HONEST THIEF
HONEST THIEF
S omeone was here in the cabin while I was sleeping. It isn’t the first time that someone has let themselves in, but it never happened while I was here before. In bed. Unconscious. Someone has been spying on me since I arrived on the island. I’m sure of it now, and for some reason I am convinced it was him —Travers, the so-called tree doctor who Abby married—and I think that’s what my subconscious was trying to tell me in my dream. My wife’s new husband has been watching her old one. Which means he knows who I am even if she doesn’t. But who is he? And how has he tricked her into forgetting her old life with me?
I find the Isle of Amberly Trust report that I swiped from Abby’s desk and scan the list of attendees until I see what I’m looking for. “Travers Fairlight, of The Croft. Island Ranger.” Island Ranger. Hardly an impressive job title. But then Has-Been Author doesn’t sound very attractive either. I need to stop comparing myself to a man I have never met and do something to fix this. I find the map of Amberly and see that The Croft is at the top of the island. Now that I have a car it’s not so far away. Maybe Travers knows what really happened and what is going on here. He’s stolen my wife so let’s see if he’s at least an honest thief. Because he must know whether the woman he married has lost her memory, and whether she has always lived here. I grab the keys for the Land Rover and head out early, taking Columbo with me in case whoever let themselves in last night decides to come back.
My fragile ego can’t stop obsessing about why Abby might choose this man over me. Success is as subjective as history. I might not have been as successful as I’d hoped, but I’m still proud of the books I have written. My whole career was a series of self-portraits, even though I didn’t know it at the time. In all of my previous novels I have written about the things I am most afraid of. I think it is my way of processing what scares me most about the world: the terrible things human beings are capable of doing to each other. We are a peculiar species.
The three basic fundamental fears that all humans experience are:
Fear of death.
Fear of abandonment.
Fear of failure.
I experience all three on a daily basis. I fear death because I don’t think I have achieved much with my life, and I fear I will be forgotten. I’ve already been abandoned by the people who were supposed to love me the most—my parents—so it’s no wonder that fear of abandonment is something that haunts me. It’s also why I find it so difficult to trust people. Fear of failure, well, I don’t know what it is like not to live in perpetual fear of not living up to your own expectations. I should be a better person but there are some things it is too late for me to succeed at. I have always hidden my fears and myself inside my books rather than face facts or confront reality. Well, not this time. I’m going to find out the truth and nothing is going to slow me down or get in my way.
Until the walkie-talkie crackles as I drive along the main road.
I hit the brakes of the Land Rover, stop and listen, but hear nothing.
When I drive on it crackles again, but nobody speaks. Maybe it’s broken.
With the help of the map it doesn’t take too long to find The Croft. It’s a modern wooden house at the end of a private lane. Hidden away. Secluded. I feel a strange sense of excitement tinged with dread as I park outside. This is where my wife has been living all this time. I’ve dressed myself up a bit for the occasion, I do not know why. My hair is still a tad wild-looking—I haven’t had it cut since I arrived on the island—but I’ve had a shave and I’m wearing my best shirt. I came here to see the new husband for myself, ask him a question or two, but I notice that Abby’s old-fashioned bike—with its wicker basket and childish bells—is leaning against the porch. So I know I’m in the right place. And I know she is at home. Which is good, because I am going to confront her about a past she may or may not remember too. Our past. I need to know what happened after she disappeared, and how she ended up here. She is the only person who can tell me.
I knock on the door but there is no answer. I feel like I’m trespassing when I walk around the back but I do it anyway. When I still can’t see or hear any signs of life, I peer through the windows. It’s a modern open-plan layout with industrial furnishings lacking in personality. The kind of place Abby would hate. I raise my hands to the sides of my head to shield my eyes from the sunlight, trying to get a better view inside the house. Then I hear a voice behind me.
“Can I help you?”
It’s one of my top three favorite passive-aggressive terms, along with, No offense, but... and Correct me if I’m wrong... I can tell from their tone that this person does not want to help me.
I turn to see a ridiculously attractive woman with long dark hair. She’s in her thirties, looks like a film star, and for a moment I am rendered speechless by her beauty.
“I’m looking for Travers,” I say.
“Then I guess you found her.”
Her?
My mind is properly blown.
“ You’re Travers?”
“Last time I checked,” she says. “And you are?”
Meeting the man my wife had married was something I struggled to prepare myself for.
Finding out that she married a woman is too much to process.
I replay the conversation with Abby in my mind and realize that she never used the word husband when she told me she was married. When she said Travers was the island’s “tree doctor” I had pictured a big tall lumberjack of a guy, maybe with a beard. I was secretly hoping my rival would have a beer belly, bad breath, problematic body odor, and a touch of baldness perhaps—I still have a full head of hair. I knew I would compare myself to him—how could I not—but I didn’t imagine this. It seems she has married a beautiful woman who is ten years younger than me. Somehow that feels like an even bigger insult to my manhood. Travers is wearing jeans and a simple white shirt and looks effortlessly stunning. Her perfect face is makeup-free—she’s not even trying—and yet I can’t take my eyes off her. Her extremely green eyes are taking me in too, and I wonder if she knows who I am. I have never truly understood the term devastatingly beautiful until now, but that’s exactly what this woman is. And having met my wife’s new wife , I do feel devastated.
“Is Abby here?” I ask and she frowns. “I mean Aubrey .” My voice sounds peculiar and I cough to clear my throat. Whatever first impression I am making it is not good.
“She’s not home,” Travers says.
“I saw her bike outside—”
She tilts her head and folds her arms. “I’m sorry, who are you?”
“I’m staying at Charles Whittaker’s cabin for a while.” Her face stays exactly the same. “While I write,” I add, and her expression shifts.
“Oh, the author . Why are you looking for my wife?” Her words feel like a slap.
She used to be married to me.
“I wonder if I could ask how the two of you met? And when? And if she lived here as a child?” As soon as I say the words out loud I can hear what strange questions those are.
“You could ask, but if you did I’d probably tell you to mind your own business. I don’t mean to sound rude,” she says, sounding rude. “But this is not a great time.”
In desperation, I take the Beautiful Ugly pamphlet from the pottery out of my pocket. I unfold it to reveal the photo of Abby and hold it out for Travers to see. “The woman in this picture, your wife, looks a lot like someone I used to know.”
“Is that so?” she says, frowning down at the photo then back at me.
I look at it too and a second later I start to feel dizzy with confusion. The photo of the woman who owns Beautiful Ugly is not of Abby.
They share the same hair color, style, and length but she is not my wife. I don’t understand. When I picked this pamphlet up in the pottery yesterday the photo was of her. I saw her with my own eyes. I watched her, I listened to her; it was her. But then how do I explain this? Who is this woman in the photo? According to the pamphlet, she is Aubrey Fairlight, the owner of the pottery, but this is not who I met yesterday. I think about my wife, who I could never imagine living somewhere like this and making pots all day. Abby who would never wear dungarees, or ride a bike, or live in a big modern house with no features or personality. She was a self-confessed workaholic. She spent more time in the newsroom than she ever did at home, always chasing the next story. Always trying to uncover the truth. Of course the woman I met yesterday isn’t Abby. How could she be?
I am losing my mind. This confirms it.
I feel so unsteady I have to lean against the house to prop myself up.
“Are you okay?” the devastatingly beautiful woman asks.
No.