The Vow - Debbie Howells Page 0,3
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