THE VOW
Debbie Howells

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Debbie Howells 2020

Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photograph © plainpicture/Richard Nixon

Debbie Howells asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008400163

Ebook Edition © October 2020 ISBN: 9780008400170

Version: 2020-09-10

Dedication

For Clare

Epigraph

You didn’t know about the alchemist’s curse.

About the significance that lay, not just in essence but in intent.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Part One

1996

Amy: Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Jess

Amy: Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

1996

Amy: Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

1996

Jess

Amy: Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Jess

Amy: Chapter Fourteen

1996

Amy: Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Part Two

Fiona: Chapter Seventeen

1996

Fiona: Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Amy: Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

1996

Jess

Amy: Chapter Twenty-Five

1996

Fiona: Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Jess

1996

Amy: Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Jess

Amy: Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

1996

Fiona: Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Jess

Amy: Chapter Thirty-Eight

Jess

2019

Jess

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

PART ONE

1996

A summer of cornflower skies and bleached stubble fields; of friendship forged amongst wild strawberries and banks of thyme, whispered secrets known only to you, as you sat in the shade of the woods.

It was a summer that seemed brighter, hotter, the weeks somehow stretched endlessly ahead. A summer of giddy heights; of first love, as you pulled apart the delicate pink dog roses that grew on arching stems amongst the hedgerows, one gossamer petal after another until you found what you wanted.

He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me.

You glanced towards him, as you fed your obsession; punishing yourself, as you took in his hand holding hers, his eyes unable to look away from her, wanting them for your own, unable to hide what was in your heart.

And as the petals wilted, you tried so hard to hide what was in your eyes: not just the hunger or the jealousy that devoured you, but the bittersweet pain of unrequited love.

Amy
Chapter One

Two weeks before our wedding, after Matt leaves for work, I find a piece of paper in the kitchen. As soon as I start reading, I put it down. When we decided to write our own wedding vows, we agreed that we wouldn’t share them until our wedding day. I imagine him printing them off, wanting to commit them to memory; the piece of paper left out unintentionally. I know I should put it away, out of sight, but unable to resist, I pick it up.

I promise to hold your hand, to steer you through life’s sorrow and darkness, on a path towards justice and hope. I will endeavour to know what’s best for you, to protect you from your past, help you build the future you deserve. Then when I can no longer be with you, a part of me will always be there, watching over you. In the shadows of your heart, on the soft curves of your skin, in the long-forgotten corners of your mind.

Frowning, I read it again. While my own vows overflow with love and romance, this isn’t quite what I was expecting, until I remind myself it’s what Matt’s always done. He looks out for me. After so many years alone, I’m lucky.

But as I drive to Brighton, a feeling of foreboding hangs over me. The days before a wedding should be the happiest of times. In the distance, the shimmering sea looks ice-blue. Then the city comes into view, cast in soft light as the sun rises. It’s a familiar sight, one I love, and yet a shadow follows me while I deliver my herbal remedies to two of my regular clients, before walking through the Lanes back to my car. Lost in my thoughts, at first, I don’t notice the footsteps behind me.

‘Excuse me …’

The voice is unfamiliar. I hesitate, unsure if it’s directed at me, then as the footsteps come closer, I turn around to find myself staring at a stranger.

‘I need to talk to you.’ As the woman speaks, I feel myself freeze. She looks older than her voice sounds, her grey hair wispy, her face strangely unlined. But it’s the colour of her eyes, a transparent ice-blue, that is hypnotic. For a moment, I’m mesmerised, then as a van speeds past, her hand grips my arm, pulling me away from the road. ‘I have to talk to you.’ There’s an unmistakable urgency in her voice. ‘Someone’s watching you. They know where you go, everything you do.’

As she speaks, my blood runs cold. ‘Who are you?’

Without telling me, she goes on. ‘You think you’re meant to be together.’ Each word both softly spoken and crystal clear, her eyes fixed on mine so that I can’t look away. ‘You think he’s the love of your life.’ She pauses for a moment. ‘He isn’t who you think he is.’ Then a strange look crosses her face. ‘You’re in danger.’

For a few moments, it’s as though I’m in a trance. Then I pull my eyes away from hers, confused, then suddenly angry. Matt and I are getting married, every detail of our wedding thoughtfully planned, from the country house venue down to the smallest flower. We’re happily settled in our house in Steyning, with its chalk grey walls, the floorboards we’ve sanded and waxed, the garden with far-reaching views of the Sussex landscape that lies beyond. No-one, least of all a stranger, is taking that away from me. I notice her hand still clutching at my arm.

‘Let go of me!’ Wrenching it away, I step back and start hurrying towards my car, fighting my irritation, telling myself she’s probably harmless. A harmless, mad old woman.

But she’s spooked me. Hearing footsteps following me, I break into a jog, my feet crunching on fallen leaves, as she seems to read my mind.

‘I’m not mad,’ she calls after me. ‘Watch your back. Don’t trust him …’

Later, I tell the police, that was when it all started. With a sinister warning from a woman I’d never met before; if I had, I’d have remembered her eyes; with the cries of seagulls from the rooftops, the whisper of deception in the salt air. But I didn’t know it began much longer ago, with all that went before. With events that belong in the past. With beginnings that can’t be traced, that are infinite.

*

As I drive home, I’m on edge. It’s mild for November, the stark outline of the trees softened only by the last autumn leaves that have yet to fall. Turning into my lane, I park outside the house, still shaken as I get out, the woman’s words replaying in my head, while I tell myself she knows nothing about me. Or about Matt. Unable to ignore the voice that whispers in my mind: or does she?

In the kitchen, I drop my bag onto the faded sofa. It’s a large room, with pale curtains lining the windows, the floor tiled with slate. Neutral and uncluttered, the perfect foil for the garden that lies beyond.

Clearing the plates and mugs left from breakfast, I switch on the kettle, before going over to the sliding doors. Opening them, I step outside, drawn as I always am by the movement of the air, the crescendo of birdsong, the onset of winter showing in the paper-thin hydrangea flowers and dried seed heads. Gravel paths wander amongst the herbs and flowers I’ve planted, moss softening the stone wall along one side, a hedge marking the far end. The peacefulness is broken only by the sound of my mobile buzzing. I know instantly from the ringtone that it’s Matt.

‘I’m going to be late, Amy. There’s a client over from the States. David wants me to take him to dinner. I tried to get out of it, but you know what David’s like.’

He sounds distracted, irritated, though later, when the police ask me what he said, in my memory, I remember him as flustered. My heart sinks slightly. There are last-minute wedding details to finalise, but I know Matt wouldn’t be doing this unless he had to.

‘Hey, don’t worry. It’s fine. Really. If you’re not back, I’ll have another look at the seating plan without you. Oh – and your cousin emailed to say that …’

He interrupts me. ‘I have to go, Amy. Dave’s about to come in.’ But then his voice is low as he adds, ‘I need to talk to you later.’

Something in his tone makes me uneasy. ‘Is everything OK?’

There’s a split-second hesitation, then in the background, I hear someone call out to him before in a louder, brighter voice, he says to me, ‘Take care, babe.’

Then he’s gone, leaving me standing there, staring at my phone. Three words that leave me totally wrong-footed, because Matt’s never called me babe. And it’s a throwaway phrase, but he never says take care, not like that. Trying to rationalise it, I tell myself he’s preoccupied with work or conscious of his boss standing there, pushing my unease from my mind as I head across the garden towards my workshop.

Surrounded by trees, it’s permeated by a sense of calm, but today as I walk inside, that calmness somehow eludes me. Standing there, I look at the old oak table that dominates the space, the wall beyond it given over to shelves of books about herbalism and carefully labelled jars of herbs. Most are harvested from my garden and on the table are fragrant bay, rosemary and sage stems, cut earlier before I went out. The richness of their scents intensifies as I start to strip the leaves, but I’m distracted again, thinking of the woman in Brighton, then of Matt’s call.

While I work methodically, the wedding is never far from my mind. I think of my fairytale dress, hidden in the spare room, imagining the warmth of the country house hotel with log fires and candlelight. My daughter Jess beside me, our friends gathered. Then my mind wanders further back, to when I first moved here. Stripping wallpaper and ripping up old carpets, I’d started putting my own stamp on each of the rooms, before beginning on the garden.

Distracted by the ping of my work email, I scan a couple of repeat orders I’m expecting, before opening one from a new customer. It’s an urgent request from a Namita Gill for a remedy to soothe her three-year-old daughter’s skin condition. I check the address, before replying. I can deliver tomorrow morning between 9 and 9.30. Will you be in?

While I put her order together, her reply comes back. Is there any way you could deliver tonight? I can pay extra but I’m at my wit’s end. My daughter is so distressed and I’ve tried everything else. I don’t know who else to turn to. I can pay you cash when you arrive.

My heart sinks slightly. I’d envisaged a quiet evening, the curtains closed and the wood burner lit, while I go through last minute wedding details so that I can run them by Matt when he gets home. But I remember the childhood eczema that used to drive Jess to distraction. The delivery won’t take me long. Emailing her back, I make a note of her address: Flat 5, 13 Brunswick Square, BN3 1EH. Then picking up the order, I switch off the light before closing the workshop door behind me.

As I make my way back to the house, the temperature has dropped sharply, so that in the hedge, desiccated stems of old man’s beard are painted in relief by a hint of frost. Inside, logs are piled by the wood burning stove waiting to be lit, the bleached wooden worktops empty. Hunting around for my silver jacket, when I don’t find it, I settle for an old one of Jess’s, before finding my car keys and heading back outside.

Already, a thin layer of frost covers my car. Climbing in, I start the engine and turn the heater on, before entering the delivery address into my satnav. As I set off, a fine layer of mist is visible in the beam from my headlights. The roads are quiet and it doesn’t take long to reach the outskirts of Brighton. I’ve always loved how the seafront looks at night, where what traffic there is flows steadily, the promenade sparkling with street lights. As I turn into Brunswick Square, I find a parking space almost immediately. Picking up the order, I get out, already scrutinising the house numbers on the elegant façades. As I walk, I pass only a few people, reaching the top of the Square and following it around, as No 13 comes into view. Walking up the steps, I pause, looking at the doorbell, searching for Flat 5, a frown crossing my face as I check the house number again. Reaching for my phone, I check Namita’s email. It’s definitely the right address, but instead of residential, this building is a heritage centre and museum. Flat number 5 doesn’t exist.

As I walk back to my car, I imagine that under the pressure of caring for her sick daughter, Namita must have given me the wrong address. Getting into my car, I email her, asking her to confirm where she lives, waiting for her to reply. But she doesn’t. By the time I arrive back at home, she still hasn’t. As I walk inside, apart from the slow tick of the clock on the wall, the house is silent. For a moment, I ache for Jess’s presence and the inevitable chaos it brings, nostalgic for the days it was just the two of us. Now in her second year at Falmouth uni, her absence bestows the house with an emptiness that’s unfamiliar.

Ten years have passed since we moved here. The house was more remote than I’d been looking for, but still reeling from the breakup of my marriage, as well as the potential the house offered, I’d felt an unmistakable sense of sanctuary. With over an acre of garden and the outbuilding that’s become my workshop, there’s sheltered chalk soil and clean air; beyond a thick hedge of hawthorn and wild rose, unobstructed views of the Downs.

I’d started learning about herbalism before we came here, before studying it at college, wanting to heal the eczema that for years had plagued Jess, leaving her arms and legs scarred. But it’s here I’ve learned about alchemy, subtlety, the effect of scent.

The garden is beautiful, bordering on mystical. There is a potency in plants – when you know – and it’s here where the elements of my tinctures are nurtured. When Matt first came here and saw me at work, he laughingly called me a witch. I let him laugh, mildly irritated that he found it amusing. Witchcraft and herbal folklore are not so far apart.

Like any garden, mine is constantly evolving, my plans sketched out in the large notebook I keep – a kind of scrapbook of inspiring images, words, quotes, scribbled notes. Glancing at the book, lying where it’s always left next to the sofa, I lock the doors and pull the curtains closed. As my unease comes back, I remember the woman in Brighton this morning. It occurs to me to report her – but for what, exactly? She didn’t harm me, but it was the way she spoke. Not just her warning, but the conviction in her voice, that she knew something about my life that I didn’t.

Telling myself it isn’t possible, I try to push the thought from my head, but then I think of Namita and of the address that doesn’t exist. Checking my emails, I find a reply from her. I’m so sorry, Amy, but I have to cancel my order. My husband got really mad. He doesn’t like alternative remedies. There’s no reference to her address.

I write her off as erratic, but as I go upstairs, I can’t shake the uneasiness that hangs over me. Then halfway up, my skin prickles. No floorboard creaks – the house is silent, yet it’s as if there’s an echo of something. Later, I wonder if I detected the faintest trace of scent – the olfactory sense is closely linked to memory. But if I did, it wasn’t Matt’s. If it was, I would have known.

At the top of the stairs, still unsettled, I go to each bedroom in turn, checking that they’re empty. Aware my behaviour is ridiculous, verging on paranoid, I’m unable to shake the sense that I’m not alone. Changing into a loose-fitting sweatshirt and yoga pants, I scrunch my hair into a topknot, pausing to study my reflection. Fair hair, pale skin; clear eyes that give nothing away. Not even the smallest hint of fear.

After what’s been the strangest day, all I want is for Matt to come home, so that we can add the final touches to our wedding plans, then go to bed. But I’m still in the dark at this point. As I turn to go downstairs, I have no way of knowing what lies ahead.

Chapter Two

The kitchen is lit by the dim glow from a corner lamp, the sense of unease still with me as I pile dry kindling into the wood burner before lighting it, then add seasoned wood. In no time it’s throwing out heat, the crackle of flames welcome, breaking the silence. After making a cup of tea, I switch on my laptop, bringing up the file that contains our wedding plans. From food and wine to flowers and music, each detail has been carefully chosen – by both of us.

After Matt proposed, I’d wanted to get married on a faraway beach, imagining Jess and I barefoot in dusky dresses, our hair windswept by a tropical breeze. I’d provisionally booked a place in the Caribbean, a small bougainvillea-clad hotel, looking onto white sand shaded by palm trees, beyond which clear turquoise water stretched. But in the end, we decided on an intimate wedding at home, Jess my only bridesmaid, trading the Caribbean sun for candlelight, winter flowers and wood smoke.

It would be no less the fairy tale. And it was the wedding itself that mattered. When Matt reminded me of the obvious impracticalities of having our wedding so far away, I had to concede he had a point. Both of us wanted our closest friends and family to be there. I’ve tried to explain to Jess how relationships are about compromise. That not all battles are worth fighting, because it’s what I believe. Over the years, I’ve learned to trust my instincts, listen to my inner voice. Ninety-nine per cent of the time, it serves me well. But when I think about the stranger in Brighton this morning, it’s oddly absent.

I have no reason to believe anyone wishes me harm. No reason not to trust Matt. But it’s the way he sounded earlier when he called me – not just what he said, but the way he said it. I need to talk to you later. Then, take care, babe …

None of it was in any way normal, I tell the police much later on. It was the way his voice changed, as though he knew someone would overhear him. I know the way Matt thinks, how he speaks. When he called me earlier today, something was wrong.

The silence is broken by the ping of an email into my inbox, from our wedding planner, Lara. An old friend of Matt’s, when she heard we were getting married, she offered to help us, saving us the hours it would take to find suppliers. Her email’s about finalising the seating plan that Matt and I had planned to look at tonight. Reading through the document she’s attached, making one or two changes, I keep it to run past him before replying. Then I click on my vows, re-reading the words I know so well for the hundredth time.

I promise to always be there for you. To be the moon in your darkness, your wildflowers in the shade of the forest, your brightest star lighting the night sky. My heart is yours, Matt; my love a forever love. I am yours for the rest of my life. Words I’ve deliberated over for hours, that are mine and no-one else’s; that on our wedding day will be my gift to Matt.

Seeing the piece of paper with Matt’s vows, I fold it and put it out of sight, already regretting reading them this morning. When we’d agreed not to share them until our wedding day, it feels like a betrayal of trust.

It’s nearly ten by the time I finish going through my emails, replying to a WhatsApp from Jess about when she’s next coming back from Falmouth. Switching on another light, I pour myself a glass of wine before calling Cath, my closest friend.

‘Hey! How’s it going?’

In need of a fresh start, she’s packing up her flat. She moves next week – to Bristol.

‘Since you ask, horrible. I’ve had to throw so much out, but at least it’s a distraction. To be honest, I’m trying not to think about it.’

‘This move is what you need,’ I tell her. ‘A change of scene, your new job … Who knows what might happen – in time.’

‘As long as it doesn’t involve men,’ she says shortly. ‘Honestly, I’m relishing being single again.’

I’m silent for a moment. Cath’s suffered.

‘How are you?’ Her voice rallies. ‘I keep meaning to call round.’

‘So come tomorrow. We’ll have lunch. I need to tell you about something weird that happened today – when I was in Brighton.’

‘I’m intrigued.’ She sounds curious. ‘Can’t you tell me now?’

Hearing a car outside, I’m guessing it’s Matt. ‘I think Matt’s just come back. It’ll wait.’

‘OK.’ Cath hesitates. ‘How is Matt?’

‘He’s good. We’re just putting the final touches together for the big day. You wouldn’t believe how long everything takes.’

‘I’m happy never to find out.’ Cath’s voice is cynical, then she sounds apologetic. ‘Look, I didn’t mean that. I’m sure it will be a great day.’

After her abusive ex-boyfriend, Oliver, reduced her emotionally to the shadow of the woman I know so well, she’s trying to rebuild her life – alone. If I hadn’t seen it happen, I wouldn’t have believed it possible, because I’ve always thought of her as strong, but Oliver’s manipulation was masterful.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I tell her. ‘I’m just glad you’ve got away from Oliver. I know it’s hard right now, but it will get easier.’

‘I hope so.’ She’s quiet for a moment. ‘But you’re happy? You and Matt?’

There’s no hesitation as I answer. ‘Blissfully.’

*

But the car I hear isn’t Matt’s. By eleven, when he still isn’t home, I’m only mildly surprised, but it’s happened before, a business dinner morphing into a late session in a bar. I frown, wondering what it is he wanted to talk to me about, but it will have to wait. With an early start ahead of me, I text him briefly as I go to bed. When he doesn’t reply, I imagine him deep in conversation over yet another scotch. I’ve no reason to worry. Not yet.

When I stir in the night and realise the bed is empty beside me, it vaguely registers as odd. Thinking of our wedding, imagining us side by side as we become husband and wife, I drift back to sleep. But it isn’t until I awake the next morning, and find he still hasn’t come home that alarm bells start to ring. Nor has he replied to any of my texts, and when I call him, like last night, it goes to voicemail.

*

An air of unreality hangs over me as I shower and dress, stopping now and then to try him again. When my phone eventually buzzes with a text, my heart leaps, but instead of Matt, it’s a client wanting to check on a delivery. The order is prepared, but I’m worried about Matt and it’s slipped my mind that I’d promised it for this morning.

Pulling on a jacket and boots, I hurry outside. The grass is crisp with last night’s frost, glistening where the sun reaches it, my hands pink with cold as I open my workshop. Inside, the temperature is higher but only marginally, as after picking up the order, I take it out to my car.

Normally I love early mornings, the way the low light casts shadows, how the world is slowly stirring into life. But today, as I drive, I don’t see any of it. Instead, uncertainty fills the air as I call Matt, leaving him another message. My mind in a whirl. Five minutes later, I try again. Then, because she’s been keeping in touch with both of us about the wedding, I pull over at the side of the road and call Lara.

By the time I remember how early it still is, she’s already answered. ‘Hi, Amy.’ Her voice is sleepy, as though I’ve just woken her. ‘What’s up?’

‘I’m sorry to call like this.’ I feel a rush of guilt for disturbing her. ‘Have you by any chance heard from Matt?’

‘No. Should I have?’ She pauses. ‘Is something wrong?’ Her voice is suddenly wide awake.

I hesitate. ‘He didn’t come home last night. I’m really worried about him. I’ve called him several times, but it goes to voicemail. I just wondered when you last spoke to him.’

There’s a brief hesitation before she speaks. ‘A couple of days ago. Sunday – it was to do with the orders of service.’ She’s quiet for a moment. ‘I’m sure he’s fine, Amy. He probably had too much to drink and crashed out somewhere.’

‘You’re probably right.’ I’m nodding as I speak, but he would have been in touch. And in all the time I’ve known him, Matt’s always made it home after a night out.

Her voice cuts into my thoughts. ‘Have you thought about calling the police?’

At the mention of the police, my heart quickens. I’ve been putting off thinking about it, not wanting Matt to be a missing person, hoping he’ll reappear with a credible excuse that will make everything OK. I crashed out at the hotel … I lost my phone. ‘I thought it was too soon. They won’t do anything, will they? Not for at least twenty-four hours.’ My voice is husky, the note of panic one I can’t hide. ‘The chances are you’re right. He’s got held up somewhere. It’s probably nothing.’ I say it as much for my benefit as Lara’s. ‘He might have lost his phone – or broken it. Ended up spending the night in a hotel … there could be any number of possibilities.’ But it isn’t what my instincts are telling me. No longer silent, they’re screaming at me that something’s happened to him.

‘Sure.’ Lara doesn’t sound convinced.

Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, I remember the delivery. ‘I should go. I have a delivery to make. Can you let me know if you hear from him?’

‘Of course.’ She sounds uncertain. ‘Can you do the same?’

Chapter Three

I drive towards Brighton on autopilot, barely noticing as the sea, then the town come into view. Reaching the outskirts, I hit the early morning traffic, slowed by roadworks that weren’t there yesterday, unable to stop worrying about Matt. When at last I turn off the main road and head for the quiet tree-lined street of Regency houses where my client lives, I’m running late. Managing to park outside her house, I’m flustered as I take her order from the back of my car and ring the bell. Davina opens the door straight away.

‘Amy. I was about to call you. I was getting worried.’ There’s a look of concern in her clear brown eyes as an air of strong perfume and calm wafts over me. A client for five years, Davina’s always the same, unflustered – her dark hair sleek, her make-up minimal. As she looks at me, she frowns. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘I’m so sorry.’ My nerves are on edge. ‘I should have been here ages ago. I hit the traffic.’ Trying to compose myself, I pass her the order. ‘You should find everything’s there.’

‘Thank you. Is the invoice inside?’

I flounder for a moment, realising my error, then shake my head. ‘I completely forgot. Can I email it to you?’

As I walk back to my car, I’m cursing myself. I’m meticulous about finances and I’ve never forgotten an invoice. But Matt has never gone missing before. With hindsight, I wished I’d told her what had happened. I’ve no way of knowing that when the police talk to her, she’ll tell them I was agitated, flustered, as though my mind was elsewhere. I didn’t tell her that my head was spinning, how worried about Matt I was.

Before I head home, I call him again. When it goes to voicemail, I call his office. A management consultant for a company called Orbital, Matt can work anywhere their clients are based, but at the moment I happen to know he’s working in Brighton.

‘Good morning. Can I speak to Matthew Roche?’

‘One moment please.’ I don’t recognise the clipped, professional voice of the receptionist, unlike her predecessor, Sophie, who would have known instantly who I was. ‘I’ll put you through. Who’s calling, please?’

I forget that he hasn’t called me in nearly twenty-four hours, just feel a layer of normality return, relief flooding through me that he’s there. ‘Amy – his fiancée.’

As she connects me and the line starts to ring, I feel a weight start to lift. Then the ringing stops, but instead of Matt’s voice, it’s the receptionist again. ‘I’m sorry. Mr Roche doesn’t appear to be in his office. Would you like to leave a message?’

Any sense of relief instantly vanishes. Instead my voice is shaking, as my fear comes flooding back. ‘Yes. Please ask him to call Amy. As soon as he gets in. It’s important.’

Ending the call, I sit there for a moment, oblivious to the rush hour traffic flashing past, trying to think of who else I can call. Pete, his best man, is the obvious place to start. Then, even though I’ve never met them, his parents. Knowing their contact details should be in our wedding file, I pull out onto the road again.

In a hurry to get home, I drive too fast, unable to concentrate. Then as I turn into our lane, I catch sight of the stooped figure of Mrs Guthrie, our closest neighbour, who lives in one of the three cottages further up the lane. She may look fragile, but she ferociously maintains her independence. Recognising my car, she raises a hand in greeting, as hope rises in me that she may have seen Matt. Pulling into my driveway, I get out and hurry to meet her. ‘Morning … How are you?’

Wearing a padded coat that hides her diminutive frame, her face breaks into a smile. Then as I get closer, she peers into my face. ‘Amy, dear. I was going to come and see you. My Japanese anemones are still flowering and I thought you might like some for your wedding.’ Her garden has always been her passion, as mine is to me.

‘I’d love some – thank you.’ It’s by some quirk of her garden’s microclimate that her flowers bloom slightly later in the year than mine. But right now, I can’t think about flowers. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen anything of Matt?’

‘Now why would you be asking me about Matt?’ She starts to chuckle, then realising I’m serious, stops. ‘Is something wrong?’ A frown wrinkles her brow as she studies me.

‘It’s probably nothing.’ Even now, I try to play it down. ‘It’s just that he went out with a client last night and didn’t come home. He hasn’t called me, either.’

She doesn’t hesitate. ‘Then you should call the police, dear, don’t you think?’

*

As I walk back home and go inside, my fear is building, that something terrible has happened. But when I think about what Mrs Guthrie said, I’m convinced it’s still too soon for the police to be interested. Knowing I need to make some calls, I open my laptop and bring up our wedding file. Sure enough, Pete’s mobile number is there. With shaking hands, I call it.

‘Pete? It’s Amy.’

‘Hey. How’s it going?’ His voice is characteristically cheerful. ‘Not long till the big day, is it! How can I help?’

‘It’s Matt.’ My voice is husky as I grip my phone. ‘I don’t know where he is. Have you spoken to him?’

‘Is something wrong?’ Suddenly he’s sharp. ‘When did you last see him?’

‘Yesterday. Before he left for work,’ I whisper. ‘Then he called me during the morning, to tell me he’d be late home – he had to take a client out. I’ve been calling him ever since. Countless times, but he isn’t answering his phone.’ There’s a note of panic in my voice. ‘I’ve called his office, too. But he wasn’t there.’

‘Jeez, Amy. I last spoke to him the day before that, but not since. You must be worried sick.’

My eyes fill with tears. ‘I am.’

‘There has to be an explanation.’ Pete’s silent for a moment. ‘Have you spoken to his parents?’

‘Not yet. I was going to call them next, after speaking to you.’

‘I’ll make some calls. Check out the bars he goes to. Let me know when you’ve spoken to his parents. But if there’s still no sign of him …’

‘I know.’ I’m biting my lip. ‘I’ll call the police.’

Putting down my mobile, I turn back to my laptop, scrolling down the list of wedding guests until I find Matt’s parents. Punching the number into my phone, I pause for a moment, knowing whatever I say, I’m going to worry them. But I make the call anyway, steeling myself to explain to them why I’m phoning, but instead of someone answering, the line goes dead.

Frowning, I check the number, but when I try it again, the same thing happens. Staring at my phone, there’s only one explanation, that Matt must have made a mistake when he typed the number next to their names on the wedding list. Uncomfortable, I call Pete again, swearing under my breath when my call goes to voicemail, before texting him instead. The number I have for Matt’s parents isn’t connected. Sitting there, I wait for his response, but when I remember the list of orders I need to prepare I head outside towards my workshop.

Even in my sanctuary, it’s impossible to focus. My unease, no longer a shadow, is palpable. Trying to distract myself, I think about our wedding, holding on to the image of us in my mind. Matt tall, his suit and white shirt showing off the tan he’ll have after his stag do in Malaga; me spray-tanned, because it’s all I have time for, setting off the dusky pink dress that’s hanging in the spare room. The flowers I’m growing from which to make the simplest, most delicate of bouquets; Jess beside me in pale grey, her long hair loosely pinned up. The hotel cosy, decorated with flowers and candles, the wood fires lit, on the most perfect of winter days where the air is crisp, the sky blue, the sun shining. In the dream, the sun always shines.

A text from Pete jolts me out of my thoughts. He must have made a mistake. I’ve been asking around but no-one’s seen him. I’d call the police, Amy. And keep in touch.

Still holding on to hope that Matt will call me, that there’s an innocent explanation, I put it off a little longer, turning my attention to the orders coming in, until by mid-morning, fear gets the better of me. Filled with trepidation, as I walk back to the house, I dial 999. Half expecting to be told to give it twenty-four hours, I’m surprised when the woman who takes my call efficiently records my details, before putting me through to a PC Page.

‘When did you last see your fiancé?’ From her voice, I know she’s taking me seriously. It’s what I’d dreaded most before I called – not being taken seriously.

‘Yesterday.’ Then I question myself, because it’s been a day in which so much has changed. But it’s the difference between the known and unknown that makes it feel more like a lifetime ago. ‘Yesterday morning. Just before he went to work.’

‘And you last heard from him when?’

‘He called me later that morning from his office, to say he was going to be late.’ Aware of my voice shaking, I pause. ‘It was a last minute change to his plans. He had a client over from the States. His boss had asked Matt to take him out to dinner.’

‘And that was usual?’

‘It doesn’t happen that often, but I suppose often enough that it didn’t seem strange.’ I’m gabbling, needing her to understand the feeling I have, deep in my bones, that something’s happened to Matt. ‘He sounded odd. I mean, he said something he wouldn’t normally say. It was as though he was irritated about something. Then he said he’d talk to me later. Just before he hung up, he said, take care, babe.’ I break off, knowing that to anyone who doesn’t know Matt, it sounds trivial. ‘I know it doesn’t sound like much. But it was out of character. It’s not the kind of thing he ever says.’

PC Page is quiet for a moment. ‘Do you know who the client was?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ For the first time, I’m berating myself that I never ask him, but Matt’s clients are people I never meet. He rarely tells me their names.

‘Did he give you any indication where he was going last night?’

‘He didn’t say.’ Suddenly I remember something. ‘His boss might know. David. It was David who wanted him to take the client out.’ I can’t believe I haven’t thought of this before. As I speak, my sense of urgency grows. ‘I’ll call him. He’s bound to know something.’

‘If you give me his details, we’ll speak to him. We need your fiancé’s contact details, too.’ She sounds in control, but her business-like manner does nothing to reassure me.

‘His name is David Avery. They work for a company called Orbital.’ I give her Matt’s mobile number and David’s work number. ‘Matt drove to work yesterday morning. He has a red Audi.’ Sharing the car’s registration, I wonder what else she needs to know.

‘Do you have a recent photograph you can email to us?’

‘Of course. Where shall I send it?’

‘I’ll give you an email address. Do you have a pen?’

After I write it down, she goes on. ‘If you hear anything from him or think of anything else that might be useful, could you let us know? We’ll start making enquiries straight away. Have you been in touch with any local surgeries and hospitals?’

Her words set off alarm bells. ‘I haven’t.’ Oh God. It hadn’t even occurred to me that he might have been taken ill or involved in an accident.

‘It’s unlikely there’s been an accident, or we’d have heard about it …’ She hesitates for a moment. ‘Are there any family members nearby? Siblings – or close friends?’

‘No. His parents are in Scotland. He’s an only child.’

‘Have you spoken to them?’

‘I tried calling them, but the line was dead. Matt must have accidentally written down the wrong number.’

‘Do you have their address?’

Frowning, I try to think. ‘Only their email address. It’s how we sent out our wedding invitations.’ I pause, remembering querying Matt about whether his parents would prefer a printed invitation and his amusement when he told me about how his dad was more tech-savvy than even he was.

‘Perhaps you could email them? See when they last heard from him?’ She’s silent for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to ask this. It may sound far-fetched, but do you think there’s any possibility he’s keeping anything from you? Financial worries or anything like that?’

‘No.’ Indignant at what she’s suggesting, my face grows hot. ‘Matt wouldn’t get involved in anything irresponsible. We’re getting married in two weeks. We don’t keep secrets from each other.’

‘Of course.’ Her voice is crisp. ‘Well, we have what we need for now. Perhaps we can talk again later on.’

I clutch my phone tightly. ‘Do you think you’ll find him? I mean, what usually happens?’ Futile questions, impossible for her to answer, as I seek a reassurance that doesn’t exist.

‘In most cases, missing persons turn up; a day, sometimes a week later, sometimes longer than that.’ Her voice is matter of fact. ‘It’s early days, Ms Reid. There’s no point worrying too much. Not just yet.’

Her words do little to set my mind at rest. After ending the call, I sit there, my mind a million miles away as I consider every possible scenario. Then I imagine her thinking I’m naïve, that no-one ever thinks their partner would deceive them – until it happens.

Firing up my laptop, I open our wedding file, copying Matt’s parents’ email address, staring at the screen while I work out what to write.

I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, but I wondered when you last spoke to Matt? I haven’t been able to contact him for a couple of days. Actually, to be honest, I’m really worried …

Deleting the last line, I add something about how much I’m looking forward to meeting them at the wedding, then press send. While I wait for a response, I email the photo of Matt to PC Page. Then suddenly needing to hear Jess’s voice, I send her a WhatsApp. How are you Jess? Can you give me a quick call when you have time? Xxx

Ten minutes later, she calls me. ‘Mum? Is everything OK?’

‘Not really.’ Then I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t know where Matt is, Jess. I haven’t been able to contact him.’

‘What d’you mean?’ She sounds alarmed. ‘Since when?’

My voice wobbles. ‘Yesterday morning. I had this really odd call from him saying he would be late because his boss had asked him to take a client out, and that was the last I heard from him.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Her voice is sharp.

‘I didn’t want to worry you. I was hoping he’d just reappear with an explanation. I’ve been in touch with the police. They may want to talk to you at some point – if he doesn’t turn up. At the moment, I’m still hoping he will …’ Breaking off, I swallow the lump in my throat.

‘Mum, people don’t just disappear … Something must have happened to him. The police will find him, won’t they? But are you OK?’ Her voice is suddenly anxious. ‘I can come home. I’ll get a train. I can leave later – or first thing tomorrow …’

‘Please don’t, Jess. There’s nothing you can do – and you’re coming back in just over a week for our wedding, anyway.’

‘But if he doesn’t …’

Knowing what she’s about to say, about the wedding, I interrupt. ‘I’m taking each day at a time.’ I try to keep my voice level, because right now, I can’t think that far ahead. ‘It’s the only way.’ Though I want her here more than anything, she has to think of her coursework. And the moment she comes home, in my mind at least, everything escalates.

After forcing a promise from me to keep her updated, she reluctantly agrees to stay where she is – at least for now. But her unspoken words hang in the air. Less than a fortnight away, ever since we decided on a date, our wedding has filled my head. For a moment, I allow my mind to linger: on my beautiful dress, my vows, everyone important to me in one place. But instead of Matt beside me, I imagine an empty space, as I feel myself shiver. I never thought the day would come I’d have to think about cancelling it.

As I sit there, a knock on the door makes me jump. Getting up, I go to answer it, but when I see Cath’s face pressed against the glass, my heart sinks.

‘I brought lunch!’ As I open the door, she holds up a brown paper carrier bag from the farm shop she would have driven past on her way here. ‘This too.’ She holds up a bottle of champagne. ‘I thought we’d celebrate – your up and coming nuptials and my escape from Oliver. If you’re not too busy?’ She hesitates, frowning as she stares at me. ‘What’s going on?’

I shake my head. ‘Sorry, I’d completely forgotten you were coming. Can we do this some other time?’ It isn’t that I don’t want to see her, but today, I don’t have the capacity to listen to her problems or buoy her up. Until I find out where Matt is, there isn’t space in my mind for anything else.

‘What’s happened? Is Jess OK?’ Cath stands there. ‘Amy, you’re worrying me.’

I hesitate, in my state of denial not wanting to tell anyone, still hoping that at any minute Matt will turn up. But she’s one of my oldest friends. ‘You better come in.’

Closing the door behind us, she follows me through to the kitchen, where she pulls off her jacket then stands there, her eyes fixed on mine, as I perch on the edge of the sofa.

‘Matt’s gone missing.’ I say it quietly, reticent, because the more I talk about it, the more real it becomes; the more my fear grows. Not because I don’t care, as the police later suggested. Even with their specialist training, their expertise in psychological profiling, they couldn’t understand how I was so calm.

A look of incredulity on her face, Cath doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Since when?’ Her voice is sharp.

‘Last night.’ Feeling tears fill my eyes, I wipe them away. ‘He didn’t come home. I thought he was out late with a business client. I didn’t think any more of it, until this morning.’

A frown wrinkles her forehead. ‘He isn’t answering his phone?’

I shake my head. ‘I’ve been trying all day. I’ve called his office, too. Left messages, but no-one’s heard from him. Just now, I called the police.’

‘Jesus.’ White as a sheet, Cath sits down next to me. A hint of her scent reaches me. Citrus notes – and basil. ‘I mean, that’s so not like Matt.’

‘I know.’ I’ve never known her lost for words before. Then I tell her about the old woman and what she said to me.

A look of shock crosses her face. ‘You were right when you said it was weird. It’s too much of a coincidence, surely.’ Cath stares at me. ‘What happens now?’

‘So now, I wait for the police to get back to me. Unless he turns up – in which case I call them.’

‘Jesus, Amy.’ Cath sits there, then she gets up again. ‘There’s an explanation. There has to be. You’re getting married. You’re love’s dream, for fuck’s sake. Don’t I know better than anyone.’

Hearing the bitterness in her voice, I look up. I hadn’t realised she felt that way.

‘Don’t mind me.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m cynical and twisted because of Oliver, but I’ll get over it.’

I stare at her, not knowing what to say. Then something makes me look at her more closely, as I notice how much weight she’s lost, how she’s cut her hair shorter, so that it falls in soft waves that frame her face. I’ve always thought of her as large-framed, heavy, but she isn’t. Her broken heart has left her slender.

Cath gazes out of the window. ‘It’s OK. It really is. It was a bit galling for a while, if I’m honest. There’s nothing like looking at other people and wishing you had even a fraction of their happiness. But Oliver’s gone and I’m moving to Bristol. It’s fine – honestly. I’m happy for you.’ But the tightness of her voice belies her words.

Later, when the police asked about our friends, their lives, how well we knew them, I told them what Cath said, watching them write it down, word for word, only then remembering the hardness in her eyes, the bitterness in her voice, as the first waves of suspicion crept over me, that there was something she wasn’t telling me. Jealousy was toxic enough, but unrequited love could be just as destructive; could drive the most unlikely person over the edge.

*

After a lunch that neither Cath nor I have an appetite for, our mood is subdued and she doesn’t stay long. Checking my emails, there’s no reply yet from Matt’s parents and as I head across the garden towards my workshop, I’m unsettled. Ignoring the list of orders waiting for me, I wander over to the bench under the oak tree, placed there for the most far-reaching views of the Downs. Sitting down, I gaze out across the outline of the hills, my mind flitting all over the place as I breathe deeply, trying to slow it down, still jittery as the buzz of my mobile startles me.

‘Ms Reid? It’s PC Page.’

As she speaks, fear courses through me. ‘Have you heard anything?’

‘Not as yet.’ She hesitates. ‘I wanted to clarify one or two things about the conversation you had with your fiancé yesterday morning. Earlier, you told me his boss had asked him to take an American client out to dinner – that’s correct isn’t it?’

I frown, wondering why she’s asking. ‘Yes. Why?’

As she goes on, she sounds puzzled. ‘The thing is, we spoke to David Avery – Matthew’s boss. He says he doesn’t know anything about an American client.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’ My heart misses a beat. It doesn’t make sense that Matt would have lied to me. ‘David must have that wrong. There’s no other explanation. Why else would Matt have told me that?’

‘I’m only repeating what he told us. According to Mr Avery, Matthew left work at the normal time, but to the best of his knowledge, there are no clients from the States – at least, not at this present time. Currently their work is here and in Dubai.’

‘He must have made a mistake …’ I’m searching wildly for answers. ‘There could be someone David doesn’t know about. A new client … Matt wouldn’t lie about something like that.’ Mystified, my voice fades to a whisper.

‘I take it you still haven’t heard from him?’ PC Page speaks quietly.

‘Not yet.’ I’m trying to take in what she’s said. ‘He’ll call me, though. I’m sure he will – if he can.’ But it’s myself I’m trying to convince, rather than her.

‘Did you email his parents?’

‘I did. They haven’t replied yet.’

‘I’m sorry, but I have to ask this.’ PC Page sounds reluctant. ‘Can you think of any reason why Matt would just take off? Were there any problems between you? Had you argued, for example?’

‘No.’ I’m outraged that she’s even asking. ‘We’re getting married in two weeks. Like I said to you before, everything is fine between us.’

It’s what I want to believe. But I’m running out of logical explanations. Matt wouldn’t take off – not unless he’d inadvertently got caught up in something and had no choice. It’s either that, or something’s happened to him.

After PC Page’s call, uncertainty hangs over me as my restlessness builds. Not knowing what to do with myself, I pull on a coat and trainers, needing to breathe in cold air to clear my head. Closing the door behind me, instead of heading for the road that winds downhill towards Steyning, I walk up the lane, past Mrs Guthrie’s house. Walking further on, I pass the pair of semi-detached flint cottages, then where the road ends, I climb the stile onto the footpath.

Snaking beneath tall beech trees, the path is covered in autumn leaves and I follow it until it eventually opens out onto sloping grassland. Wanting to push my body, to reach the top and feel the force of the wind around me, I take the steeper of the two paths. Narrow and chalky, it’s slippery underfoot. Oblivious to the water soaking through my trainers, I constantly check my phone, racking my brain for the smallest detail that might make sense of everything, tears filling my eyes as I think about the future I’d believed lay ahead of us. A future that’s been disrupted, unexpectedly, without warning or explanation, leaving me in unknown territory, where I no longer know what tomorrow holds.

At the top, I keep walking as my emotions overwhelm me; walking faster, racked with sobs, until physically and emotionally, I’m exhausted. Losing track of time, I berate myself when I realise how late it’s got. What if Matt’s come back and he’s at home, wondering where I am? But I know he isn’t. If he was, he would have called me.

As the light fades, I turn to make my way back, dusk descending into darkness by the time I reach my lane. But it’s not too dark to know that while I was out, someone’s been here. As the house comes into view, I see that there are flowers on the doorstep.

Chapter Four

When I pick it up, the bouquet is heavy enough that it takes both hands to carry it inside, as it occurs to me fleetingly that Matt might have sent it. Pushing the front door closed with one foot, I carry it along the hallway to the kitchen.

Switching on the light, I place the bouquet on one of the worktops, taking in the densely packed white lilies and tulips, intermingled with deep red velvet roses – expensive, hot house varieties, with lavish layers of elaborate wrapping concealing the bag of water encasing the stems. Peeling off the envelope that’s been attached, I imagine an apology – or an explanation, then my mind races. Maybe it’s a surprise and Matt’s already here waiting for me. Filled with hope, I call out. ‘Matt? Honey? Are you there?’

The silence adds to my already fraying nerves, the scent from the lilies cloying, the significance of red and white flowers not lost on me. Silence has a weight, I wanted to explain to the police later. If I could have felt what it contained, listened to its secrets, maybe it would have told me where Matt was.

Through the kitchen window, a sudden movement catches my eye. ‘Matt?’ Spinning round, I knock the bouquet, watching as it sways for a moment before falling sideways, then slipping slow motion to the floor.

As water leaks out onto the dark slate, I curse my clumsiness. Crouching down, as I go to pick it up, an alien scent reaches my nostrils, growing stronger, more abhorrent, as simultaneously I notice splatters of red on the white tulips. Recoiling, shock hits me as I realise. It isn’t water on the floor. The stems of the bouquet have been wrapped in blood.

*

‘I went for a walk. They were on my doorstep when I got home.’ My voice echoes in the silence of the kitchen. ‘I assumed they were from Matt – an apology or something.’

‘You’ve no idea who might have sent them?’ As she stares at the flowers, PC Page is smaller, younger than I’d imagined from talking to her on the phone. Slightly built, her straight fair hair doesn’t quite touch her shoulders.

‘No.’ Shivering, I stare at the blood still splattered across the floor. ‘This was with them.’ I pass her the card I’d found in the envelope. ‘There was no name on it.’

‘Do you recognise the handwriting?’ She picks up the card, frowning as she reads it. It has with sympathy for your loss printed in one corner and a message written across the centre.

Kill one man and you are a murderer.

‘No.’ I shake my head, then as the pungent odour of rust fills my nostrils again, fold my arms around myself. I’d started to clear up the blood before leaving it, realising the police should see it. Now that they have, I need to get rid of it. Going over to the sliding doors, I open them, letting the cold air flow in, trying to imagine the kind of sick bastard who sends flowers with their stems encased in a bag of blood.

‘This happened when?’ PC Page glances at my clothes.

‘About an hour ago. I had to change.’ I hesitate. ‘It was on my clothes.’ But it was the smell that was worst, filling my lungs, leaching through my clothes onto my skin. After calling the police, I’d rushed upstairs, ripping off my clothes and standing under the shower, scrubbing myself frenziedly, unable to get rid of it. ‘I’ve left my clothes soaking upstairs.’

‘We need to take a sample and run some tests.’ She nods towards the young PC accompanying her. As I watch him, he bends down to collect a sample of the blood.

I look at her, uncertain. ‘What kind of tests?’

‘We need to ascertain if it’s human or animal.’ As she speaks, I’m light-headed, not wanting to think about the origin of it. Then she looks at the flowers. ‘It used to be symbolic, didn’t it? Mixing red and white flowers? They mean blood and tears.’ She pauses. ‘Can you think of anyone who’d want to upset you? Or harm you, even?’

Unable to speak, I stare at her, horrified.

She goes on. ‘It doesn’t matter how long ago. Sometimes people store away grudges and let them fester. It could be a friend, work colleague, even a family member – and it can happen years later, but sometimes, all it takes is a single unrelated event to take the lid off and bring the whole lot to the surface.’

Her brown eyes appear thoughtful. When I got to know her better, it was what I liked about PC Page. The way she thinks. But in this instance, she’s wrong. I lead a peaceful life. As a herbalist, I work in synergy with nature; extract the magic contained in petals, bark, leaves, roots, seeds, with artistry, subtlety, alchemy. Working according to a healer’s code, my intention is only to do good, a philosophy that extends into my personal life. I shake my head. ‘I don’t have any close family. And I work alone. I’m a herbalist. My workshop is in my garden. I really can’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt me.’ I watch her face to see if she believes me.

She hesitates. ‘It’s also possible someone’s using you to get at Matt. There could be something in his life you don’t know about. Even the most unlikely people can be pushed by extreme circumstances to behave completely out of character – I don’t mean Matt, necessarily, but maybe someone he knows. Or maybe someone from his past that he hasn’t told you about.’

‘If there was anyone like that, I’m sure I’d know.’ Shaking my head, I speak firmly, because she doesn’t know him like I do. ‘You have to trust me on this one.’

She glances around, her eyes lingering on a framed photo of Jess and me. ‘Is that your daughter?’

I nod. ‘Jess – she’s at uni – in Falmouth. It was taken when I was interviewed for a magazine a couple of years ago. They were writing a series of pieces about women running their own businesses and they wanted to feature a herbalist.’

She studies it for a moment. ‘Is Matt her father?’

I shake my head. ‘Her father and I divorced when she was five.’

Frowning slightly, she goes on. ‘Is there any chance your ex might have something against you and Matt being together? Or about Matt being a father figure in Jess’s life?’

‘That’s hardly likely. Dominic – my ex-husband – left me for someone else. Ever since, he’s had little time for Jess. He’s still in her life, but only sparingly.’ There’s bitterness in my voice, but there’s no point in hiding the truth. Everything is on Dominic’s terms, his daughter’s needs have always come second to his own.

She looks thoughtful. ‘Do Matt and your daughter get on?’

Her question takes me by surprise. ‘They’ve always got on fine – when she’s here. At the moment, she’s away at uni. Matt’s more significant in her life than her father is. She’s excited about our wedding – all Jess wants is for me to be happy.’

‘And there’s no ex on Matt’s side who might be jealous?’

I shake my head. ‘He hasn’t been married before. His last relationship became difficult, but it ended a long time ago. Mandy, his ex, has moved on now. He was on his own for quite a while, until he met me.’

‘How long have you two known each other?’

‘Getting on for a couple of years.’

Surprise flickers across her face. ‘So fairly recent.’

‘When you meet the right person, you know, don’t you?’

But she doesn’t respond. ‘It’s still possible that there’s an innocent explanation and he’ll turn up. It could be a case of cold feet. However unlikely that might seem, you’d be surprised how often it happens. Taking time out before the biggest decision of your life isn’t so implausible.’

‘What about the flowers?’ As my gaze shifts towards the bloodstained floor, my shiver is involuntary. ‘There’s nothing innocent about the blood.’

‘No.’ Pausing, a frown crosses her face. ‘I don’t suppose there was anything to identify where they came from, was there?’

I shake my head. ‘But there wouldn’t be, would there? Not if you were delivering flowers with a message like that.’

‘Most likely not.’

I look at her. ‘You think the threat was directed at me, don’t you? Not Matt?’

‘It was obviously directed at one of you.’ She pauses. ‘Do you or your neighbours have CCTV?’

I shake my head. ‘Not as far as I know.’ In a quiet lane that doesn’t go anywhere, you don’t expect to need it.

‘We’ll ask your neighbours in case anyone saw them being dropped off. Someone may have noticed. In the meantime …’ Her eyes flicker away briefly. ‘Be careful. Keep your doors locked, that sort of thing. And if you see anyone hanging around, don’t hesitate to call us.’

Her words do little to allay my fear. Whoever left the flowers is still out there. Closing the door behind her, I lock it, then slide the bolt across, wishing the police would arrange for someone to watch the house – or at least call back later. What if the person who left the flowers decides to come back?

Chapter Five

By the end of the day, the ground has shifted beneath my feet. I’ve always trusted Matt implicitly, would have trusted him with my life, but I no longer know what to think. As darkness falls, all I can rely on are the facts. Matt lied when he told me he was taking a client from the States for dinner; a client his boss knows nothing about. How many other lies are there I don’t know about? But I’m holding on to hope, that there might be a reason; any explanation other than the most obvious one, that he lied. Matt could have been on his way home, after dinner, when someone attacked him and took his phone. Or worse, but I can’t bring myself to go there.

But he still lied. The brightness of the moon casts the garden in a dim glow and I shiver, despite what’s happened, suddenly missing him desperately. Missing Jess too, craving the comfort and reassurance her presence brings. I’ve always felt safe here, but now, I’m imagining eyes watching me from the shadows, my every move known, Matt’s too. Was that how it started? Were we watched?

I try to imagine Matt in a hotel somewhere, working through a personal crisis of some kind, except somehow I know he isn’t. He would have sent a message to tell me where he was, which can only mean that wherever he is, he can’t. Had it been a warning yesterday, when he called me? Was he trying to tell me something? The most innocuous of phrases his only way of alerting me to the fact that something was wrong? Knowing I’d be able to check with David about the client dinner, that it wouldn’t take much for me to work out he was lying. Knowing that when he and I never lie to each other, it would be reason enough for me to ask why?

Turning on my laptop, I bring up my Facebook page, then switch to Matt’s, scrutinising his photos and posts, checking to see who’s liked them. He isn’t a great user of social media, though he comments and shares posts from time to time. But there’s nothing recent. The last time was several days ago.

Getting up, I go through to the sitting room. It’s a room we rarely use, with a single window that looks onto the lane. Two velvet sofas are arranged in an ‘L’ shape facing the fireplace, above which there’s an abstract painting of Matt’s, with a simple neutral rug on the wooden floor. Glancing around, I don’t know what I’m looking for, but there has to be a clue, somewhere in this house, as to what’s happened. Searching through the small pile of magazines on the coffee table, nothing is out of place. From there, I open the antique pine cupboard, filled as I knew it would be with photos and Jess’s old school books.

Rifling through everything, I grow increasingly more frantic, apart from the painting, finding no trace of anything that belongs to Matt. It’s the same everywhere I look, the only clues in the room that Matt lives here at all are the new sofas, the sanded floors, the muted shades of Farrow and Ball on the walls.

Normally, I wouldn’t dream of going through Matt’s things, but nothing is normal any more. Going upstairs, I open the wardrobe, beginning with his jackets, then moving to his jeans and trousers. All of them neatly folded; I pull them out, checking each pocket. Finding them empty, I go through drawers, removing t-shirts and underwear, my frustration growing, until the last drawer is empty. I slump onto the floor. Surrounded by his clothes, I pick up one of his sweaters, burying my face in it, inhaling his familiar scent, as despair fills me.

When at last I get up, I cast my eyes around the room, looking for the backpack he takes to work. But then I remember that when he left here yesterday, he was carrying it. Making a mental note to ask David if he’s noticed it in Matt’s office, I keep searching the remaining cupboards, moving to the desk in our tiny study, the spare bedroom, even taking a quick glance around Jess’s room and the bathroom, looking for anything out of the ordinary, but it’s the same everywhere I look. Nothing is out of place. All I have is his unfamiliar words and the memory of a scent.

*

I’ve always believed our closeness is tangible; that if anything happened to one of us, the other would somehow know. But that night, as I lie in bed, I’m numb. Troubled not just by the uncertainty. It’s the knowledge that Matt and I aren’t what I thought we were.

I cling on to the hope that there could still be a reasonable explanation for all of this. But there’s no way to normalise the bouquet of flowers. As I think of them, the stench of the blood comes back to me, my head filling with the worst scenarios as I imagine where it might have come from. After that, sleep is impossible. Instead, fear looms from every direction, a cloak of darkness suffocating me.

*

Another night passes when I hear nothing, until the next morning, when I get a call from PC Page. As she speaks, I’m forced to confront a far more sinister reality.

‘We ran some tests on the sample of blood from the bouquet. It was human. Type B positive.’ She hesitates. ‘I’m sorry to ask you this, but do you happen to know Matt’s blood type?’

For a moment I can’t speak. Nausea rises in my throat, unthinkable images filling my head.

‘Ms Reid? Are you alright? We really need to know.’

‘I don’t know.’ Sickened at the thought that someone had somehow got hold of Matt’s blood, I try to pull myself together, remind myself that as yet, we don’t know.

‘Is he registered with a doctor’s practice locally?’

‘Yes … we both are – with the one in Steyning. Why?’ But as she speaks, I realise the police must try to rule out the likelihood that it’s Matt’s blood, before they can consider the shocking possibility that it might be.

‘They should be able to tell us. Don’t worry – we’ll find the number. I take it you’ve still heard nothing from him?’

‘No. I’ve kept trying to call and left messages for him. I’ve even looked on Facebook to see if he’s posted anything, but he hasn’t.’

PC Page is quiet for a moment. ‘Can you send me a link to his profile? And in the meantime, can you contact any friends he’s likely to have been in touch with? See if anyone’s heard from him or noticed anything out of character. Might he have been in touch with your daughter?’

I shake my head. ‘He hasn’t. And I spoke to his best man. Pete. And our wedding planner. Neither of them have heard from him, either.’ Feeling nauseous again as I ask. ‘Will you let me know when you find out – about the blood type?’ But I’m already reasoning that even if it turns out to be the same as Matt’s, it still won’t prove it was his.

‘Of course. Do you have Matt’s best man’s contact details? And the wedding planner?’

‘They’re on my phone. Can you hold on?’ Finding Pete’s number, then Lara’s, I write them down, then repeat them back to PC Page.

‘Thank you. In the meantime, as I said before, you need to be careful. There’s someone out there who got hold of a pint of human blood.’ PC Page’s voice is grim. ‘Unless we can rule it out as some kind of sick joke, we can’t take any risks. If you see anything even remotely out of place, please call us.’

Her words remind me of the woman in Brighton. You’re not safe. Someone’s watching you. You’re in danger. Then I realise that I haven’t even told her.

‘There’s something else I should have mentioned, but at the time, it seemed too unbelievable. It happened the day that Matt disappeared. I was walking through the Lanes, when a woman stopped me. She told me I was being watched. Then she told me Matt wasn’t who I thought he was and that I was in danger. It was strange. I’d never met her before but she was most insistent.’

There’s a brief silence. ‘You’ve no idea who she was?’

‘I’d never seen her before.’ I hesitate, then blurt it out. ‘But now, I can’t help thinking, what if she’s right?’

*

With Matt missing, nowhere feels safe. Even as I walk down my garden, I imagine someone hidden, watching me. I try to work, but it’s impossible to concentrate. Both Cath and Lara call me, brief conversations which end abruptly because I have no news, nor can I think about anything else. Eventually, when I call Matt’s boss, David, he sounds flustered.

‘I wish I could help you, Amy. To be honest, he’s taken quite a few days off recently and it’s left me in rather an awkward position.’

As he speaks, a chill runs through me. He took some time off to look at wedding venues, but that was months ago. ‘But that was a while ago – when we were booking our wedding. The only days he hasn’t been in, he’s had client meetings.’

David’s silent for a moment. ‘I think you’ll find it’s been more than that. Maybe I’m exaggerating – I’ll have to check.’ He sighs. ‘The point is, I need him in the office. The project he’s been overseeing is with one of our biggest clients. So far, I’ve fobbed them off, but I can’t for much longer. If he doesn’t turn up soon, I need someone to take over from him.’

Far from reassuring me, the conversation leaves me floundering. Matt has always been meticulous, reliable. It’s only been a couple of days – David’s being unreasonable. ‘I’m sure there’s a good reason. There has to be. Matt’s good at his job.’ Clutching my phone, I remember what PC Page said to me. ‘How has he seemed to you? Has he said anything that’s out of character? It’s just that the police were asking.’

‘They’ve already asked me the same questions. Over the last month, we haven’t seen much of each other. I was in Dubai last week, and Matt’s either been here in the office or occasionally in London, managing this project. He’s seemed the same as usual, Amy. He’s mentioned your wedding once or twice – he said nothing to indicate he wasn’t looking forward to it. I certainly wasn’t aware of anything wrong.’

My hands grip my phone. ‘Have you told the police all of this? They asked me if he might be having second thoughts.’

‘I can’t imagine that’s the case.’ David’s voice is softer.

Hot tears are pouring down my cheeks. ‘Can you please tell the police that? I need them to know how out of character this is.’

‘I will.’ David pauses. ‘Try not to worry, Amy. I’m sure there’s an explanation. Let’s hope he turns up soon – for both our sakes.’

‘Yes.’ Wiping my face, I remember Matt’s backpack. ‘Have you checked inside his office? I wondered if he might have left his backpack there.’

‘I looked after speaking to the police. It isn’t here, I’m afraid.’

‘What about his car?’ I’m desperate for any clues that might shed light on what’s happened. ‘Have you noticed if it’s still parked outside?’

‘It isn’t. He must have picked it up that evening at some point. When I came in yesterday, it had gone.’ He sounds regretful. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Amy – I have to go. I’m already running late for a meeting. Let’s hope he turns up very soon.’

After the call, the rest of the morning passes interminably slowly. In an attempt to distract myself, I go to my polytunnel to begin planting seeds. It’s a task I usually love, imagining the soft colours of California poppies, bright sunflowers, the nasturtiums that always remind me of the south of France, all of which I’ll cut during summer months. But as I walk in, I see the wedding flowers I’ve been growing, large terracotta pots of white narcissi and hyacinths, their planting timed so that they’ll flower just before our wedding. Then I picture the bouquet I’m planning to make – simple, delicate, scented; another smaller one for Jess, as a lump lodges in my throat.

Turning away, I start to fill seed trays and carefully label them, but my heart isn’t in it. Instead, I discover how agonisingly slowly time can pass; how when you’re waiting for news, a call, or anything to happen, every second feels ten times longer.

As the stress catches up with me, my heart starts to race. Suddenly shaky, my grip on life seems to be loosening, a full-blown sense of panic consuming me as I remember the last time it happened. I’d been at my lowest ebb after my marriage to Dominic ended. On the verge of a breakdown, even. Back then, I hadn’t known what was happening to me, but this time I recognise the symptoms. Terrified it’s happening again, I think about calling the therapist I used to see back then. Sonia Richardson. But I can’t bring myself to make the call. She’d be another person to whom I’d have to explain Matt’s lies.

*

The thought of cancelling the wedding dominates my mind. But at least work forces me out of the house for a couple of hours. As I drive to Shoreham, in my fragile state I’m easily distracted, almost pulling out in front of a van, only narrowly avoiding hitting it. It shocks me into concentrating long enough to make my deliveries, before heading straight home when I call Lara.

‘Have you heard anything?’ It’s the first thing she says to me, without so much as a hello.

‘No. Lara …’ I hesitate, but I can’t go on putting it off. ‘I think I should cancel the wedding.’

‘Oh God, Amy.’ She sounds shocked. ‘Why not leave it a few more days?’

‘People need to know. Some are travelling quite a distance.’ Trying to keep my voice level, I’m thinking of people like Matt’s parents. Then I remember – they still haven’t replied to my email. I make a mental note to try them again. ‘And if I do it now,’ I continue, ‘maybe I can get some of the money back.’

‘Amy …’ She sounds confused. ‘Matt told me … I thought you knew …’

My ears prick up. ‘Knew what?’

‘He took out insurance. I assumed he would have told you. He asked me to organise it a couple of months ago – not for any particular reason. I think he saw the costs adding up and wanted to protect what you were paying out.’

It’s another secret. I feel my skin crawl at the thought that he’s kept this from me. Silent for a moment, I try to imagine why he would have done such a thing. ‘There’s been so much going on. It’s possible he did tell me and I forgot.’

As she speaks, she sounds hesitant. ‘I would have thought you’d have remembered something like that. And I can’t imagine why he’d hide it from you?’

But he had hidden it – why, I can’t imagine. Stunned into silence, a conversation we had comes back to me. At the beginning, it had been me who suggested it, when we were booking the venue, after hearing horror stories of last minute double bookings and cancellations. I remember Matt’s words. It’s a waste of money. It’s hardly as though either of us will change our minds.

‘Maybe he forgot to tell you.’ Lara tries to sound reassuring, but there’s an edge of uncertainty in her voice. ‘But basically, if the wedding’s cancelled at the last minute, everything’s covered.’

Any relief I might feel that the costs are covered is outweighed by the fact that Matt didn’t tell me. It’s impossible to ignore the glimmer of suspicion that creeps into my head. He must have done it, because something had changed. Had he already decided our wedding wasn’t going ahead? I can’t think of any other reason why he wouldn’t have told me.

After speaking to Lara, I remember I haven’t told her the police asked for her mobile number. But needing to clear my head, I pull on my coat, close the front door behind me, and instead of heading for the Downs, walk the other way, towards Steyning. The air is still, pale streaks of light filtering through the clouds, lifting the gloom. Either side of me, banks of russet-coloured bracken edge the lane, behind them trees, their stark branches meeting overhead. It’s the kind of evening that I would normally breathe in, savouring the scent of damp earth, the turn of autumn to winter, listening to the dusk song of the blackbird perched nearby. But tonight, I barely notice.

As I walk, denial holds me in its grip. Even after what Lara told me about insuring the wedding, I don’t want to believe that Matt’s been deceiving me. Closer to the village, the lane slopes more steeply and I turn back, not wanting to run the risk of seeing anyone I know, asking questions I can’t answer. Easier, for now, to be alone.

By the time I get back to the house, through the dusk, I make out a shadowy figure near the door. Fleetingly imagining it’s Matt, my heart instinctively leaps. But if it was him, he wouldn’t be standing there – he’d be inside. Only then do I see the police car, recognise PC Page waiting for me.

‘Sorry to drop in like this.’ In the dim glow of the outside light, her face is clouded. ‘Do you mind if I come in? There are one or two things I’d like to talk to you about.’

I nod, my fingers clumsy as I fumble with my key. ‘Of course.’ But I know the police don’t turn up unannounced with good news. Inside, my stomach churns as I anticipate the worst.

Jess

Matt came into our lives on a day of burnished copper leaves and an autumn breeze scented with wood smoke; in one of those before and after moments life is filled with. My mother and I walking up the village High Street, past the characterful shopfronts and the pub where people were spilling out onto the pavement, our lives as they’d been for as long as I could remember. My mother in skinny jeans and a silky black top, me in boots and a short red dress.

We were on our way to my friend Sasha’s parents’ annual party, with live music and a barbecue in the grounds of their house. Up a narrow lane in the village, a wooden door in a flint wall opened into their front garden. I remember the roses growing up the house that were still in flower, their scent mingling with that of the smoke; the neatly mown lawn, its single apple tree heavy with fruit, the front door open, so that sounds from the party drifted outside.

All of those moments belonged to before. As we went inside, making our way through to the big kitchen, a throng of people milled. I watched a man glance towards my mother, a curious expression crossing his face, almost as if he was waiting for her. Then I saw their eyes meet. Felt that moment in my bones when before became after.

I couldn’t have known, but after that, nothing would ever be the same. From the start, he unnerved me. It was the way his eyes cruised restlessly, hovering on other women, until they came to rest on my mother.

He was too contrived, too watchful. I was sure he was playing a game. When he made his way over to her, I watched her body language, defensive at first, slightly awkward; his persistence, her defences slowly being eroded; her face growing more animated as he leaned in closer. There was an expression in her eyes I hadn’t seen before. A look in his, as he turned round and his eyes locked with mine, hostile, challenging me; holding my gaze for several seconds, before deliberately smiling. There was no question he knew who I was, that this man was playing a game with both of us.

‘Who’s that?’ I whispered to Sasha, as soon as I had the chance.

‘How should I know? Why?’

‘He’s flirting with my mother.’

Sasha looked at me as though I was missing something. ‘That’s good, isn’t it? I mean, you’re going to uni soon. Wouldn’t it be good if she met someone?’

‘Yes.’ I wanted my mother to find someone. But he reminded me of a cat prowling, toying with its prey, reeling it in, before pouncing.

Amy
Chapter Six

I’m on edge as PC Page follows me through to the kitchen, where I take off my coat and hang it over the back of one of the chairs, before going to close the curtains. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Would you like tea? Have a seat.’ Putting off the moment I know is coming, I nod towards the table.

‘No – thanks.’ Pulling out one of the chairs and sitting down, she looks at me. ‘Amy … why don’t you sit down?’

I tense, as fear gets the better of me. It’s the tone of her voice, her deliberate hesitation, preparing me. Pulling out a chair, my stomach churns as I sit down. Oh God. Has the worst happened? ‘What is it? Have you found Matt?’

‘Not yet.’ Pausing, she shakes her head. ‘But there’s something I have to tell you.’ She hesitates again, her eyes steady as she looks at me. ‘There’s no easy way to say this. But yesterday, we had another report of a missing person. Another man. The call came from a woman in Brighton, reporting her partner as missing. She couldn’t be sure for how long, exactly. They don’t live together. It sounds as though they lead quite independent lives. Anyway …’ Her eyes look directly at me. ‘We took his details, including a physical description. Then she gave us his name.’ She pauses. ‘Matthew Roche. I’m sorry Amy, but we’ve every reason to believe it’s your fiancé.’

I stare at her in disbelief. Then I shake my head and get up, walking across the room, standing with my back to her, trying to take in what she’s saying, before turning back to look at her. ‘That’s impossible. It couldn’t be him.’ What she’s suggesting is outrageous.

‘I agree it doesn’t sound plausible.’ PC Page is silent for a moment. ‘It’s exactly what I thought, at first. But one of our officers went over there with the photo you gave us. This woman had photos, too – not just of him, but of them together. She described his job as a management consultant at Orbital. She knows about you, too.’ She breaks off, watching me. When she goes on, her voice is more sympathetic. ‘There’s no question it’s him. Your Matt. It very much looks as though he’s leading a double life.’

There’s a moment of silence as I stare at her, reeling, before the shock hits me. Then common sense kicks in. ‘There’s no way.’ I shake my head, adamant. ‘He can’t be. Matt lives here. With me. He wouldn’t live a lie. We’re getting married. We’ve written our vows. His are here – somewhere. I saw them, only a couple of days ago.’ I’m clutching at straws as I frantically search for the piece of paper. ‘He goes to work, then he comes home. To me,’ I add, desperately, unable to find it, sitting down again. ‘There aren’t enough hours in the day for anyone else.’ But as I speak, I’m remembering what David said about all the time Matt had been taking off, of how convinced I’d been that he’d made a mistake. But if what she’s saying is right, maybe he hasn’t. Maybe instead of being at work, Matt’s been with her.

‘I know this must come as a terrible shock to you.’ Her voice is gentle and I know as she speaks, there’s more.

‘Please, just tell me.’ I’m dreading what else she’s going to say, but however unpalatable the truth might be, limbo is worse.

PC Page hesitates, then speaks slowly. ‘The woman told us that Matt, her boyfriend, was with her the evening he disappeared. She even knew he’d called you about the non-existent American client. She also told us he was about to leave his fiancée for her. Their wedding was coming up. He knew he had to tell her, but he was waiting to find the right moment. I’m so sorry, Amy. He isn’t even hiding behind an alias.’

It has to be a mistake. But as I stare at her, I can’t think straight. Instead, my mind is all over the place, thinking about what the woman in Brighton said, about Matt insuring our wedding without telling me. And now this.

She goes on. ‘Allegedly he was at her flat that evening. He left there just before eleven. He was planning to come back here and talk to you – that same night. But no-one’s seen him since.’

As the weight of his duplicity catches up with me, I feel my world collapse into ruins. Our wedding’s just days away. It was supposed to have been the happiest of days – the start of the rest of our lives. I thought he loved me. He wouldn’t leave me. Not when we’d planned a future together. As my mind takes me back to when Dominic left me, the same sense of betrayal fills me. I need Matt. Staring at the table, I feel desperate.

‘Who is she? You have to tell me who she is.’

But PC Page shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t give out personal information.’

‘Why not?’ My voice brittle, my eyes fill with tears. ‘It’s my life that’s been devastated. I deserve to be told everything you know.’

‘Amy, it’s the law.’ Her voice is understanding, but firm.

‘There is another explanation.’ Still unable to take it in, I search wildly for anything to disprove what she’s telling me. ‘Whoever this woman is, she’s lying. Maybe she has a thing for Matt – an obsession – and she’s jealous of me. It could have been her who left the flowers here, to freak me out. We have a joint bank account.’ Getting out my phone, I open the app, checking it for withdrawals. ‘Matt hasn’t touched our money. And his passport is upstairs. I’m going to get it.’ Racing upstairs, I pull open the drawers in the desk in our tiny study, where I find his passport with mine. Hurrying back downstairs, I place it on the table in front of PC Page. ‘He’d hardly have left this if he was leaving me.’ Thoughts race into my head, thoughts that at last make more sense than anything else I’ve heard so far as I confront a terrifying possibility. ‘Don’t you see? She’s behind all this. Have you searched where she lives? Maybe she’s hurt him or locked him up somewhere. If he was about to call off our wedding, he would have been honest with me. Matt loves me.’ Panic in my voice, I stare at PC Page, desperate for her to understand.

‘But that’s the point.’ Her eyes are unflinching. ‘The fact is he hasn’t been honest with you, surely you can see that. He told you he was meeting an American client the evening he disappeared. A client his boss told us didn’t exist.’ She pauses. ‘I suppose he hadn’t taken his passport because he was planning to come back here.’

To tell me he was leaving. In the silence, I feel reality shift further as her words sink in. I think back to Matt’s last call and what he said to me, to what David said, shaking my head again, confused. The woman’s story conflicts with mine, yet for reasons beyond my grasp, it is somehow more credible to the police.

‘Amy …’ PC Page hesitates. ‘The night he went missing, we’ve every reason to think he was meeting this woman. We’ve been going over CCTV footage – one section in particular, in which two men are seen entering a bar in the middle of Brighton. We’re fairly sure one of them is Matt.’

As she speaks, my stomach churns. ‘Do you know who the other one is?’ I hesitate, going on before she can answer. ‘I might know him. You should show me the image.’

‘We’re not a hundred per cent sure it is Matt, but for now, we’re working on the assumption that it is. The other man …’

‘He must be the American client Matt told me about,’ I interrupt. David must have been wrong. ‘This is proof, isn’t it?’

But when she pauses, I know there’s more. ‘I have another theory. According to the woman who contacted us, Matt had gone for a quick drink with one of his work colleagues, before coming out half an hour later and getting in a cab. We managed to get the vehicle registration and we’ve tracked down the driver, who dimly remembers taking a man to another part of Brighton – apparently he hadn’t any cash on him. I guess that would register with a taxi driver.’ She frowns at me. ‘A woman came out to meet him – it was she who paid the fare. The same woman who later told us he’d gone missing.’ She pauses. ‘I’m going to level with you. We both know that Matt’s been keeping things from you. From the evidence we have, I don’t think there’s any doubt he’s having a relationship with her.’

I stare at her, not wanting to believe her, as she goes on, more kindly. ‘Is there someone who could come and be with you? Family, or maybe a friend?’

‘There’s Jess, but I don’t want her to worry about me.’ Shaking my head, again I think of calling Sonia, devastated, hating how I have no privacy, that everyone knows the details of Matt’s betrayal – if that’s what this is, because even with the CCTV footage, the other woman’s photos, everything that David’s said, I’m in denial; unable to measure the implausible evidence of a stranger against the believable words of the man I love.

Chapter Seven

While PC Page appears convinced that she’s right, I’m filled with worry, the unfailing belief I had in Matt tinged with uncertainty, its stain slowly spreading, turning to disbelief shot with moments of hope that are all too fleeting. Her parting words haunt me. Matt’s been leading a double life.

Even with the evidence the police think they have, it’s impossible to know who to believe. Since that last time Matt and I spoke, I’ve held an image of him, walking back in, his eyes full of regret, with an explanation that will make everything OK again – until now. But then the words of the woman in Brighton come back to me. He isn’t who you think he is.

In bed, I send another email from my iPad to Matt’s parents. Please can you get in touch, here’s my mobile number. I need to speak to you, urgently. Unable to sleep, I’m haunted by images of Matt with a nameless, faceless woman, until eventually when I drift off, I dream I’m in a church. Sitting alone at the back, the darkness is broken only by flickering candlelight. Then as two ghostly figures glide past, somehow I’m watching our wedding take place. Recognising Matt, I feel my heart leap. Handsome in the suit we chose together, the woman beside him is me, wearing my beautiful, dusky dress, except as I look more closely, a sense of foreboding fills me, because everything’s wrong. The dress that I coveted has become blackened, the hem ripped, while my hair is tangled, my bare feet engrained with dirt. Then panic sets in, because my daughter is absent. Where’s Jess, I try to cry out. Jess has to be here … As I search the shadows for her, the church door bursts open, letting in a swirling wind that one by one extinguishes the candles, while Matt pushes back my tangled hair and lowers his lips to his bride’s. Seeing her face for the first time, a silent scream comes from me.

Sitting up in bed, my heart is pounding, my skin damp with sweat, the vision of my dream still horribly vivid, of the woman wearing my dress, of Matt kissing her, saying his vows to her, the scent of incense and mustiness from the church. Desperately trying to calm myself. It’s a dream, Amy. It isn’t real. But as my heart rate slows, the memory of PC Page’s visit comes back, and the reality of Matt’s betrayal hits me again, knocking the breath out of me.

While I watch the earliest light break the darkness, I think about how my life has become so far removed from what I thought it was. My future with Matt, our plans, all of them meaningless, our relationship a charade, while a churning desire to find this other woman fills me. I need to know her name, the colour of her hair, what she does, where she lives. But most of all, I need her to know what she’s done to me.

*

After a string of cold, clear days, the weather changes suddenly, dense fog suspending the landscape in a half-light. Not bothering with a shower or make-up, I pull on yesterday’s jeans and an oversized jumper, slipping on my boots before going outside.

The air is clammy, claustrophobic, my vision restricted to a few feet in front of me. There are orders I need to begin prepping, work that each day I’m getting more behind with, but I can’t face it. Nor do I want to talk to anyone, replying to Jess’s WhatsApp with the briefest of messages, letting even Cath’s calls go to voicemail. In the end, I give up, making my way back to the house through the same fog that doesn’t seem to have lifted even slightly.

I haven’t been inside long when there’s a knock on the front door. When I open it, PC Page is there. ‘May I come in?’

Nervous all of a sudden, I nod. Coming in, she closes the door behind her. ‘What is it?’ I ask, staring at her.

She stands there. ‘Could we sit down for a minute?’

‘Of course.’ My face flaming hot, I lead her through to the kitchen, clearing part of the kitchen table as I gesture to her to sit down.

‘I won’t keep you long. I just have one or two questions.’ She hesitates. ‘The night Matt disappeared, where were you?’

‘Here.’ I frown. ‘Why?’

‘We have a witness who recalls seeing you in Brighton. Not far from where this woman Matt was seeing lives. Near Brunswick Square.’

With everything that’s happened, I’ve forgotten. ‘Yes. Of course. I’m sorry. It completely slipped my mind. I was there. I had an order from a desperate mother – her child had skin problems. I went to deliver it, then came straight home.’ Frowning, I shake my head. I never did get to the bottom of the wrong address.

‘I see.’ PC Page writes it down. ‘Do you have details of the order?’

‘Yes, of course.’ But as she speaks, I feel myself frown. It’s almost as though she doesn’t believe me. ‘There was an email.’ I pick up my phone. Scrolling through my inbox, I show it to her.

*

After she leaves, I slump on the sofa. For a couple of hours I don’t move. Going over what the police have told me, then PC Page’s questions, the level of Matt’s deception has devastated me. Staring blankly ahead at the large clock on the kitchen wall, with each slow tick of the second hand I think about cancelling the wedding. The dress I’ll never wear, the bouquet I’ll never make. The vows that will remain unspoken. The guests I’ll have to tell, wondering if any of them have an inkling of what Matt’s capable of.

Lower than I’ve ever felt, it would be so easy, right now, to just give up. There are sleeping pills, upstairs, in the bathroom. It would be the end of all my problems, to drift quietly away and never wake up. But as I contemplate it, my eyes lock onto the photo of Jess and me together, taking in her long hair, the laughter in her eyes, and in that moment, I know I couldn’t do this to her.

Shaken by how close I’ve come, suddenly I’m desperate to talk to Sonia, my therapist. Picking up my phone, I find her number. But as I start to call her, I hesitate. Facing up to how I’m feeling will take a strength that right now, I don’t have. But I can’t go on like this. Thinking of Jess again, I make the call.

Sonia sounds slightly surprised as she answers straight away. ‘Amy, how are you?’

My hands are clammy as I grip my phone. I’d assumed she’d be seeing a client. That I’d be leaving a voicemail – but instead, I have to explain. ‘Not good.’ Hesitant, I break off. ‘Something’s happened. I’m not coping.’ My voice is shaky.

‘Let me get my diary.’ But the familiar sound of her voice isn’t as reassuring as I’d hoped it would be. After making an appointment to see her tomorrow, I lie back on my sofa, darkness settling over me, my consciousness starting to drift. Unaware of time passing, I’ve no idea how long I’ve been there, only that the kitchen is dark when I register a knock on the front door, before a voice calls out.

‘Amy? Are you in there?’

Confused, I get up. There’s no mistaking Sonia’s voice. When I thought I was seeing her tomorrow, why is she here? Getting up, I go to open the door. In a green velvet coat, her fair hair is tucked into the upturned collar, her eyes concerned as she looks at me. ‘I hope this isn’t a bad time? After your call, I was worried about you. Then one of my clients cancelled, so I thought I’d call you, but you didn’t pick up. Can I come in?’

I hadn’t heard my phone ring. Standing back, I let her in, watching as she closes the door, taking in the knitted dress under her coat, mushroom-coloured boots; the sheen of moisture on her skin left by the fog.

Her face is still anxious as she follows me through to the kitchen, where I go to put the kettle on, aware of Sonia watching me. ‘I knew you wouldn’t have called me without good reason.’ She pauses. ‘Why don’t you come and sit down? Then you can tell me what’s been going on.’

Pulling out a chair, then sitting heavily at the table, I stare at my hands, trying to stop them shaking, working out where to start. ‘I was supposed to be getting married.’ My voice is flat. ‘But two days ago, he disappeared. I found out last night from the police that he’s been seeing another woman. She told the police he was going to leave me for her.’ As my voice breaks, I’m aware of tears pouring down my face.

‘You had no idea?’ She sounds shocked. ‘Are the police sure about this other woman?’

‘That’s the thing.’ As I look at her, Sonia’s face is blurred, my words sticking in my throat. ‘For some reason, they believe her over me. They won’t even tell me who she is. And it was me he was going to marry.’

‘Oh Amy …’ Her voice is full of sympathy. ‘You must be reeling with so many emotions – shock, grief, sadness …’ She pauses for a moment. ‘But right now, whatever else is going on, whatever he has or hasn’t done, your first priority is to look after you.’

Hunched, I shake my head. ‘I should have known. Aren’t women supposed to have a sixth sense about these things? I feel so stupid, Sonia. I hadn’t a clue.’

She looks outraged. ‘It isn’t you who’s stupid. Of course you’re hurting. And however badly he’s behaved, you’re grieving. You’ve not only lost him, you’ve lost the future you were planning.’ She pauses. ‘It must be triggering old memories of when Dominic left, too. Do you have any idea where your fiancé might be?’

‘I don’t.’ My words echo in the silence. ‘No-one does. The police are investigating. Our wedding was supposed to be next week. My dress is upstairs. We’d even written our own vows.’ There’s desperation in my voice. ‘All that planning … and now I have to cancel it.’ As I say the words out loud, my body starts to shake.

Sonia’s silent for a moment. ‘Have you had anything to eat?’

I shake my head. ‘I’m not hungry.’

She speaks gently. ‘Why don’t I make us a pot of tea?’

I think about explaining how I’d rather be on my own, then because her voice is kind and I feel so desperately alone, more tears stream down my face. Embarrassed, I try to wipe them away, apologising. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You really have nothing to be sorry about.’ As her hand touches my arm, I know she understands.

*

Sitting at the kitchen table, I watch while she makes two mugs of tea, then puts together a sandwich I have no appetite for, before she sits down across the table from me.

‘You’re dealing with a lot, Amy. And right now, you’re feeling the added shock of finding out that Matt has not only lied, he’s betrayed you.’

‘That’s the worst of it.’ I stare at my mug. ‘I don’t understand how he could do that to me … And I hate that everyone knows.’

‘It’s possible he hadn’t told you because he couldn’t bring himself to hurt you. However it started with this other woman, maybe it got out of control. Obviously, I don’t know him but plenty of men cheat because they can.’ She speaks carefully. ‘I mean, imagine what it does to your ego to know that you have two women in your life. Two women who both want to be with you.’ She pauses for a moment. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but can I ask you about your relationship? Did you honestly believe everything was right between you?’

‘On the whole, we were good.’ My voice is quiet. ‘We seemed to fit together, somehow. Before we met, we’d both been on our own for some time. You reach an age where you don’t expect to meet anyone. It makes you see things differently. There was the occasional argument … but they were rare. And …’ I hesitate. ‘I know sometimes I did things that annoyed him. But before we were together, I suppose I’d got set in my ways. Jess and I had lived on our own for years.’

Sonia frowns slightly. ‘Did you disagree about anything in particular?’

For reasons I can’t explain, I don’t want to tell her the truth – that he could be intolerant of Jess sometimes, that when I intervened he didn’t like it. He would often remind me that it wasn’t easy being the newcomer when Jess and I were so close.

I shake my head at Sonia.

‘The biggest thing was the house. When we were first together, he wanted to sell it and move to Brighton. I didn’t want to. The garden is the basis of my work. It takes years to establish herbs.’ I turn my gaze towards the window. ‘I didn’t want to give it up and start again.’

‘So you came to an agreement?’ Sonia sounds curious.

I sigh. ‘Kind of. I thought he’d grow to like living here. He gave up trying to persuade me in the end.’ Hunched over the table, I shrug. ‘At least, I thought he had. There was another row about it, not that long ago, but that time, he didn’t push it. Now, I don’t know what to think.’ As I speak, I’m twisting my engagement ring around my finger, wondering if he’ll want it back. ‘This was Matt’s grandmother’s.’ My voice is toneless as I move my hand to show her. After the most romantic dinner, in the most old-fashioned of gestures, Matt had ordered champagne before going down on one knee and giving me the ring. It had been quite early on in our relationship and I’d been ridiculously flattered at being the recipient of a family heirloom. More so, when the ring fitted perfectly. Now, sliding it off my finger, I place it in the middle of the table, then look at her. ‘Have you ever been married?’

‘No.’ Sonia pauses. ‘There was someone. Let’s just say he wasn’t who I thought he was.’

‘My best friend’s ex-boyfriend wasn’t who she thought he was either.’ I’m thinking of Cath. ‘He seemed so charming, but it wasn’t long before he wanted control over every aspect of her life. She couldn’t see it, but everyone else could.’

‘It’s often the way, isn’t it?’ As she looks at me, Sonia sighs. ‘It may not seem like it right now, but for all the people like your friend’s ex-partner, and maybe Matt, too, there really are an equal number of good people in the world.’

Shaking my head, I stare at my hands. ‘Nothing makes any sense. I was so sure about Matt. I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming.’

‘No. He obviously knew exactly how to fool you.’ Sonia’s voice is quiet. Then as she goes on, she tries to sound more positive. ‘Hopefully the police will find him. And when they do, you’ll get the answers you need and he can take his possessions and get out of your life for good. Then, you’ll need time to let the dust settle. Going forward, it isn’t going to be the life you imagined. But think about it this way. If your wedding had gone ahead, it would have been far more painful if you’d found out further down the line what he’s capable of.’ Then she sees the flowers on the table. ‘Are those from your garden?’

I nod, looking at the vase of parrot tulips, their soft petals shades of pale green tinged with terracotta, their stems uneven lengths, their heads snaking in different directions. Then my gaze drifts back towards the window. ‘I’ve been growing our wedding flowers. They’re still out there. White narcissi and hyacinths.’ I’d planned to mix them with rosemary, eucalyptus, silver pine. Thinking of the day that’s never going to happen, my eyes fill with more tears, while as if in a trance, I get up and go over to the doors, sliding them open and stepping outside.

‘Amy, you’re not wearing anything on your feet.’

Sonia’s voice goes over my head as I start walking, anger rising in me, at Matt, at this other woman, whoever she is. Oblivious to the damp soaking through my socks, to the fog that envelops me, soaking into my clothes, clinging to my hair, her cries float past me as my emotions reach tipping point. Reaching the polytunnel, I go to the flower pots where stems of narcissi are in bud, one by one ripping them out, emptying the pots onto the floor, before starting on the hyacinths. Slowly at first, my anger builds as I move faster, more brutally, my hands cold, covered in damp earth as I hurl the broken stems onto the ground around me, followed by the flower pots, hearing them shatter; ignoring Sonia until I feel her hand on my arm. ‘Amy, you should stop … You’ll regret this.’

But I wrench my arm away, keeping going until every last flower has been torn up. Turning around, I glance at the mess of snapped stems and broken terracotta; at my socks covered in soil, then I look at Sonia. ‘This is how it feels,’ I whisper fiercely, as at last my anger starts to abate. ‘Like this.’ I gesture towards the dead flowers. ‘This is what Matt has done to me.’

Chapter Eight

Eventually, after picking up the smashed flower pots, I collect up the rest and leave it to rot on the compost heap. But I leave the broken flowers where they are until the following morning. As I walk back towards the house, a flashing blue light reflects through the mist. A feeling of foreboding fills me. The police, again. It must be Matt.

But when I go through the gate to the front of the house, I’m shocked to see an ambulance parked further up the road outside Mrs Guthrie’s house. Guiltily, I realise I haven’t seen her for a few days. Too wrapped up in my own problems, I haven’t given her more than a passing thought. Hoping she hasn’t had a fall, I start walking towards the ambulance, but then her daughter’s car speeds past, before pulling in and parking just behind it.

As the paramedics disappear through the garden gate, knowing her daughter is there, I turn back, steeling myself to call Lara, the wedding organiser. There’s no way the wedding can go ahead.

‘Would you like me to contact everyone?’ Lara has all the guests’ details.

‘Would you?’ Relief fills me. I’d dreaded having to send emails and field responses.

‘I needn’t say too much. Just that for unforeseen reasons, the wedding isn’t going to go ahead.’ Her voice is quiet, but matter of fact.

‘OK.’

‘I’ll call the venue and let them know, if you like. Unless you want to?’

It feels unfair to put it all on her, but she genuinely sounds as though she doesn’t mind. ‘Not really. I never imagined doing any of this.’

*

Embarrassed about my behaviour while Sonia was here, I text her, putting off the appointment she’d persuaded me to keep till later in the week. Shortly after, Pete texts me, asking if there’s news. I text him back. If the police are right, it sounds as though Matt’s been fooling all of us. He calls me back immediately.

‘What’s going on? Are you OK?’

‘Not really. Matt …’ I break off, but then because he was going to be Matt’s best man, I tell him. ‘Apparently Matt’s been having an affair. When the woman he was seeing reported him missing, she told the police he was about to leave me for her.’

There’s silence. ‘You’re kidding.’ Pete sounds stunned. ‘You’re sure about this? Of course, you must be. I mean … How did I not know?’

‘I’ve asked myself the same question. But the police seem to think they have proof.’

He sounds shocked. ‘Oh, Amy …’

I pause, knowing I need to ask him. ‘You really didn’t know anything was wrong?’

‘Apart from the times he changed plans at the last minute, no. We’d arranged to meet to talk about the speeches etc. But he’s a busy guy. It’s only the fact that the wedding was so close that I thought anything of it, because we were running out of time. But apart from that, there really was nothing.’

Then I remember. ‘The police asked for your mobile number.’

‘They haven’t called me yet. And I’m not sure I can tell them anything.’

‘Can you let them know how surprised you are, too? They don’t seem to believe that I couldn’t have known.’

*

After a couple of hours, when I next glance outside, the ambulance has gone. It isn’t until PC Page calls me the following day that I find out more.

‘I’m not sure if you know, but your neighbour was found dead yesterday. It came as a complete shock to her daughter. Had you seen much of her recently?’

I’m horrified. ‘I can’t believe it. She seemed OK the last time I saw her – frail, but determined as ever. Do you know how she died?’

‘We’re not sure. Possibly her heart, but apparently, her house stank of smoke. Her daughter said she was meticulous about getting the chimney swept. Given the circumstances, there’ll be a post-mortem, after which we should know more.’ PC Page hesitates for a moment. ‘Her daughter said you and her mother were quite friendly.’

‘We were. I used to see her much more when we first moved here but recently, I’ve seen her less frequently. Now and then, she’d give me flowers from her garden. She loved her garden – we had that in common, I suppose. She loved my daughter Jess, too.’ I break off for a moment. ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t believe she’s gone.’

‘Can you remember when you last saw her?’

I remember clearly. ‘It was the morning after Matt went missing. I’d just come back after delivering some orders, when I saw her walking down the lane. She had some Japanese anemones in her garden which she said I could use for our wedding.’ Frowning, I can’t believe I haven’t asked. ‘Do you know if she saw anyone leave the bouquet outside my door?’

‘I did speak to her.’ PC Page sounds thoughtful. ‘She said she saw a van pull up outside the day it happened.’

I tighten my grip on my phone. ‘No-one’s told me this.’

‘Probably because there isn’t much to tell. It was too dark and the van was too far away for her to identify the make or colour. Because of how it parked, she didn’t see anyone get in or out of it, either.’

My heart starts to race. ‘It must have been whoever left the flowers. Who else could it have been?’

‘That’s anyone’s guess.’ There’s a pause before she speaks. ‘Either way, it doesn’t exactly help. But we’re doing everything we can to find out.’

*

None of us are immortal, but I’d imagined Mrs Guthrie obstinately refusing to let her age get the better of her, one of those old women who’d struggle on into her nineties, battling her frailty. It crosses my mind that her death is connected to whoever delivered the flowers – the timing seems too much of a coincidence. But whether it is or not, it weaves another layer of uncertainty around me. With Matt gone, Jess away and Mrs Guthrie no longer across the road, my sense of isolation grows. If anything were to happen, I’m alone.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.