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

search for a piece of paper. ‘It’s an agency that’s sent me so . . .’

Phil starts shuffling on his feet, looking at the clock on the outside of the building that reads a few minutes past nine. He’s carrying a briefcase that Chloe is sure will have nothing more in it than his sandwiches. When she notices him glance towards the doors, she starts searching deeper inside her bag.

‘How’s Hollie?’ she starts.

But Phil’s discomfort is obvious as he checks his watch.

‘Listen, good luck with your interview – wherever it is. I’d better go. Duty calls and all that.’ He smiles awkwardly, in that geeky, dull way of his.

‘Yes, of course,’ Chloe says. ‘Send my love to Hollie, tell her I’ll call.’

Phil nods, but he’s already heading into the building through the revolving glass doors. Chloe pretends to be rifling through her bag for something – anything – until she sees him get into the lift in the lobby. Then she puts her bag back on her shoulder and walks towards the nearest bus stop.

FORTY

Chloe misses several calls on her phone that day. Two from Park House, and three from Hollie. Hollie sends a text too: Phil said you had an interview at his place today, how did it go? I miss you. Call me back. I’m sorry about before. xxx

She doesn’t call back. Instead she sits on a swing in Angie’s play park at Ferry Meadows and eats her packed lunch. Her feet scuff the woodchip floor intermittently. She can’t face visiting Nan today, even though she is so close by. She is still reeling from the revelations of last night. She can’t be Chloe for Nan today – not when she’s Angie for the Kyles.

She closes her eyes, pushes herself back on the swing in her office shoes. It still doesn’t feel real. She opens her eyes, hoping the world might be clearer, that one definite memory might make itself apparent if only she blinks and tries again. But today everything feels a blur, as if she’s drowning, as if she’s clamouring to stay afloat, as if nothing she tries to hold on to is real.

Her feet skid on the ground and she gets up from the swing, throwing away the last of her packed lunch. It’s almost time to return to Low Drove.

On the bus home she gets out her phone – another missed call from Park House, one more from Claire Sanders. She reaches up to her breast pocket and pulls out the photograph of Nan and Stella. It’s been weeks since she’s looked at it. Those faces feel like another lifetime now. She’s thought about replacing it with a photograph of Maureen, Patrick and Angie, that nice one of the three of them on Hunstanton beach perhaps, but then she remembers Patrick in the background, that looming shadow of him. No, she’s sure she can find a better one. She replaces the photograph of Nan and Stella back in her pocket for now.

She rings the bell on the bus and gets off at her stop at Low Drove. Her stop. Even after all this time, she’s never seen anyone else alight here. She makes her way through the willow and down the lane towards Elm House. Patrick’s blue car is in the drive as usual. As she approaches it, she peers through the window to see if the gun is still lying across the back seat, but it has gone. Like much that happens at Elm House, she feels she might have imagined it.

Maureen greets her at the short garden gate beside the pebble drive. Chloe has the feeling she’s been waiting for a long time. Her face lights up on spotting Chloe.

‘I was beginning to get a bit worried about you, Chloe, love,’ Maureen says. ‘You’re usually back by quarter to six.’

Chloe glances at her watch. It is eight minutes to six.

‘Anyway, you’re here now. Come inside, I’ve got your favourite for tea.’

Inside the kitchen, the windows are steamy, and on top of the counter are three plates colourful with food. Patrick sits at the kitchen table.

‘Hello, love,’ he says, as she walks through the door. She still isn’t used to this change in Patrick’s attitude, and she tries to keep the suspicion from her smile. Maureen helps her take her coat off and indicates for her to sit down. Patrick folds his newspaper and puts it on the table beside his knife and fork.

‘Good day at work?’ he asks.

‘Oh, you know, same old.’

He nods.

‘You didn’t see my mate then?’

‘Now, here we are,’ Maureen says, interrupting and bringing two plates to the table. She puts Chloe’s down first, the same plate that she has been giving her for the last couple of weeks. It’s slightly smaller than the one Patrick has, and the fish fingers vie for space with the rabbits.

‘Your favourite,’ Maureen says, then stands back as if awaiting Chloe’s reaction.

She looks down at the plate of fish fingers, mash and peas, and then back at Maureen.

‘Of course, ketchup,’ Maureen says, tipping the bottle this way and that and putting it on the table beside her.

Chloe stares at her dinner. ‘This looks lovely,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’

Maureen smiles, bringing her own plate from the worktop. ‘That’s quite all right, Chloe, love. I thought we could try some of the old stuff, in case it brings anything back to you.’

‘Oh,’ Chloe says. ‘Oh, right, yes, of course.’

Chloe picks up the cutlery – the blunt knife, a fork with three tines. She hesitates for a second, watching how easily Maureen and Patrick tuck in with cutlery that fits their hands more appropriately. Chloe glances down at the child’s cutlery in her own hands, and then back at the Kyles. They eat, oblivious, as if no one has noticed the absurdity of the situation.

‘This takes me back,’ Maureen says, putting another forkful into her mouth with a smile.

Chloe tentatively tries a small mouthful of food.

‘That’s it,’ Maureen says. ‘Eat up.’

After dinner, Chloe goes upstairs to change. She’s