The Vow - Debbie Howells Page 0,5

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,