The Vow: the gripping new thriller from a bestselling author - guaranteed to keep you up all night!

by Debbie Howells

  I stand there, irritated, reading between the lines. Don’t waste our time is her clear message. But she visited me today. I didn’t ask her to.

  To my surprise, she changes the subject. ‘There was one more thing …’ She pauses. ‘It looks as though it wasn’t a heart attack that killed your neighbour. She died from carbon monoxide poisoning – most likely from an unswept chimney.’

  ‘What?’ I’m taken aback. She was always so organised – and something like that is completely avoidable. But it could have been caused by a combination of factors, the removal of any one of which might have meant she’d still be alive. The consumption of too much gin, which might have meant she nodded off to sleep, combined with the chimney that hadn’t been swept. Perhaps when she lit the fire, the smoke couldn’t get out, and she hadn’t noticed because of her poor eyesight and sense of smell.

  PC Page continues. ‘People die every year from carbon monoxide poisoning caused by open fires. You wonder why she didn’t have a detector. You’d have thought her daughter would have made sure of it.’

  ‘It does sound unlikely, but I don’t think her daughter came here that often. Most of the time, Mrs Guthrie was alone.’

  PC Page frowns. ‘I keep asking myself the same question. When an old woman keeps her garden meticulously, when she cooks proper meals, how come the fireplace was so neglected? Her daughter was sure she had it swept regularly. Apparently the chimney cowl was completely blackened.’

  ‘Her sight wasn’t good. Maybe she forgot?’ I fall silent, thinking of the dark rooms, the windows that need cleaning. ‘I suppose it could have happened gradually, so that she didn’t notice the room filling with smoke.’ I pause. ‘Are you treating her death as suspicious?’

  ‘No. It was a tragic accident that could have been avoided.’ She glances at her watch. ‘I really should be going.’ As she turns to open the door, she pauses briefly. ‘Take care.’ Her voice is kind, but I flinch. They’re the same words Matt said to me the last time I spoke to him.

  Jess

  Tall with lightly tanned skin, a ready smile, he always asked the right questions, had an apparent shared interest in whatever he thought I’d be into. At the beginning, flattered by his attention, just for a while, I fell under his spell.

  When there’d been so much sadness in my mother’s life, I wanted her to be happy. After her sister died and my father left, for years it had been just her and me. And now I was about to go away. It was the perfect time for her to meet someone.

  Even when the façade slipped and I saw his other side, I kept quiet. But it nagged at me, that too dazzled by the Matt she wanted to see, my mother was blind to the shadows and hairline cracks behind the illusion she trusted. Matt’s criticism was justified, he knew better than she did. And all relationships had their blips. Giving more of herself, Matt taking every last piece of her. But it was never enough.

  I wonder if that’s how it was when she and my father were together. If she’d always wanted to see the best in people, had the same child-like need to feel validated. Whether she turned away from her problems, seeing them as failures, but I was too young to remember any of it.

  Whether or not there was a pattern, Matt fooled her, just long enough, for her to see a different side to him. The thoughtful Matt given to grand gestures. When he gave her the ring that belonged to his grandmother, she was blown away. ‘I can’t believe he gave me this. Isn’t it beautiful?’

  Made of dull gold, it was unlike the other jewellery she wore. Too heavy for her delicate hands. I wanted so much to love it, to share her joy, but as I looked at the ring, it reflected back an aura of coldness.

  ‘We’re getting married on a beach.’ Her eyes were shining and I felt my heart twist as she shared her dream, of wearing a simple dress, her bare feet in the sand. ‘Matt and I have been looking at Caribbean islands. I’ve found the perfect setting, Jess. It’s a small guesthouse on a Jamaican beach, with white sand and palm trees. Matt loves it too! It’s going to be so special! You and I need to go shopping for dresses!’

  It sounded magical, but her excitement seemed unnatural and I couldn’t feel it. ‘Have you decided what colour, Mum?’

  ‘I’m not sure … Not white, but otherwise, I’m open to ideas. I want a dress that makes me feel like a princess for the day.’ Her eyes were far away. Knowing Matt represented the fairy tale, I felt myself shiver. Fairy tales were for children, not for women of my mother’s age. And there was no way Matt was a prince.

  ‘We’ll go shopping. I’ll help you.’ For her benefit, I tried to sound excited.

  On the way to the shop, I tried to talk to her. Asked her if she was sure Matt made her happy. I’ll never forget her silence, before she answered. Happy enough, Jess. I never expected to meet anyone. I’m lucky. For a moment, I tried to see it through her eyes, to weigh up life with Matt versus life without him. Whether or not I liked him, it was her life and maybe it wasn’t my place to argue, if being with Matt was better than being alone.

  So that day, I helped her pick out her fairytale dress in shades of dusky pink, mine simpler in soft grey. When we got home, her eyes were shining as she told Matt where we’d been; how we’d found perfect dresses for a beach wedding but how he’d have to wait until the big day to see them.

  I remember watching the lines deepen across his forehead, then the look of incredulity that washed over his face, as he shook his head. I’ll never forget what he said. ‘Amy, we’ve talked about this. A beach wedding’s out of the question. We agreed. I can’t believe you’ve done this.’ A worried look on his face, he’d stood up and come over to her, putting his arms around her. ‘With so much on your mind, you’ve forgotten, that’s all it is.’

  I watched her body turn rigid, before she pulled away, a look of confusion on her face. ‘Matt, no. The picture. Surely you must remember? We were looking at it only last night – of that beach in Jamaica – the guesthouse where they hold ceremonies under the palm trees. I emailed them to reserve the date. You were there when I did it. They emailed back, confirming the date. I’ll show you.’

  Going over to the table, she got out her laptop, bringing up her emails, scrolling through them, her frown deepening. Then as she turned towards us, there was a look of confusion on her face. ‘I don’t understand. The emails aren’t there.’

  ‘Amy …’ Matt shook his head. ‘Try not to worry about it. Really. You’ve obviously forgotten the conversation we had. We definitely agreed. A beach wedding isn’t practical.’ But this time, his voice was firmer.

  Then as he went upstairs, she looked at me. ‘I didn’t imagine it. I’m sure I didn’t.’ Her voice was quiet. ‘We’ll have to go shopping again – for shoes!’ Feigning brightness, masking how she was really feeling. ‘He’s probably right. The beach wedding was a nice dream, but it’s not practical.’ Behind her smile, her eyes were bleak.

  The twisted dance between the narcissist and victim, both equally convincing. I didn’t want to believe that he’d set her up. But something told me that Matt was capable of anything. I wasn’t sure I’d ever forgive him, not just for breaking the magic of her fairy tale, but for lying. Lies my mother chose to ignore, because she loved him. And as she always said, if you loved, you could forgive anything.

  But he didn’t know how to love her back. Once or twice I caught him texting on his phone, a look I couldn’t decipher on his face. Unable to hide his shock when he saw me watching, before glossing over it with one of his lies, about how he was helping an old friend who was having some problems. But when there was no evidence of any old friends in Matt’s life, I knew he was hiding something.

  While I tried and failed to catch him out, in the background of our lives, distant thunder continued to rumble, now and then erupting into a storm, as Matt kept pushing my mother to sell our house and move to Hove or Brighton.

  The memory of my mother’s voice, upset, is clear in my mind. ‘I don’t want to move. This is my house. I need the garden for my work.’

  F
rom upstairs, I heard the sound of broken china. I couldn’t tell if the plate smashed by accident or design, as he raised his voice. ‘For fuck’s sake, Amy. We’re getting married and you’re talking about “my” house.’

  My mother’s desperate reply. ‘I love this house, Matt. Everything I need is here.’

  ‘Don’t lie, Amy. You hate this fucking house. I thought we’d agreed we were going to share everything. I want to sell it and get away from here, but you don’t care what I want. It’s all about you.’

  My mother didn’t hate our house. But my hands were over my ears, unable to bear hearing him speak to her like that, so that I missed her whisper in response.

  The exchange unsettled me, as I applied reverse logic to what Matt had said, about it not being her decision to make, because it certainly wasn’t his. It had happened repeatedly, Matt bullying, my mother resisting, the situation spiralling, deepening my mistrust, until slowly it all started to make a warped kind of sense. If he forced her to agree, if they bought somewhere together, it would be in their joint names. That was the moment I understood it wasn’t her he wanted. It was her money.

  I waited until Matt was out before confronting my mother. ‘You can’t go on letting him speak to you like that.’

  Her face was ash-white as she shook her head. ‘You only hear part of the story, Jess. He gets upset easily. I don’t mean to, but I always seem to make things worse.’ Her eyes were troubled; unable to hide how upset she felt.

  ‘That’s outrageous,’ I cried. ‘You don’t do anything of the sort. Love shouldn’t be like this. He should be on your side. He should want you to be happy. But instead, he’s completely vile to you.’ I broke off. ‘Don’t sell the house. Not if you don’t want to. It’s your home. It isn’t up to Matt to decide. You have a say in what happens too.’

  Seeing her stricken face, I wondered if a part of her agreed with me. But when she spoke, she sounded defeated. ‘I can’t sell the house.’ A look I couldn’t read had flickered in her eyes. ‘It’s our home. It’s where I work. It’s taken years to create this garden. If we moved, I’d have to start again.’

  Why do you put up with this? I wanted to shout at her. Can’t you see how wrong it is? But I couldn’t hurt her more, not after what Matt was already doing to her. Instead, I made her a silent promise.

  I was under Matt’s spell – but not for long. I’m stronger than my mother. One day I’d catch him out. Then I’d do whatever it took to get her away from him.

  Amy

  Chapter Fourteen

  Two days pass when I see no-one, days during which my mind frets about what the police are finding out, from Matt’s phone and more disturbingly, from Lara. After cancelling another appointment with Sonia, I’m on edge, watching from the sitting room window as the For Sale board goes up outside Mrs Guthrie’s gate. It’s the wrong time of year to sell a house that’s dark and cold, that still holds the echo of her presence. Even from here, the house reeks of emptiness, its windows unlit in the fading light, the curtains left open. Shivering, I think of the ambulance that came, when her cold body was found a day too late.

  Soon, the house will be sold. New people will move in. More people I won’t be able to trust, because until they prove themselves, no-one is trustworthy. It’s why I go over there one evening, letting myself into the back garden that had been hers for fifty years – to say goodbye and close a door in my mind.

  Looking around, I’m reminded that we are only ever custodians of a garden; our influence fleeting. Already hers is diminishing, the edges of the path losing definition as the grass encroaches. Weeds are starting to take over, while there are gaps in the borders where someone’s been in and dug up some of her plants. As I stand there, I wonder if her soul is here. But I feel nothing, not even a whisper. Every last part of her seems to have gone.

  When I glance into her greenhouse, pots are planted with early sweet peas, that without her daily watering, have withered and died. Alongside are the broad beans she’s always grown from seed, to carefully pick months later, just as she always harvested the apples from her tree. It’s clear she hadn’t expected to die. I wonder if the police have taken note, that she must have imagined at least another year here.

  As I stand there, the memory of her voice comes to me. My Japanese anemones are still in flower … Gazing at the last remaining petals, I whisper back. I’m sorry … Trying to imagine how it felt when smoke overwhelmed her, when there wasn’t enough oxygen in her lungs; hoping she’d drifted into unconsciousness, so that when it came, death was painless. I’m sorry I hadn’t known. I wish there was something I could have done to save you.

  ‘Why are you sorry?’

  The voice startles me. Spinning around, I notice Sonia standing in the lane, the other side of the hedge, a curious look on her face. Realising she must have heard me and wondered what I meant, my face colours. ‘I was thinking out loud. Mrs Guthrie, the old woman who lived her, died recently – at home.’

  ‘Can I join you for a minute?’

  I nod in the direction of the hedge. ‘The gate’s just there.’ I wait as Sonia opens it and walks towards me, then glance towards the house. ‘I suppose I came over to say goodbye. She lived alone and I was wishing I’d kept more of an eye on her. She was kind to me and Jess when we first moved here.’ I pause for a moment, remembering. ‘She used to let Jess pick her strawberries and raspberries. Jess used to love her homemade cakes. But that was years ago. More recently, we used to wave at each other in passing and I’d bring her any spare plants I had. But as my business grew, there was never enough time. I’m just sorry I didn’t do more to help her.’ Then I realise I’m trespassing. ‘I shouldn’t really be here. The house is for sale, but I wanted to come here, one last time, before it’s sold.’

  ‘It is sad.’ Sonia pauses, glancing around the garden. ‘Sad that an old lady should die alone like that. She certainly kept the garden in order, which must have taken a lot of work. She’s pruned everything perfectly.’

  I glance in the direction Sonia’s looking, taking in the clump of shoots poking up through the earth, the neatly cut-back rose bushes, which by summer will be covered with blowsy pink blooms. ‘She did. There are cuttings and seeds in the greenhouse, too. She reminded me of my grandmother. She lived alone, too – and looked after herself – and her garden.’ I remember vases filled with cut flowers, the trays of seedlings and cuttings on her kitchen windowsill. ‘She knew so much about plants: which ones needed shade, those that thrived in full sun. I suppose that’s where my interest came from. She died years ago,’ I add hastily. ‘Life had become too much of a struggle. In the end, I suppose it was a blessing.’ I look at Sonia more closely. ‘I didn’t know you were coming to see me.’

  ‘I’ve just called in on a friend in Steyning.’ She sounds matter of fact. ‘When you cancelled, I thought I’d stop by and make sure you were OK. You didn’t answer when I knocked, but then I saw you over here.’ Glancing towards the house, she frowns. ‘Do you know how your neighbour died?’

  ‘The police said it was carbon monoxide poisoning.’ Then follow Sonia’s eyes as she glances downwards to a cluster of dark leaves and tiny white flowers.

  ‘I used to know, but I’ve forgotten what they symbolise. Cyclamen, that is.’

  ‘Goodbye. Resignation,’ I tell her, struck by how oddly in keeping with our conversation it is, frowning slightly, surprised that she’s interested in flower meanings.

  Sonia glances around the garden. ‘It interests me how so many flowers and herbs have a significance we’ve lost over the years. You must be so aware of it in your line of work. I’ve often wondered if you can read a life story from a garden – take your neighbour, for example. Given how long she’s lived here, many of these plants could have been significant to her in some way, maybe as gifts or as memories. Those roses, for example. They’re old, aren’t they? Maybe a celebration of her children – or anniversaries, perhaps. Her herbs, too. There’s rosemary for remembrance – and in a
garden like this, there must be snowdrops. They mean hope, don’t they?’

  I look at her in surprise, because she’s right. ‘Actually there are snowdrops. Over there, under the shade of that tree.’ I point in the direction of an oak in the far corner, before turning back to her. ‘You know a lot about flowers.’

  ‘I used to enjoy helping my sister. She’s a florist. But like you, what really interested me were herbs.’

  I had no idea she shared the same interest. ‘I started learning which herbs to use to treat Jess. You can use herbs individually, but it’s a whole different thing when you combine them.’

  As the breeze picks up around us, her single word is almost lost. ‘Alchemy.’

  I’m startled, because it’s the same word I’ve always used. ‘Most people don’t realise, but that’s exactly it.’

  Both of us are silent for a moment. Then she turns to look at me. ‘And how about you? How are you?’

  ‘OK.’ I shrug. ‘Getting used to my new normal. Accepting I’ve been betrayed and cheated on. But life goes on.’ Bleak words belying how hard I’m finding this. ‘The police have picked up Matt’s phone. I’m hoping that will mean more answers.’ I turn to stare at her. ‘Whatever else has happened, that’s the worst of it, Sonia. All I have is what other people have said, when I need Matt’s version of what he did, and why he treated me so badly.’ I pause, because that’s what lies at the heart of my turmoil. ‘Until he’s found, I can’t move on.’

  1996

  Even when you followed them, he didn’t know how you felt. Laughing, he nudged Kimberley, who turned around and told you both to go home. But it was like the wood nymphs had got to you, or the elder witches. There was a gleam in your eyes as they carried on walking. Then when they next looked around, you’d gone.