‘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
