The Imposter by Anna Wharton (i have read the book txt) 📕

rent here without a job? How much longer she can get a bus into town every day for a desk that doesn’t exist? She pushes it to the back of her mind. She thinks instead of the true crime books she’d found under Patrick’s bed. Her work in Elm House is far from done.

Who knows how long it is until she hears footsteps climbing the stairs. They stop outside her door and Chloe puts her magazine down. There’s a knock and then the soft turn of her door handle. Maureen’s head appears around the frame. Chloe sinks against her pillow.

‘I baked today,’ Maureen says. ‘Banana loaf. I thought you might like some?’

‘Oh thanks,’ Chloe says. She shuffles up towards her pillow, still under her duvet.

‘You’re not cold, are you, Chloe?’ Maureen crosses the room to check the radiator and as she does Chloe glances at the floor beside her bed, checking that her pale blue notebook hasn’t been left open.

‘No, no, I’m fine. Just wanted to relax, you know?’

Maureen nods, unconvinced. She hands Chloe the small plate she’s brought up with a slice of cake on it. Chloe takes it, then hesitates for a second. Chloe hasn’t seen this plate before. It has a pattern on it that she knows – tiny brown rabbits chase each other around the edge of the plate. She looks up to see Maureen watching her.

‘I just had some bananas that were past their best and . . .’ Maureen says, sitting at the bottom of Chloe’s bed. She waits for her to take a bite.

Chloe picks up the slice of cake. As she does the image in the centre of the plate reveals itself: it’s a river scene, bunnies in red and blue cardigans bathing in the water and lazing on the riverbank. Chloe knows it so well and yet can’t quite remember . . . Maureen is still watching her. She takes a bite.

‘It’s lovely,’ Chloe says. ‘The cake, I mean.’

‘Banana loaf was Angie’s favourite,’ Maureen says, smoothing out the cover of the duvet as she does.

Then it comes to her. Bunnykins. That’s the design on the plate. She sees Maureen note her moment of recognition.

‘Banana loaf is my favourite too,’ Chloe says.

Maureen glows beside her dim bedside light. Chloe takes another bite and this time the cake tastes even sweeter.

‘Really? Is it really?’

Chloe nods. ‘It’s been years since I’ve had it,’ she says between mouthfuls. ‘In fact, I think the last time was when I was a little girl.’

‘Really?’ Maureen says. She goes to speak again, but seems unsure about how her words are going to sound. She rearranges her legs, crossing them over, and leaning one hand on the bed as she does. ‘Chloe, I . . . well, I hope you don’t mind me asking but . . . do you remember anything about your mum. Your real mum, I mean?’

Chloe stops chewing.

‘My mum?’

‘You said you were adopted and . . . I just wondered whether you have any memories of life before, you know, before . . . I mean you said you weren’t curious about your background, but why?’

Chloe remembers and swallows a chunk of cake too quickly. She coughs and Maureen leans towards her. Chloe’s eyes are watery again when she looks up. She has to think fast, distract her. She’s not prepared for this.

‘Like I said, they offered to tell me, but maybe I’m afraid, afraid of finding out that my real parents were bad people,’ Chloe says.

‘But why would they be? They might be good people, they might be . . .’ Maureen stops and looks down at the sheet.

‘I guess after Mum and Nan . . . it would have felt like a betrayal, as if they weren’t good enough. It’s hard to explain.’

Maureen nods her head, but Chloe can see that she doesn’t understand. Why would she? This woman who hasn’t stopped searching for her own lost family for decades. Maureen stands up from the bed then, straightening the legs of her trousers as she does and then her hair. She takes two steps towards the door, then pauses as if there’s something she wants to say.

‘I’ll leave you in peace.’

Her footsteps down the stairs are filled with more purpose.

Chloe finishes the cake slowly and leans back on her pillow. She hears Maureen’s voice floating up through the floorboards, not the words, just the tone – a persuasive, urgent quality to it. There’s no reply from Patrick, just the sound of the TV turned up a notch or two.

THIRTY-FOUR

Chloe is in bed in Low Drove when her mobile rings, a rare moment when the signal is strong. It’s one of the carers from Park House. Chloe lowers her voice to a whisper to speak to her and keeps an eye on her bedroom door. The carer is calling to see if Chloe has any special plans for Sunday. It takes Chloe a moment to register what she is talking about, then she sits up quickly and slaps her hand to her head. It’s Nan’s birthday tomorrow. What with everything that has been happening recently, Chloe has forgotten.

‘No, I, er . . . just the usual really,’ Chloe tells her, biting down hard on her lip.

The carer says they can bake a cake and Chloe promises she’ll be there in the morning.

‘We’ll have your grandma ready,’ she says.

As Chloe hangs up she thinks, ready for what? She doesn’t like this panicky feeling. Her legs tangle in the duvet as she tries to get up. She starts making her bed. It almost feels as if the carer rang just to catch her out. Suddenly, she stops still. There it is again. Through the bedroom floor, the clatter of pans drifts up. And again. Then raised voices.

Chloe tiptoes quickly to the bedroom door. She opens it expertly, without a sound – something she has practised here – and she leans her head against the cool door frame. There’s another clatter, more raised voices. Maureen and Patrick. From the sounds she pictures them: Maureen cleaning up after breakfast, Patrick sitting at the table – a rattle of his newspaper confirms it. Then a fist goes down on the kitchen