As she connects me and the line starts to ring, I feel a weight start to lift. Then the ringing stops, but instead of Matt’s voice, it’s the receptionist again. ‘I’m sorry. Mr Roche doesn’t appear to be in his office. Would you like to leave a message?’
Any sense of relief instantly vanishes. Instead my voice is shaking, as my fear comes flooding back. ‘Yes. Please ask him to call Amy. As soon as he gets in. It’s important.’
Ending the call, I sit there for a moment, oblivious to the rush hour traffic flashing past, trying to think of who else I can call. Pete, his best man, is the obvious place to start. Then, even though I’ve never met them, his parents. Knowing their contact details should be in our wedding file, I pull out onto the road again.
In a hurry to get home, I drive too fast, unable to concentrate. Then as I turn into our lane, I catch sight of the stooped figure of Mrs Guthrie, our closest neighbour, who lives in one of the three cottages further up the lane. She may look fragile, but she ferociously maintains her independence. Recognising my car, she raises a hand in greeting, as hope rises in me that she may have seen Matt. Pulling into my driveway, I get out and hurry to meet her. ‘Morning … How are you?’
Wearing a padded coat that hides her diminutive frame, her face breaks into a smile. Then as I get closer, she peers into my face. ‘Amy, dear. I was going to come and see you. My Japanese anemones are still flowering and I thought you might like some for your wedding.’ Her garden has always been her passion, as mine is to me.
‘I’d love some – thank you.’ It’s by some quirk of her garden’s microclimate that her flowers bloom slightly later in the year than mine. But right now, I can’t think about flowers. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen anything of Matt?’
‘Now why would you be asking me about Matt?’ She starts to chuckle, then realising I’m serious, stops. ‘Is something wrong?’ A frown wrinkles her brow as she studies me.
‘It’s probably nothing.’ Even now, I try to play it down. ‘It’s just that he went out with a client last night and didn’t come home. He hasn’t called me, either.’
She doesn’t hesitate. ‘Then you should call the police, dear, don’t you think?’
*
As I walk back home and go inside, my fear is building, that something terrible has happened. But when I think about what Mrs Guthrie said, I’m convinced it’s still too soon for the police to be interested. Knowing I need to make some calls, I open my laptop and bring up our wedding file. Sure enough, Pete’s mobile number is there. With shaking hands, I call it.
‘Pete? It’s Amy.’
‘Hey. How’s it going?’ His voice is characteristically cheerful. ‘Not long till the big day, is it! How can I help?’
‘It’s Matt.’ My voice is husky as I grip my phone. ‘I don’t know where he is. Have you spoken to him?’
‘Is something wrong?’ Suddenly he’s sharp. ‘When did you last see him?’
‘Yesterday. Before he left for work,’ I whisper. ‘Then he called me during the morning, to tell me he’d be late home – he had to take a client out. I’ve been calling him ever since. Countless times, but he isn’t answering his phone.’ There’s a note of panic in my voice. ‘I’ve called his office, too. But he wasn’t there.’
‘Jeez, Amy. I last spoke to him the day before that, but not since. You must be worried sick.’
My eyes fill with tears. ‘I am.’
‘There has to be an explanation.’ Pete’s silent for a moment. ‘Have you spoken to his parents?’
‘Not yet. I was going to call them next, after speaking to you.’
‘I’ll make some calls. Check out the bars he goes to. Let me know when you’ve spoken to his parents. But if there’s still no sign of him …’
‘I know.’ I’m biting my lip. ‘I’ll call the police.’
Putting down my mobile, I turn back to my laptop, scrolling down the list of wedding guests until I find Matt’s parents. Punching the number into my phone, I pause for a moment, knowing whatever I say, I’m going to worry them. But I make the call anyway, steeling myself to explain to them why I’m phoning, but instead of someone answering, the line goes dead.
Frowning, I check the number, but when I try it again, the same thing happens. Staring at my phone, there’s only one explanation, that Matt must have made a mistake when he typed the number next to their names on the wedding list. Uncomfortable, I call Pete again, swearing under my breath when my call goes to voicemail, before texting him instead. The number I have for Matt’s parents isn’t connected. Sitting there, I wait for his response, but when I remember the list of orders I need to prepare I head outside towards my workshop.
Even in my sanctuary, it’s impossible to focus. My unease, no longer a shadow, is palpable. Trying to distract myself, I think about our wedding, holding on to the image of us in my mind. Matt tall, his suit and white shirt showing off the tan he’ll have after his stag do in Malaga; me spray-tanned, because it’s all I have time for, setting off the dusky pink dress that’s hanging in the spare room. The flowers I’m growing from which to make the simplest, most delicate of bouquets; Jess beside me in pale grey, her long hair loosely pinned up. The hotel cosy, decorated with flowers and candles, the wood fires lit, on the most perfect of winter days where the air is crisp, the sky blue, the sun shining. In the dream, the sun always shines.
A text from Pete jolts me out of my thoughts. He must have made a mistake. I’ve been asking around but no-one’s
