The Vow

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

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.