair enough) or my books (slightly more problematic). The months leading up to publication were filled with anxiety and unanswered emails, and when I dared to ask about publicity, I was informed I’d be working with someone “whose skill set matches our ambitions for the book.” She was the office intern.

On publication day I was asked to come to London for an “organized” book signing. On the train to the city I saw endless posters for other authors who were being published that week, billboards in every station displaying their work, tables containing teetering piles of their books at the front of every store. I struggled to find a single copy of my own novel anywhere, which might have been less soul destroying if it hadn’t been my favorite. The publicist was an hour late, and most of the bookshops we visited—on the book signing she’d organized—didn’t even have the book in stock. I had to spell my name repeatedly while they tapped it into their computers and shook their heads, and the whole experience was as excruciating and uncomfortable for the booksellers as it was for me. The publicist was too busy looking at her Instagram account to notice.

There were no events for the book, no interviews, nothing much of anything. Crickets could have made more noise to promote it. I felt like old news, a has-been who never was, and at the end of what was a horrible day, I went back to my hotel room and lay in the dark for a while wondering if my career was over. It wasn’t the first time my dwindling confidence as a writer had been torn to shreds. You can’t do this job without confidence, so when people stamp on it, or steal it, you have to learn to protect yourself. I needed a drink. I always needed a drink. I also needed to call my wife. Abby was the only person who might have been able to make me feel better. I’d already texted her to say what a complete disaster the day had been, but she was too busy working to properly talk. As always.

I’d received a rare piece of physical fan mail via my agent the previous day. The reader had been incredibly kind and complimentary about my work, said she was my biggest fan, and had even written her number at the bottom of the note. She wrote that she was sure I was too busy, but invited me to meet her for a drink if I was ever in London. I normally told my wife everything, but confess I didn’t tell her about this. I looked the mystery fan up online; she had a quirky surname and it wasn’t too difficult to find photos of her on social media. In one heavily filtered picture she was even posing with my book, and she was stunning. It was the sort of thing that never happened to me and I admit it did make me feel better about myself; having a young woman flirt with me and tell me I was good at something. Especially when the rest of the world was making it very clear that I wasn’t. I sat in the hotel room, stared at her number, and thought about what I would say if I called her. She was so kind and lovely, and I was feeling so sad and lonely. I’m the first to admit that men can be very stupid.

I was relieving the hotel mini bar of its contents when she knocked on my bedroom door.

My wife, not my biggest fan, and I was very happy to see her.

Abby was holding a bottle of champagne and I was so shocked by the surprise visit that at first I didn’t know what to say.

She pretended to walk away. “Well, if you don’t want me to come in...”

I grabbed her hand and pulled her inside the room. “This is a nice surprise.”

“Is it?” Abby said. “Oh, good. I was worried you had another woman in here for a moment. You sounded so down in your messages; I didn’t like the idea of you being alone and sad on publication day. Here, open this.” She handed me the bottle while she hunted for two glasses. “Was today really so bad?” she asked.

“It wasn’t great. Only one of the bookshops knew who I was and had the books in stock.” I popped the cork and poured the champagne.

“Well, one is better than none isn’t it?”

“They sat me down at a table with a pile of fifty books and put up a sign that said QUEUE HERE . Do you know how many people queued up to meet me and get a signed copy?”

“Oh dear,” she said. “I’m scared to guess.”

“One. I sat there for over an hour and only one woman came up to me with a book to sign. It wasn’t even my book. It was a copy of The Edge . She thought I was Charles Whittaker. In some ways I was flattered, but the guy was twice my age when he died. Do I really look that old?” Abby pulled a face, but not the one I was expecting. “Oh my god, you think I look like him too—”

“No! Of course not, I’m sorry. What did you do?”

“What could I do? I signed it. ‘Happy reading, best wishes, Charles.’”

She laughed then, but it wasn’t her real laugh and I could tell she was distracted by something. Work probably. There was an awkward moment where neither of us seemed to know what to say and it felt like I’d missed something.

“Well, cheers,” she said, raising her glass.

“Yes. Cheers to Charles.” I took a big gulp of my drink.

“No! Cheers to you and your book. May it fly off the shelves!”

“It would have to be on the shelves in order to fly off them—”

“Come on, cheer up. Publication day is supposed to be a happy occasion isn’t it?” she said, taking a tiny sip before putting down her glass and refilling mine. “Have you talked to Kitty?”

I took another gulp of champagne. “Yes. She agreed publicity in the UK has been a shit show, but said the numbers still looked good.”

“Well, there you go. Just because a few bookshops in London didn’t stock it doesn’t mean it isn’t selling elsewhere. It’s your best book yet.”

“Thanks. Could you tell the publishers?”

“The book will find readers, you’ll see. Against all odds.”

She was right. It was an instant bestseller. But we didn’t know that until the official sales figures were published a week later.

Abby’s phone buzzed, as it so often did, and when she looked at it her whole face changed.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Probably nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“Someone has been emailing my boss, making anonymous complaints about me and what I’ve written. Now they’re bombarding me with messages on social media, accusing me of all sorts. Some of the messages are quite disturbing. Threatening even—”

“Show me.”

“No. Not tonight,” she said, but her phone buzzed again.

“If that’s one of these messages then I—”

“It’s just Kitty,” Abby said. “We’ve had a bit of a falling-out.”

“That’s not like you—”

“I know, but I did something that she disapproves of and now she’s worried about me.”

“Should I be worried too?”

“Let’s not do this now. You know what she’s like, always thinks she knows best. I’ll call her back tomorrow. Tonight is about you and me and us and your wonderful new book. I don’t want anything to spoil it. You’re an amazing writer,” she said. “You’ve still got publication in America to look forward to, with a publisher who does believe in your books, and I’m sure everything will be okay in the end—”

“Can you say that again?”

“It will all be okay—”

“No, the other thing.”

She smiled. “You’re an amazing writer.”

“What are you doing?” I asked as she put her full glass down again and walked over to the main light switch by the door.

“Turning off all the lights.”

“I can see that. Why?”

“Because look at this view,” she said, pulling back the curtains. “I think sometimes things have to get really dark for us to see what we have. The world always looks more beautiful at night, when the darkness hides everything that is ugly.” She was right, the view was amazing. It was as though we could see all of London down below. She stood there smiling at me, then started unbuttoning her blouse. Everything started to feel right again when I kissed her, and I forgot about everything that was wrong when I was inside her. We made love in the dark. The sex was slow and gentle and instinctive, the variety that can only be had with someone you know better than you know yourself. Afterward we lay in a tangle of sheets wrapped in each other’s arms, watching the sun rise over London.

“Are we okay?” she whispered.

“Of course. Always and forever,” I replied, kissing her on the forehead. “Don’t confuse problems with work with problems at home.” My wife was the most beautiful, clever, hardworking woman I have ever met, despite a childhood that was just as difficult and lonely as my own. At the age of ten she was abandoned and alone in the world, a bit like me. But Kitty took her in and loved her as though she were her own daughter. Abby was always so strong—I think a hard life made her that way—and I hated seeing her career slowly destroy her.

“Yes, maybe it’s just the job getting me down. People can be so terrible to each other. I thought I could help people. Fix things. I thought I could change the world if I became a journalist,” she said sadly.

“You are changing the world. One story at a time.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. I believe in you,” I said, but she still looked so unhappy. I didn’t understand it then and I still don’t know why. I kissed her again then whispered, “I hope you die in your sleep.”

She smiled. “I love you too, Grady Green. Always and forever.”

A week later she disappeared.