The Imposter Anna Wharton (e novels to read .txt) 📖

‘Oh Maureen, this is ridiculous, will you get a hold of yourself?’

‘Why? Why is it so ridiculous? What if I’m right?’

‘But you’re not, you’re . . . you’re . . .’

‘I’m what, Patrick? Say it?’

‘OK then, you’re crazy, that’s what you are.’ She hears the scrape of a chair on the lino. ‘You’re sick. Sick in the head. I mean, to even think . . .’

Chloe hears footsteps in the hall. She quickly pushes the door closed, the thickness of it muffling the rest of the argument. She gets down on her floor, pressing her ear to the boards, but it’s no clearer. Then the thud of feet on the stairs starts reverberating under her head. She jumps up, stares at the door as if someone might just burst right through it. But it’s Maureen and Patrick’s bedroom door across the landing that slams shut. Then everything is still. Except Chloe’s mind – that’s whirring. What has she just overheard?

Chloe waits a moment or two and then opens her door again. Everything outside on the landing is still, but a residue of something hangs in the air. The photograph of Angie sits on the windowsill, offering no answers. Chloe looks across at the closed bedroom door opposite. Who is in there? Maureen or Patrick? Should she knock? She clutches the neck of her pyjamas and feels the bristle of carpet under her bare feet as she steps onto the landing. She takes the stairs, carefully, silently, egged on by nothing more than curiosity. She’s almost at the bottom of the steps when she has a change in tact – she can’t make it look like she’s been eavesdropping. She coughs, landing with heavy footsteps. In the kitchen, it’s Patrick she finds, not Maureen. His elbows are resting on his folded newspaper, his head is in his hands. He reminds her in that moment of the man she first knew in the newspaper cuttings – he looks fragile, close to breaking.

Patrick turns his head a little, looking up at her through his elbows. Chloe is motionless, waiting for him to speak, but he says nothing, just turns back, shaking his head a little as he does, and sighing loudly.

Should she ask what has gone on between them? No, of course not.

Patrick gets up then. He turns, as if to say something, then changes his mind. Instead he snatches his newspaper from the table and grabs a bunch of keys from the hook by the back door as he leaves. A moment later, Chloe hears his car engine on the driveway. She stands in the cold hall until the chug of his exhaust heads away from the house.

For a second all is still, then above her she hears the creak of Maureen’s bedroom door.

‘He’s gone,’ Chloe calls up to her. ‘I just saw him go.’

Maureen creeps down the stairs.

‘It’s OK,’ Chloe reassures her.

In the kitchen, Maureen stares at Patrick’s chair. She fixes her hair, weaving a stray tendril back into her loose bun. But Chloe sees her hands are shaking, and she looks like she’s been crying.

‘Can I get you anything for breakfast, love?’ Maureen says. Her voice unsure, wavering.

‘What happened, Maureen?’ Chloe asks.

‘Don’t mind Patrick, he’ll be off to the bookie’s.’

Chloe sits down at the table while Maureen puts bread in the toaster, obviously more out of habit than hunger. Maureen leans on the sink, bending at the elbows to look up at the sky.

‘Looks like another grey day,’ she says. ‘It’s beautiful out here in the summer but in winter you just want to stay home. You’ll still be here in the summer, won’t you, Chloe?’

That was the moment, just that short sentence, those ten words. Why would Maureen ask that? What makes her think she wouldn’t be? Had that argument been something to do with her? Is that why Maureen is asking? But before she has time to question it, Maureen continues:

‘I was hoping to get some gardening done today, but if it rains, I shan’t be getting out there.’

Chloe doesn’t say anything as Maureen passes by, in turn taking the butter from the fridge, putting jam on the table, side plates, two knives.

‘Oops, forgetting myself,’ Maureen laughs, scooping up one of the side plates she’d put down and replacing it with the same Bunnykins one. She pushes it towards Chloe.

The bread pops out of the toaster. Maureen puts it on a plate and carries it over to the table. She sits down opposite Chloe and offers her a slice of toast for her Bunnykins plate. Chloe takes one slowly. Maureen starts buttering her piece, then rolls her eyes, getting up again to go to the cutlery drawer. She rummages inside it, all the way to the back this time, then returns with a knife – a smaller knife – and places it in front of Chloe.

‘Can’t bear it with margarine,’ Maureen says. ‘It’s got to be butter, don’t you think?’

The knife she has handed Chloe has a plastic handle and a blunt curved blade. The handle is a pale cream and on it is a bunny that matches the ones leaping around on her plate.

‘I don’t even like these butter blends,’ Maureen says, ‘They call them things like I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. Well, it isn’t, so I sure can believe it.’

She laughs to herself and Chloe manages a faint smile in return. This Bunnykins knife, with its faded pattern, feels too small in her hands. Chloe dips it in the butter and smooths it over the toast, on the bunny plate, with the bunny knife, while Maureen hums to herself as if desperate to fill the silence.

Chloe reaches out for Maureen’s arm, touch seeming the best way to penetrate this facade.

‘You know you can talk to me, don’t you, Maureen? I mean, if anything’s happened . . .’

Maureen’s chewing slows, but she doesn’t answer. Chloe continues:

‘I heard . . . when I was upstairs in my . . .’ Chloe says, swallowing a piece of toast. ‘I heard you and Patrick arguing.’

Maureen doesn’t answer her.

‘I heard what he said to you,’ Chloe continues, ‘that you’re crazy.’

Maureen