Page 2 of The Vow
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, becauseMatt’s never called me babe. And it’s a throwaway phrase, but he never saystake 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 everythingelse. 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 faceas 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. Ilet 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 tocome 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 toconcede 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.
