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

mahogany-stained floorboards. And in the right-hand corner of the room, a closed door that appears to lead to an adjoining room. It is locked with a shiny silver padlock. Maureen opens the wardrobe and the hinges creak loudly.

‘Must get some of that WD40 on that,’ Maureen says to herself.

Chloe pokes her head inside, inhaling the musty smell of mothballs. She knows this smell from Nan’s house; it feels like some familiarity to hold on to.

‘It’s a bit sparse but that’s how people seem to like things these days – minimal, I think they call it.’ Maureen says. ‘But if you wanted anything else, a rug or something, I’m sure we could find you one.’

Chloe strolls around the room, hoping Maureen won’t hear her heart thudding inside her coat if she’s over by the window. She fingers the duvet for something to do, to buy herself seconds. What does she say? She hadn’t expected any of this.

‘Yes, it’s very nice,’ Chloe says. ‘Obviously I’ve got a few places to see . . .’

‘Yes, of course,’ Maureen says. ‘Perhaps it’s too quiet out here, for a young girl like you.’

Chloe looks out of the window, at the miles of fields beyond, a bland lifeless landscape. She tries hard to picture the single person who would want this room. Surely it’s too isolated here for anyone, including Maureen and Patrick?

‘The only thing would be getting into town each day. I work there, you see,’ Chloe says.

Maureen nods. ‘I think there’s a bus that runs regularly, Pat might know.’

‘Yes, there is. I came on the bus today.’

She buys a few more moments in the room discussing bus timetables, ticking off on her fingers fictional times when she’d be leaving and coming home, basing it on her old office routine, of course. All the time she’s studying every detail of Maureen, the way she wrings her hands, then straightens out the pinny she’s wearing. How every so often she tucks a loose tendril of hair behind her ear, even if it’s not there. How long has she wanted to be here? No detail is lost on Chloe.

‘You might be better closer to your work?’ Maureen suggests. ‘Not that I want to put you off.’

Chloe feels the jump of panic inside, the thought of letting Maureen talk her out of the room she doesn’t even want.

‘Hmm, maybe. Has there been much interest?’

‘You’re the first,’ Maureen says. ‘The advert has been up two weeks already.’

Chloe’s mind settles again. She tries to say all the right things then; she discusses the price and appears to do a quick calculation in her head, nodding to make it seem doable. She even tests the mattress on the bed; it’s firmer than the one she has at Nan’s. She’s surprised when she makes the comparison, as if she’s playing with the idea of actually taking the room.

‘Well, it’s very nice. Can I let you know?’

‘Of course,’ Maureen says. ‘As you can see it’s available immediately, just give me a call once you’ve seen the other places.’

Chloe’s cheeks flush with heat, knowing there are no other rooms to view. She quickly turns to leave the bedroom before Maureen notices.

The two women step out onto the landing and Maureen closes the door behind them. As Chloe follows her down the stairs she looks back at the room next to the one they’re renting out. Maureen hadn’t opened that one and it’s locked with a shiny padlock, identical to the one she saw on the door inside the room. She resists the urge to ask Maureen what’s in there, but curiosity rattles inside.

Back in the hallway, sun streams through the glass panel at the top of the front door, lighting up the parquet flooring.

‘The clouds must have cleared,’ Maureen says. ‘There might even be a rainbow.’

Chloe glances out the glass. Yes, Maureen might well be right.

On the way back to the kitchen, Maureen stops to show Chloe into the living room at the back of the house. Patrick is sitting on a squashy grey leather recliner that looks out of patio doors, watching the horse racing on the TV. They have a big teak sideboard, not too dissimilar to Nan’s, and settled within it – the reason Chloe is here – that framed photograph of Angie. She fails to suppress a gasp, but luckily Maureen doesn’t hear her above the sound of the TV. She’s busy pointing out something in the garden to Patrick, a bird she’s seen, perhaps. She tells him to turn the TV down. Chloe can’t take her eyes off the photograph, or maybe it’s the other way round – as if Angie is the one watching her.

Chloe shuffles uncomfortably under her gaze. Not that Maureen notices. She carries on talking, oblivious. When she glances back Chloe makes sure she nods and smiles, her eyes constantly flickering back to Angie up there on the sideboard in her navy pinafore and her bunches. Would it be too much of a giveaway to ask about her? Will she get another chance to be this close to the Kyles again?

‘She’s pretty,’ Chloe says. Unable to resist.

Maureen smiles up at the picture, her voices softens. ‘Yes, our Angie.’

Chloe waits for something more, not daring to ask. But that’s it. Nothing more. The words hang there in the air between them. She decides not to press it. Instead she scans the rest of the room: a crossword book on the pouffe, a gold carriage clock on the sideboard, a plate painted with a wintery scene on the wall. Maureen and Patrick must only be in their fifties, yet this room, this house, feels so old-fashioned. It’s like they’re stuck in a time warp. As if not having a child grow up in their home has aged them prematurely.

‘Chloe likes the room, Pat,’ Maureen says. ‘But she’s got a few other places to see.’

‘Right,’ he says, not looking up from the telly.

Maureen turns to Chloe.

‘Don’t mind him, he’s not used to a lot of change.’

The two women go back into