The Imposter, Anna Wharton [romantic story to read TXT] 📗

fifty-five, his hair greying, curly and wispy; broken veins stain his nose and cheeks crimson. His jumper strains against a stomach out of proportion to his otherwise slim frame. Chloe knows this man. This man is Patrick Kyle.

‘You lost?’ he says.

He watches her while she finds the words, his brow furrowing, his arms reaching across his chest.

‘I . . .’ She doesn’t know what to say, thoughts race through her head until she remembers. ‘. . . the postcard.’

He looks confused.

‘In the, er . . . in the newsagent’s window?’ Chloe says.

‘Oh that,’ he says, looking Chloe up and down. ‘Well, you’d better come in and meet my wife, this is her brilliant idea.’

He doesn’t wait for her before he turns, heading past the blue car, down the driveway towards the back of the house. Chloe stands still on the opposite side of the road. Does he want her to follow, or is he going to bring his wife – Maureen – out here? Her hands are clammy in her pockets. He turns around.

‘Well, come on then,’ he says, gesturing with his arm. ‘Unless you can see the room from the road.’

Chloe crosses the road without looking – not that she’s seen a single car since the bus dropped her off. Patrick waits for her at a small gate which leads into a large back garden. It’s laid to lawn except for stepping stones which line the route to a washing line.

‘Maureen!’ he calls. He turns around to see she’s stopped still. ‘Well, come on, girl, do you want this room?’

‘Oh . . . I,’ she starts, but before she can explain the back door flies open; a woman appears, an empty plastic washing basket under her arm. Her hair is almost all grey now, just streaked in places with the black that Chloe knows from the earlier cuttings, as if someone has come along with a fat paintbrush and missed bits. Maureen is still pretty, despite the marionette lines running down the sides of her mouth that give her a rather sad leonine face. But had Chloe ever seen her looking any other way? This is her, without a shred of doubt – this is Maureen.

‘We shall have to be getting this in Patrick, it looks like it’ll be pouring any min— oh, who’s this?’

It’s only then she sees her. Chloe is standing a few feet back from Patrick, in front of their car. Maureen reaches to fix her hair.

Patrick waves a little towards her with his right hand. ‘She’s come about that bloody advert you’ve got up in the newsagent’s.’

‘Oh Pat, will you stop moaning about that, especially when we’ve got a girl standing on our driveway who . . .’ Her voice trails off. ‘Oh, never mind.’ She dumps the washing basket in Patrick’s arms then and straightens her clothes. ‘Here, Pat, make yourself useful while I chat to . . .’

‘Chloe,’ she says, but the wind steals her voice. ‘Chloe,’ she tries again, louder. Blood is pumping at her temples. It’s really them.

‘Right, OK. Well, ignore him, Chloe. He thinks we’re fine here rattling around in this big house, but I told him there’s nothing wrong with lining our pockets with a bit of extra cash. Why don’t you come in and I’ll show you the room?’

Chloe nods, hardly able to believe that it’s been this easy, that after everything she’s read, everything she knows, she’s been invited into the Kyles’ home. Just like that.

‘Mind the step, love, it’s a bit high that one, has taken me some getting used to.’

Inside the kitchen is a black and white chequered lino. Chloe wants to tiptoe, to look and feel without disturbing this place with a single footstep. It feels like a film set, everything on show a prop: the set of knives on the wall, the dead cactus in the window, even the cobwebs that keep it company.

A terrific bang from outside makes her jump – a clap of thunder. The skies open immediately.

‘There, I knew it was going to come down any minute . . . hurry, Pat!’ she shouts out the doorway as she fills the kettle at the sink.

He shouts back something indecipherable.

‘You’ll have a cup of tea, won’t you?’ Maureen says. ‘Well, you can’t go out in this downpour now. Sit down, sit down.’

Chloe’s head is spinning. How had it been this easy? She pulls out a white wooden chair from under a small pine table. It scrapes on the floor. She sits down on it and looks around the room. The draining board is stacked with plates from lunch, two mugs, a large saucepan with a potato masher still standing up straight in it. On the fridge a magnetic diary is filled with nothing more than doctor’s appointments. In the kitchen window above the sink are four wooden letters which spell out hope. She’s reminded again of her purpose, not to allow anything to cloud why she is here. They don’t know it, of course – not yet – but she’s here to help them, to investigate Angie’s disappearance, maybe even to solve Angie’s disappearance. Maureen sees Chloe looking around.

‘Oh, don’t mind us, will you?’ she says, lifting a pile of papers from the table. ‘I was just clearing up when you arrived.’

‘It’s OK,’ Chloe says, casting her eyes further around the room. ‘Don’t feel you have to—’

‘Well, I guess you take us as you find us, especially if you’re thinking of living here.’ Maureen shrugs.

Just then Patrick comes through the back door with the washing. She rifles through a few shirts on top of the pile. ‘Oh Patrick, it’s soaked.’

‘Not much I can do when the heavens open like that,’ he says. He glances at Chloe again. He seems surprised to find her sitting at his kitchen table. It’s she who looks away.

‘Take it upstairs and put it in the box room, I’ll get the airer out later.’ She tuts as he leaves, then turns to Chloe. ‘Milk? Sugar?’

‘Yes, two, please.’

She turns her back to open a cupboard opposite. Chloe scans the contents. Everything looks ordinary enough except, just before she shuts it, she’s sure