UNBIASED OPINION
UNBIASED OPINION
Y ou should close your mouth; you look like a goldfish,” Kitty says. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?” My agent lights a cigarette before I can reply.
Kitty appears to have made herself at home. Columbo is sitting happily at her feet, and the wood-burning stove is casting a series of dancing shadows around the room. It looks like a cozy scene but it doesn’t feel like one. It is strange seeing my agent out of her office. For years I was convinced she lived there, because that’s where she was night and day, always working. It’s like seeing a creature removed from its natural habitat and wondering if it can still breathe the air.
“You might want to take a seat. We have some things to talk about,” she says, and I do, but only because it feels like I might fall over if I don’t.
My agent was the only person in the whole world I thought I could still trust.
It feels like my whole world is ending.
Kitty must have known that Abby was alive. She must have known about this island; she’s the one who sent me here. She must have known everything.
“I read the new book as soon as it arrived,” she says, taking another drag on her cigarette. “I was so moved by it, I knew I had to come and see you straight away. It’s the kind of writing that I don’t get to read too often. The kind of story agents and publishers get very excited about. In my unbiased opinion I think it’s your best book yet.”
“Thank you,” I mumble.
Kitty gently nudges the side of her glasses as though they aren’t straight, even though they are. It was a habit I used to find endearing, but now I don’t know if I knew my agent as well as I thought. I notice the silver thistle ring on her finger, the same ring that the islanders wear. My mind can’t seem to catch up with what is happening. Abby must have told her what I did. Abby always told her godmother everything, and Kitty always loved Abby far more than she ever loved me, so whatever this is it can’t be good. I look over at the cabin door and consider running back out of it, but where would I go? I can’t trust anyone on the island and there is apparently no way to get off it.
“Why would you want to leave?” Kitty says, as though she can read my mind. “You’re finally writing again. Isn’t that what you wanted? I’ve read a lot of your stories over the years, Grady. I think it’s only fair I tell you one. You see, this story is mine just as much as it is yours. You know that Abby is my goddaughter, but did you know she was named after me? Her mother and I became friends when we were at school together in London; back then I was called Abby too. Her mother had this wonderful town house in Notting Hill and hosted the most extravagant parties, with string quartets and a seemingly endless supply of champagne. I only changed my name when I left my husband.”