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

  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

  PART ONE

  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 wi
ld 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.