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

via the rear-view mirror.

He turns to her. ‘You really want to know?’

She nods.

‘I can tell you,’ he says, ‘but you won’t like it.’

Chloe pushes herself up a little in her seat.

‘And you mustn’t tell Maureen,’ he says.

She turns around, and then she sees the long, slim shape of it.

‘It’s a gun,’ Patrick says. ‘Not that Maureen knows I’ve got it, and she must never know. She hates anything like that, she gets the wrong idea.’

‘Why have you got it?’ Chloe asks, twisting her fingers awkwardly in her lap.

‘I’m taking it in to be serviced,’ he says. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ve got a licence for the thing.’

She glances back at it, sleeping on the seat.

‘But why do you need one? And why doesn’t Maureen know you have it?’

‘Rabbits,’ he says.

The car slows to a halt. They’re sitting in traffic now, waiting behind a lorry which is turning right across the single carriageway. He takes his hands off the steering wheel and mimes shooting a shotgun through the windscreen.

‘It’s a bit of fun really, but Maureen don’t see it like that. There’s a farmer I know, next place on from Low Drove, he lets me shoot on his land. Works for both of us, see? I get to shoot, he gets rid of the rabbits.’

Chloe eyes Patrick through her fringe. It sounds harmless to her – well, not to the rabbits. Why would Maureen care?

‘She feels sorry for them,’ Patrick says, as if reading her thoughts. He rolls his eyes. ‘But they’re vermin, pests, ask any farmer out here.’

Chloe nods, and looks back over her shoulder.

‘How long have you had it?’ she asks.

‘Now let me think,’ Patrick says, sucking his teeth. ‘Near on forty years. It was my eighteenth birthday present from my dad.’

‘And it still works?’

‘Oh, yes. Like I say, if you look after them . . .’

‘And Maureen has no idea?’

‘She thought I got rid of it when . . . well, when Angie was little, like.’

They both look away slightly at the mention of Angie. The sun shines straight into the car, bathing it with yellow light. Perhaps neither of them know what to say in the brightness of a new day.

‘No, she didn’t want it in the house with a little one around. I told her it was gone, like, put her mind at rest.’

‘But you kept it?’

Patrick turns to Chloe with a smile and leans towards her. ‘It’s always best to have a few secrets in a marriage,’ he says.

The traffic starts moving again, and they both stare straight ahead. Chloe wonders what other secrets he has kept from Maureen, and every so often, as they head into the city, she glances again to the back seat.

‘It won’t bite,’ Patrick laughs.

Chloe attempts a smile. She’s never been this close to a gun.

As they near the city, land makes way for roundabouts and concrete. Patrick takes each turn, over various roundabouts, as if he knows the way. As if he’s been here a thousand times before. They leave the city centre behind them and Chloe looks over her shoulder as it disappears. He takes one dual carriageway after another, back out towards the sky, away from the newspaper offices. Chloe feels the back of her legs tense against the passenger seat. She has been so distracted by the thought of the gun that she’s forgotten to give him directions.

‘Where are we going?’ she says.

Patrick turns from the wheel. ‘Your office, ent we?’

‘Yes, but . . .’ She points over her shoulder, back towards the city, and it’s then – only then – that she remembers it’s the insurance company, not the newspaper, that he’s taking her to.

‘It’s still over near the showground, isn’t it? Unless it’s moved since—’

‘No, no,’ Chloe says quickly. ‘We’re still there.’

‘Oh good,’ Patrick says, ‘thought I was having a dementia moment then.’

He laughs, and she does too, expelling the breath she’s trapped inside her lungs at last.

Patrick pulls up outside a glass-fronted insurance building, people in dark suits filtering in like ants to a nest.

‘This is the place, right?’ he says.

‘Yes,’ she says, undoing her seat belt.

He looks up under the sun visor to the building.

‘I wonder if John’s about . . . I could say hello.’

Panic sticks to Chloe’s skin.

Patrick shakes his head. ‘Probably have to get an appointment to see him these days.’

Chloe nods, grateful to be pushing on the car door, stepping out of the vehicle. In fact, she’s so keen to get out, she doesn’t notice who is standing there when her feet reach the pavement.

‘Chloe?’ a voice says.

Patrick indicates with his eyes and she turns around.

‘I thought it was you,’ Phil says. ‘What on earth are you doing—’

‘Phil,’ Chloe says quickly, and strangely – for her – the first thing she can think to do to stop him talking is to wrap him in a hug. He seems surprised. He takes a step back awkwardly, then straightens his suit.

Patrick leans across from the passenger seat and looks up at the building. ‘Impressive, ennit? Which floor do you work on, Chloe?’

Phil looks confused. He points to the building behind them. ‘Oh, you’re working—’

‘Anyway, thanks, Patrick, thanks so much for the lift.’ She slams the door before she hears his answer, and taps the top of the car. Patrick pulls away.

‘Who’s that then?’ Phil asks, his forehead creased into a question.

‘Oh, no one,’ Chloe says. ‘Just a neighbour who was heading the same way this morning . . . Anyway, I haven’t seen you in ages. How are you?’

She doesn’t care. Phil rattles on about a cough he’s had that won’t go away. He tells her they’re getting quotes for a conservatory, about the holiday to Lanzarote. Chloe nods and smiles in all the right places, but she’s also got one eye on the tail lights of Patrick’s car; she sees him brake at the end of the car park, the orange indicator flickering left. Finally, he’s gone.

‘So you’re working here now?’ Phil asks.

‘Well, not quite – an interview,’ she says. It’s all she can think of.

‘Oh right, which department?’

‘Oh, er . . .’ She’s rummaging through her bag then, pretending to