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

the car door slams and they hear his footsteps heading towards the house. ‘The last thing I want is for you to feel uncomfortable here. I’ll talk to him.’

Chloe turns to go up to her room, but as she climbs the stairs, she can still feel Maureen’s grip on her arm. She reaches out to touch the pink marks that Maureen’s grasp has left. She runs her fingers across them and remembers how insistent Maureen was, how determined she was not to let go.

THIRTY-FIVE

The carers at Park House have decorated Nan’s bedroom door with two red balloons. The door is open when Chloe arrives and Nan sits on the leather chair next to her bed, two birthday cards on the bedside table beside her. Her eyes light up when she sees Chloe holding a bunch of daffodils.

‘Happy birthday, Nan,’ Chloe says, bending down to give her a kiss on the head. She no longer recognizes the shampoo she uses, or the scent of the washing powder her clothes are rinsed in here. Everyone knows the disease makes Chloe a stranger to Nan, but people forget that towards the end it works the other way around too.

‘Are those for me?’ Nan says, reaching for the flowers. ‘My daughter Stella always buys me daffodils on Mother’s Day. Is it Mother’s Day today?’

Chloe picks up the birthday cards next to her bed, both illustrated on the front with flowers and fine copperplate writing. One is signed by all the staff at Park House, and the other is from Claire Sanders. The one from Claire Sanders also has ‘85’ on the front and Chloe hates her for remembering when she had not. She hasn’t even bought a card this year. Last year had been so different when it had just been the two of them. She’d even baked a cake, Nan’s favourite, lemon drizzle. She’d decorated it with candles and encouraged Nan to blow them out and watched as she made a wish – making her own wish that they would always be together. But it is true what they say, all good things must come to an end.

Chloe had stayed out of the way at Low Drove for the rest of the day yesterday. Patrick had put an old TV in her room during the week and so she sat upstairs watching classic black and white movies that barely held her interest. How could she follow any plot when what she really wanted to know was what was going on downstairs? She spent every few minutes turning the sound down on the remote control, but no voices had floated back up in response. She certainly hadn’t heard any more arguing, which she was surprised to find disappointed her. No one had been there when she went down to breakfast this morning. She ate alone, each mouthful sticking in her throat, wondering if this was what awaited her now.

‘Are you the florist?’ Nan says.

‘Sorry?’

‘You’re the lady who brought the flowers, aren’t you?’

One of the carers bustles in.

‘Of course she’s not a florist, Grace, she’s your granddaughter.’ This carer speaks in a loud, clear voice, articulating all her words. There’s nothing wrong with Nan’s hearing, Chloe thinks.

‘Who?’ Nan replies.

The carer sighs with a smile and rolls her eyes at Chloe. ‘Right, shall we get your shoes on? We’ve got a little surprise for you in the communal room, a bit of a birthday party.’

‘Is it your birthday?’ Nan asks.

‘No, Grace, it’s yours.’

‘Oh, is that why this young lady has brought some flowers?’

The carer sighs again, getting up from the floor as Nan wriggles her toes inside her shoes.

‘Come on, Grace,’ she says, helping her up off the chair.

The two women shuffle down the corridor and Chloe trails behind them. There was a time when she would have envied the ease with which this woman now chats to Nan. But as she passes the watercolours that line the corridor, she feels trapped inside her coat. She takes it off, but she doesn’t feel any better as she follows Nan down the corridor, fitting her own feet into footsteps Nan leaves behind. Not that she says anything. She can’t. She just allows herself to be swept along by it all. She plays her part.

‘Here we are,’ the carer says, guiding Nan towards two armchairs by the window, then she mouths to Chloe, ‘I’ll just go and get the cake.’

Nan sits in the chair and turns to Chloe.

‘Oh, hello, dear, do you live here too? I’m just visiting.’

A few moments later, three carers come into the room holding a cake and singing ‘Happy Birthday’. A few other residents start miming the words too – a familiar song embedded in their brain that dementia can’t steal.

Chloe watches Nan blow out the candles. She longs to be released from this. She knows she’s not alone; she’s seen the other visitors here at Park House – they all have that same haunted look, ground down by the loyalty that has chained them here. But you can’t just give up on someone, can you? Maureen and Patrick never have.

Chloe walks over to the window, and looks out over Ferry Meadows. Today the view is a little obscured by the scaffolding the builders have put up as part of the redevelopment.

‘Nasty stuff,’ a voice says at her side.

Chloe spins round. It’s the matron.

‘Already makes the room so much darker,’ Miriam says. ‘I hate the stuff – and its expensive – but we’d be hard pushed to get the extension done without it.’

Music is playing now – wartime tunes that ease residents back into a world they’re more familiar with. Each resident sits alone, or chats to their neighbour, two trains of conversation running parallel. Chloe catches Nan’s eye then and the old woman flashes her the brightest smile across the room, and for a second, there it is again, a whisper of the woman she once was. It happens still from time to time, as if she has risen to the