As a seasoned reader with an eye for detail and a heart for storytelling, I find myself utterly captivated by the excerpt from “Beautiful Ugly” by Alice Feeney. The author’s ability to weave suspense and intrigue into the narrative is nothing short of mesmerizing, leaving me on the edge of my seat.
Richard Armitage is lending his voice to help narrate an upcoming buzzy title.
On January 14, 2025, the celebrated actor from “Fool Me Once” will be reading the audiobook for Alice Feeney’s latest novel titled “Beautiful Ugly.
The story revolves around the character Grady Green, whose life takes an unexpected and enigmatic turn after sharing thrilling news with his spouse while she’s driving home. As they speak, he hears Abby abruptly apply her brakes, exit the vehicle, and then falls silent. Upon locating her car near a cliff edge later, he discovers that everything seems normal – the headlights are on, the phone is still there – but his wife has vanished without a trace. Grieving deeply and yearning for answers about Abby’s fate, it’s been a year and Grady can neither sleep nor write. In an attempt to regain control of his life, he journeys to a small Scottish island, only to witness the extraordinary – a woman who closely resembles his missing wife. According to Macmillan, this is a tantalizing glimpse into the book.
Tessa Thompson is taking on the lead role in a new Netflix limited series adaptation of thriller author’s latest novel, titled “His & Hers,” which is set to air following the much-anticipated adaptation of her earlier work. The series is being penned by William Oldroyd, Bill Dubuque and Dee Johnson, with Oldroyd also directing the first episode and Johnson serving as showrunner. This production comes from Fifth Season and Jessica Chastain’s Freckle Films, who secured the rights to the book after its release in 2020.
Below The Hollywood Reporter shares an exclusive audiobook and print excerpt of chapter one from Beautiful Ugly.
CHAPTER 1: HAPPILY MARRIED
If all we need is love, why do we always want more?
I dial her number. Again. Finally, she answers.
My wife assures me she’s nearly home, even though I didn’t ask,” suggests her message. Hearing the background noise indicates she’s driving, yet “almost there” seems overly optimistic. Lately, she has a tendency to shape truths more favorably.
I acknowledge your earlier statement about being present,” I respond, perhaps sounding more like an enthusiastic youth than a seasoned adult. “It’s crucial to me that we proceed with this matter.
“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll be there soon, promise. I’ve picked up fish-and-chips.”
For almost every significant event in our lives, we’ve traditionally enjoyed fish-and-chips. It was the meal we shared on our first date, when we got engaged, the day I signed with an agent, and when we purchased our dream house. There’s something special about this quaint thatched cottage on the south coast, approximately an hour from London but light years away from the city hustle. Our closest neighbors now are sheep. Tonight, fish-and-chips was my hope for celebrating my first New York Times bestseller, accompanied by a bottle of champagne I’ve saved for five years. My American editor said she would call if it was good news, but it’s almost 9:00 p.m. (4:00 p.m. in New York) and there’s been no contact. No one has reached out.
Did you catch any news?” Abby inquires. I notice her activate the windshield wipers, and I imagine the rain cascading down the windowpane, resembling tears.
“Not yet.”
“Well, get off the phone or they won’t be able to get through,” she says and hangs up.
Initially, Abby was expected to be with me when I received a call, yet she’s tardy again. Once more. Abby is passionate about her career as an investigative journalist, uncovering wrongdoings and sharing stories about harmful individuals, predominantly men. Her entire life has been shaped by her moral compass and an unquenchable thirst for justice, but I am concerned she might provoke someone she shouldn’t. Lately, Abby has been receiving anonymous warnings delivered to the newspaper where she works. She’s grown so apprehensive that she now records every incoming call, but she remains undeterred from continuing her work.
My wife tells stories that matter, trying to save the world from itself.
I tell stories that matter to me.
Whenever the actual world becomes overly noisy, I’ve often found solace by immersing myself within the pages of my books as a sanctuary for introspection.
Marriage is a patchwork of countless enchanting and challenging experiences that weave together into a joint memento of memories, each of which may be perceived differently, like two individuals viewing the same artwork from opposite corners of a room. In my younger years, I was skeptical about love because there didn’t seem to be enough affection in our household. I spent most of my childhood immersed in books and envisioning stories of my own creation. Given the state of my parents’ relationship, the term “happily married” felt like a paradox, and so marriage was another concept that I found hard to accept. That all changed when I met Abby. She reshaped my perspective on life and convinced me about love’s existence. Through her, I discovered emotions I never knew existed within me, and I can honestly say that there is no one I could ever love as profoundly as I adore my spouse.
Initially, our connection was so strong that we found ourselves constantly drawn to each other. The memory of the first time she allowed me to touch her still lingers vividly when I reminisce. Her flawless visage, the silkiness of her skin, the subtle fragrance of her glossy dark tresses adorned with flowers, the sensation of her lips, the sound of her gasping as I entered her, these moments are etched deep within me. We’d often spend entire nights conversing, sharing tales, just to be in each other’s company. Maintaining that initial passion after being married for as long as we have isn’t straightforward. I strive to keep the flame burning, but what truly matters seems to evolve as we age. I believe it does, at least for me. What we share now is everything I ever dreamed of having.
In this room strolls Columbo, his tail wagging as if we haven’t crossed paths in weeks, though it’s barely been five minutes since he dozed off in the kitchen. He parks himself by my side and seems to fixate on the phone I hold, as though anticipating its ring. Truth be told, I find canines more appealing than humans. Canines are faithful. My spouse gifted Columbo to me when he was just a pup, as a secret surprise. She felt I required companionship, and since then, we’ve been practically inseparable. My partner, Abby, frets about the time I spend alone and appears baffled by my preference for solitude. I need silence to craft my stories, and when that’s lacking, it feels like I can’t draw a breath. Frankly, I’d rather interact with my characters than real-life individuals. My characters don’t deceive—at least not in front of me—but before Abby, I hadn’t anyone I could rely on. Most people don’t stick to their words or do what they ought to. The only aspect of solitude I can’t stand is the prolonged encounter with myself.
My journey to becoming a renowned author has been far from smooth; it’s more accurate to call me an “overnight success” that took a decade to materialize. For many years, I felt like a supporting character in my own life, facing periods of anonymity, negative reviews, dismal sales, and rejections from numerous publishers. On the brink of quitting, fate intervened when I met my wife who introduced me to my dream agent. Since then, my life has taken a different course, making her instrumental in my success. Writing books is what brings me immense joy. Although I understand Abby’s job is critical, and what I do may seem trivial, I yearned for her presence tonight. If my latest book manages to top the New York Times bestseller list, maybe she’ll look at me with pride once more.
My mobile buzzes, and my editor’s name lights up on the screen.
My fingers are trembling as I answer the call.
Hey Grady, that’s me,” Elizabeth speaks. Her voice remains even, leaving me unsure if the information she’s about to share is positive. She continues, “Everyone from our publishing team is present, and so is Kitty on the phone.
Greetings, it’s Grady! My agent’s joyous greeting dispels the tension, and unexpectedly, I find myself tearing up. Great, heavy drops stream down my face, and fortunately, only a big black Labrador is around to witness this private moment. The dog gazes at me with concern.
My editor can’t hide her enthusiasm any longer, “You should know there’s been quite the buzz about this book and we’re overjoyed to have been part of it. We admire you, and we adore your work, which makes it all the more delightful to announce that… you’ve made it onto the New York Times Bestsellers list!
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’m utterly astonished,” I exclaim, trying but failing to suppress the quiver in my tone. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. This gesture holds immense significance for me, I…
I can’t seem to speak. I am filled with gratitude and astonishment.
“Are you still there, Grady?” my agent asks.
Indeed, I’m genuinely… I pause to find the perfect word. ‘Gracious,’ I finally decide, testing its fit on me. It seems like a new role I’m still learning to embrace. ‘Thank you all. Your kindness has left me speechless and deeply touched.’
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 make sure to express heartfelt gratitude to everyone who helped make this dream a reality: my exceptional agent, delightful editor, intellectually gifted publicist, outstanding sales and marketing teams. After the long-awaited call concludes, everything grows eerily still. Too still. I’m alone once more. I grab a small measure of whiskey from one of our finest bottles, then settle into quiet reflection, allowing the news to settle in. I wish to savor this unique moment and cling to it as long as possible. Once I regain my composure, I call my spouse. I want to surprise her. I can envision Abby’s phone, with its usual moving map display on her dashboard, 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 exclaims excitedly, “Oh my goodness! I knew it! I’m so thrilled about you!” Her voice is filled with raw emotion, and it seems as though even my usually composed wife might be tearing up. “I adore you,” she tells me. It’s been a while since we last expressed our love for each other in such a direct way. We used to say it daily. Hearing her words and the feelings they evoke remind me of an old song that suddenly plays on the radio, a tune I used to cherish deeply.
She breaks into my reverie with, ‘I’m nearly there,'” she says, suggesting I retrieve the champagne.
I hear the sound of screeching brakes, then silence.
“What’s happened?” I ask. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?”
The quiet persists for a moment, followed by the sound of her voice once more. “I’m alright,” she says, “but there’s a woman down on the street.
“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 lets out a deep breath, and a soft click sounds as she unfastens her seatbelt. “It seems you’ve been immersed in too many tales by Stephen King,” she begins.
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!”
Alright, if that helps ease your thoughts.” It’s always been challenging to alter my wife’s perspective on things. The harder you try to dissuade her, the more resolved she becomes. Abby exits the car. “I love you,” she repeats. By the time I consider responding, it’s already too late. It seems she’s left her phone on the dashboard, and all I hear is the sound of her footsteps as she departs.
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’m familiar with the road she’s traveling on. It heads straight towards the seashore and isn’t too distant from her house. The closest structure is a mile away, and there’s no one nearby to ask for assistance. So I set off walking, then sprinting. I’m gasping for breath, but I’m still keeping the phone pressed against my ear, calling her name. She doesn’t respond.
The evening is excessively dark, freezing cold, and damp. In this rural area, there aren’t any streetlights; instead, it’s just a series of shadows. All I can make out is an ink-black sky peppered with stars, a farmland silhouette on one side of the road, and a moonlit sea on the other. The only sounds are the crashing waves against the cliff and my own heavy breathing. As I approach, her car is parked by the shoulder, and I reduce my speed to appreciate the scene. The headlights are still illuminated, the turn signals are blinking, and the driver’s door is ajar.
But Abby isn’t here.
There is no sign of a person lying in the road either. No signs of life at all.
I circle around, peering into the night at vacant roads and undulating landscapes. I call out for her, my voice bouncing off the phone mounted on the dashboard, though she remains unreachable over the line. Except that she isn’t. The leftover fish-and-chips sit on the front seat, accompanied by Abby’s handbag. I rummage through it, but nothing seems amiss. The only strange item in the car is a white gift box. I open it to find an unsettling antique doll with glossy black hair and clad in a red coat. Her oversized blue glass eyes seem to pierce me, and her mouth has been stitched 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.
Excerpted from BEAUTIFUL UGLY by Alice Feeney. Copyright © 2025 by Diggi Books Ltd. Excerpted by permission of Flatiron Books, a division of Macmillan Publishers. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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2024-12-03 17:28