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

of eating, but stronger somehow. Chloe lets her sleep, dropping a kiss on her forehead as she leaves.

‘Bye, Nan,’ she whispers. ‘I promise I’ll come and tell you when I’ve brought Angie home.’

As she leaves Park House, she’s already dialling Maureen’s number.

TWENTY-TWO

The kitchen table is set for three. Chloe hesitates before pulling out a chair. Instead she hovers, waiting for Patrick to take his place. He chooses the seat nearest the doorway into the hall. Maureen transfers a steaming casserole dish from the oven to the worktop.

‘Sit yourself down, Chloe,’ Maureen says, indicating which chair to pull out.

She does as Maureen suggests, wincing as it scrapes on the lino floor, wanting to make herself smaller, less noticeable. As a child, Chloe was convinced that if she made herself quiet enough, people wouldn’t notice her still there, hanging around after tea, or after the credits on a film had rolled round.

It’s her first night at the Kyles’ Low Drove home and they’ve invited her to eat with them. The kitchen windows are steamed up, although they disguise nothing but blackness beyond. The room is filled with the thick meaty smell of beef and carrots, which makes her think of Nan, and it’s only intensified when Maureen pulls the lid off and starts serving up on blue and white willow plates. Patrick sniffs at the plate she serves him.

‘Smells good, Mo,’ he says.

‘Thought I’d do something special for Chloe’s first night,’ she says, smiling to herself as she ladles carrots and dumplings onto each plate.

She sets them down in turn at the table. Chloe feels the heat from her plate rise to meet her cheeks. She waits for Maureen to sit down before she picks up her knife and fork, but Patrick wastes no time and digs in.

‘Don’t wait for me, Chloe, you start eating,’ Maureen says. ‘I’m just going to butter some bread for Pat.’

He sticks up his thumb without looking up.

Chloe picks up their cutlery. It feels alien in her hands, heavier, not like Nan’s old bone-handled set which had fit so well.

‘Sorry, Chloe, can I just get to the . . .’ Maureen asks.

Her chair is in the way of the fridge. ‘Sorry,’ she says, shuffling forward and bumping into the small table.

Patrick’s forkful of food spills down his cardigan.

‘Oh, sorry,’ Chloe says, standing up to get him a tea towel and bumping the table again. Gravy splashes off his plate.

He looks up at her from under his curly fringe.

‘Patrick, I—’

But Maureen is there with a cloth. ‘It’s no matter,’ she says, wiping his front down like she would a child.

Chloe is conscious then of the empty chair at the table. The one with a short pile of magazines in front of it rather than a plate. Patrick looks up at her but doesn’t say anything, then starts eating again while Maureen puts the butter back in the fridge.

‘Chloe, while I’m here, I’ve cleared a shelf in here for you to put your things on,’ she says, opening the door a little wider so Chloe can peer in.

‘OK, thanks,’ she says.

‘I still feel uncomfortable about you making your own meals,’ she says, flipping the tea towel over her shoulder. ‘Are you sure you won’t eat with us?’

Patrick looks up, a piece of beef and dumpling suspended on his fork.

‘No, no, of course not,’ Chloe says. ‘I can make myself something every evening.’

‘Well, we’ve got cereal and toast for breakfast – all the essentials – so you don’t need to bother getting any of that,’ she adds, sitting down at the table. ‘You can at least have your breakfast—’

‘It’s OK, honestly,’ Chloe says.

Patrick sighs. ‘Maureen, leave the girl alone. She’s told you she’ll sort herself out. Jesus Christ.’

‘OK, Patrick, there’s no need for language at the table . . . right.’ Maureen picks up her fork. Her hands are smooth and her cutlery fits neatly into them.

The knife still sits heavy in Chloe’s hand.

They eat in silence for a while, the tines of forks scratching against the willow on their plates. Patrick picks up the bread Maureen buttered for him and starts wiping at the blue and white pattern.

‘You’ll wipe that off,’ Maureen says with a smile, and they all laugh politely.

Every so often Chloe looks up from her own plate, catching a glimpse of Maureen and Patrick eating beside her. Under the table, their knees are nearly touching. She hopes they can’t tell that hers are shaking.

There are moments for Chloe when it feels completely natural. That if someone were passing this lonely lane, if they glimpsed into the kitchen and saw them all here, eating around this table, they’d look perfectly fine together. Just a regular family eating a regular dinner. Then there are other moments when Chloe’s more aware of their cutlery scratching their plates, and then this tiny kitchen feels like a stage. The three of them actors who have forgotten their lines. It feels wrong in some ways, that she knows why she’s here, that she has to keep her investigation at the forefront of her mind. She watches them as she eats, knowing all this will go in her pale blue notepad before she sleeps. She’d feel bad if she wasn’t sure that one day they will thank her for it.

She points at the food with her fork. ‘This is really nice,’ she says. ‘Thanks again, Maureen.’

She smiles and carries on eating. Chloe swallows, daring herself to go a little further, to throw some metaphorical bomb at the table. For something to happen. She doesn’t just want to watch things happen, she needs to feel it.

‘It reminds me of the food my nan used to make,’ Chloe says.

Maureen stops chewing and looks at her across the table, tipping her head to one side, a smile more sympathetic this time.

‘Was she a good age?’ Maureen asks, as Chloe slips a forkful of food into her mouth. ‘When she passed, I mean?’

Chloe nods as she chews, willing the food down so she can answer while she conjures up an age in