The Vow - Debbie Howells
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