I’m horrified. ‘I can’t believe it. She seemed OK the last time I saw her – frail, but determined as ever. Do you know how she died?’
‘We’re not sure. Possibly her heart, but apparently, her house stank of smoke. Her daughter said she was meticulous about getting the chimney swept. Given the circumstances, there’ll be a post-mortem, after which we should know more.’ PC Page hesitates for a moment. ‘Her daughter said you and her mother were quite friendly.’
‘We were. I used to see her much more when we first moved here but recently, I’ve seen her less frequently. Now and then, she’d give me flowers from her garden. She loved her garden – we had that in common, I suppose. She loved my daughter Jess, too.’ I break off for a moment. ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t believe she’s gone.’
‘Can you remember when you last saw her?’
I remember clearly. ‘It was the morning after Matt went missing. I’d just come back after delivering some orders, when I saw her walking down the lane. She had some Japanese anemones in her garden which she said I could use for our wedding.’ Frowning, I can’t believe I haven’t asked. ‘Do you know if she saw anyone leave the bouquet outside my door?’
‘I did speak to her.’ PC Page sounds thoughtful. ‘She said she saw a van pull up outside the day it happened.’
I tighten my grip on my phone. ‘No-one’s told me this.’
‘Probably because there isn’t much to tell. It was too dark and the van was too far away for her to identify the make or colour. Because of how it parked, she didn’t see anyone get in or out of it, either.’
My heart starts to race. ‘It must have been whoever left the flowers. Who else could it have been?’
‘That’s anyone’s guess.’ There’s a pause before she speaks. ‘Either way, it doesn’t exactly help. But we’re doing everything we can to find out.’
*
None of us are immortal, but I’d imagined Mrs Guthrie obstinately refusing to let her age get the better of her, one of those old women who’d struggle on into her nineties, battling her frailty. It crosses my mind that her death is connected to whoever delivered the flowers – the timing seems too much of a coincidence. But whether it is or not, it weaves another layer of uncertainty around me. With Matt gone, Jess away and Mrs Guthrie no longer across the road, my sense of isolation grows. If anything were to happen, I’m alone.
Chapter Nine
Each time Jess says she’s coming back, I persuade her not to. I don’t want her to see me broken. Nor do I want her here until this day – the day Matt and I were going to be married, a day I’ve dreaded – is over. Two weeks have passed, and there is too much to forgive. Even if he did come back, I wouldn’t want him here.
On the morning of what should have been the happiest day of my life, the early morning mist lifts, leaving a cold, sunlit day as I’d always known it would be. I step outside onto a light covering of frost that sparkles as the first rays of sun catch it. Instead of resounding with joy and love, with the heartfelt best wishes of our friends, it’s a day that leaves me ice cold; filled with uncertainty and emptiness. In place of celebratory cards and the scent of flowers filling the house, the wooden floors polished, the windows crystal clear, dust has settled, thick enough that I can trace Matt’s name with my finger. Liar.
When Cath calls, I let it go to voicemail, before texting her.
I’m OK, I just want to be alone today.
Not long after, Lara texts me. I’m here if you need company.
Only when Jess calls do I pick up.
‘Are you OK, Mum? I’m worried about you.’ Her voice is anxious.
‘Please don’t, Jess. I’m fine, really I am. It will be good to have this day behind me.’ I try to inject brightness into my voice, hoping she won’t pick up on how I’m really feeling.
‘If you feel horrible, promise you’ll call me?’
‘Of course I will. Thank you, Jess, but really. I’m going to be OK.’
Turning off my phone, I think of the bouquet I’d planned to make – amongst stems of winter foliage, the beauty of the flowers speaking for themselves. The same flowers I destroyed when Sonia was here. Going over to the fridge, I take out the bottle of Taittinger that we’d put aside especially for today.
Even though it’s early, I open it, pouring some into one of our crystal champagne flutes. Drinking quickly on an empty stomach, I feel the rush as the alcohol goes to my head, as I pour another. On this hateful day, I deserve this, I remind myself. Matt isn’t the man I thought he was. There was another woman in his life. He lied.
The champagne works, dulling my pain, fuelling my anger. Halfway through the bottle, I get out my laptop, printing off the vows I’ve written, folding the piece of paper and pocketing it, before deleting the folder. Then I go upstairs to fetch my wedding dress, unwrapping its embroidered bodice and dusky pink layers – the dress of my dreams, in which I’d naïvely imagined marrying the man of my dreams. Taking it downstairs, I go through to the kitchen, tormenting myself with thoughts of this other woman and how she’s stolen Matt, ruined my life. How could she?
Collecting the champagne bottle and an old newspaper, I open the doors and go outside. As I walk down to the far end of the garden, I stop now and then to swig champagne from the bottle. When I reach the bonfire heap, I hesitate only briefly before throwing my dress onto it, screwing up some of the newspaper, pushing it underneath. Striking a match, I light
