The Imposter
Chapters (55)
- Cover
- ANNA WHARTON
- Dedication page
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- Praise
- THE IMPOSTER
Cover
ANNA WHARTON
THE IMPOSTER
Dedication page
For Gracie
ONE
She treads carefully through the carnage. Plates and pans litter the kitchen floor, and rice has been scattered from upturned bags across the pretend parquet. On the counter, pointing towards the microwave, lies a banana – half peeled and turning brown. She presses the door of the little oven and it springs open, revealing a bowl welded by porridge to the small, transparent plate inside. She pulls the sculpture out and it separates in her hands as she does, crashing to the floor. Cold lumps of porridge splatter up Chloe’s trouser legs.
‘Is that you, Stella?’
A voice from the living room.
She checks the clock on the wall. 5.09 p.m. She should still be at her desk. She sighs.
‘It’s me, Nan. Stay there, I’ll be through in a minute.’
Chloe bends down and picks up the bowl. Making a cup of her hand, she scoops the porridge back into it.
‘Stella, is that you?’
‘Wait there, Nan—’
‘Stella?’
Stella has been dead for years. Nan rarely remembers. Chloe plays along with her, knowing the world she’s in now is as real to her as this one is to Chloe. A world where her imagination has won and her daughter is still living.
Nan appears in the gap between the two rooms. Chloe looks up to see her standing there. She tries hard to picture this place when it still had doors and hinges. It feels impossible now. So much has changed. There have been different carpets over the decades, ones she only knows now from photographs. The years have drawn new curtains at the windows, new units in the kitchen, new furniture carried in and out through the hall. But Nan has always been a constant. She is Chloe’s constant. She is everything.
‘You’re not Stella. Who are you? And what have you done to my kitchen?’
‘You left your porridge in the microwave again, Nan,’ Chloe says. ‘And why are all the cupboard doors open and the cans on the worktop?’
Chloe sits back on her heels. She pushes her hair behind her ears, only remembering the gloopy mixture on her hands when she feels it stick to her cheek. ‘Oh, for God’s s—’
Nan has that look she knows. Chloe’s good at reading faces – she’s had a lot of practice. Nan’s face now looks like a lost little girl. She knows that one too well.
‘Who are you? Why have you messed up my kitchen? Where’s Stella?’
Chloe looks down at the lino floor and sighs at the mess.
‘Stella?’ Nan calls over her shoulder, and then to Chloe, ‘Get out of my kitchen.’
Her face is full of panic. Chloe stands up and walks towards her.
‘Nan,’ she says. Then louder: ‘Nan.’
Nan covers her ears and starts to cry. ‘Stop shouting at me. Where’s Stella? I want Stella.’