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

won’t you, Pat?’ Maureen says.

‘Honestly, I’m—’ Chloe starts.

But Patrick nods between mouthfuls. ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘I have some business in town anyway.’

‘What’s that then, Pat?’ Maureen asks.

Patrick shovels another mouthful of mashed potato onto his fork. ‘Just some banking, love,’ he says, ‘nothing interesting.’

Maureen shrugs at Chloe. ‘I leave all that to him.’

Patrick doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave the table. In fact, when he finishes, he puts his plate in the sink and sits back down with them.

‘They say it’s warming up next week,’ Patrick tells them both. ‘Sixteen and sunny Tuesday, Wednesday.’

‘That’ll be nice, could do with a bit of sunshine, couldn’t we?’ Maureen says.

‘We could indeed, I’d like to get out in the garden if I can.’

Maureen sounds disappointed. ‘Oh, I was hoping we might have a ride out to the coast on the first nice day.’

‘Still be a bit nippy there, Mo.’

‘You’re probably right,’ she says. ‘Ooh, Chloe, I was meaning to ask, what was the name of your grandmother?’

Chloe is about to put a forkful of food in her mouth but it stops halfway. She doesn’t answer, just looks at Patrick. He registers the surprise on her face and sits up a little in his seat.

‘It’s just,’ Maureen continues, taking another mouthful of mashed potatoes, ‘I was telling Josie that she lived in Dogsthorpe too and we were wondering if we might know her. Imagine that?’

Patrick shuffles closer to the table, not taking his eyes off her for a second.

Chloe puts the food in her mouth. She chews it, buying herself time before she can answer. Should she tell the truth? Make something up? What would be better? The two of them stare at her across the table. She coughs a little. And winces inwardly before she speaks. Her voice is small, unsure.

‘Grace,’ Chloe says, ‘Grace Hudson.’

‘Sorry? Hudson did you say?’ Maureen asks.

She nods slowly and Maureen looks up to the kitchen ceiling. Patrick’s eyes remain stuck fast on Chloe. Her appetite is gone but she looks down at her plate to shovel more food onto her fork.

‘Hudson,’ Maureen says. ‘No, can’t say I know a Hudson. What about you, Pat?’

He looks up like Maureen had a moment ago, then shakes his head.

‘No, Mo, can’t say I know anyone with that surname.’

His eyes return to Chloe.

Maureen shrugs into the space around the dining table. ‘I’ll tell Josie,’ she says. ‘She might know.’ Then she carries on eating.

Chloe’s appetite has gone. She lines her knife and fork up in the middle of the plate.

‘Want me to take that for you?’ Patrick says, extending his hand out for her plate. Chloe looks up at him but she doesn’t want to meet his eye because she can feel her mask slipping and she’s afraid he’ll see it too. She hands him the plate.

‘I’ve just realized,’ Maureen says, turning to Chloe and breaking their gaze, ‘we haven’t seen you in your new blouse yet!’

Patrick puts Chloe’s plate in the sink and returns to the table. ‘What’s that, love?’

‘You know, the blouse I made for Chloe with that bit of material, the one you like with the yellow flowers.’

‘Christ, you’ve had that for years, woman.’

‘I know, but I thought . . .’ She hesitates for a moment. ‘Well, it suits Chloe’s colouring, don’t you think?’

Patrick looks across at Chloe; he leans back in his chair. ‘Can’t say I remember it all that well.’

‘Oh, you do, Pat. Chloe, nip upstairs and put it on, let Pat have a look at you. Honestly, Patrick, it’ll come straight back to you the minute you see it.’

Maureen looks at Chloe.

‘That dinner was lovely, thank you,’ Chloe says, pointing at the sink, trying desperately to change the subject.

‘You’re welcome, Chloe, love,’ Maureen says. ‘Now are you going to run upstairs and pop that top on so Pat can see you?’

She looks from Maureen to Patrick.

‘Sorry?’ Chloe says.

‘The blouse I made you, Patrick would like to see it on.’

‘Oh, it’s just, well . . . I’m a bit—’

‘Nonsense, my love, you’re perfect. Go on, won’t take you a minute.’

Chloe waits for Patrick to say something – anything – she doesn’t know why, but instead he’s looking at her expectantly.

‘Well, go on then,’ Maureen laughs, ‘we haven’t got all night.’

Chloe stands up slowly from the table, and with calls of encouragement from the kitchen, she heads out into the hallway and up the stairs. In her room, as instructed, she slips off her top and pulls the blouse over her shoulders. She stands in front of the mirror, as she had the last time she had worn it. She parts her hair in the middle, just like the photograph and picks up the same two bunches. And it’s there again; the resemblance is uncanny. Chloe shivers. She tells herself that Josie was right: that she is a grown woman, that Angie was a little girl. How could they be comparable? But as she shuffles out onto the landing, picking up the photograph in the frame, even she has to admit, the resemblance is striking, undeniable.

Downstairs, Maureen and Patrick are laughing. So different from the atmosphere of the last few days: the arguing, the shouting, the tears. What has changed?

Chloe puts her foot on the top step and takes a deep breath. She walks slowly down the stairs, clutching the newel post as she turns into the hallway, and the minute she does, she hears Maureen gasp from the kitchen.

‘Patrick, will you look at that.’

Patrick spins around in his chair to face her, and there is a split second where he takes her in. But then all the colour drains from his face. In an instant, he is ashen white.

Maureen gets up from her seat, and leads Chloe into the kitchen. She stands beside her, encouraging her to twirl, while Patrick sits on the chair. Chloe spins slowly on the spot, her eyes never leaving Patrick’s blank face.

‘It’s exactly the same, Pat. Can you believe I still kept the pattern and the material.’

‘Maureen . . . I . . .’ he says.

‘And I told you she had just the