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
As the hours pass, the sky darkens outside. A beep from the end of the office signals the arrival of the cleaner. He bundles in, knocking his Henry hoover against filing cabinets that protest with a metallic yelp. The rustling starts, the emptying of bins, and ceiling lights dozing behind frosty panels flicker into life to keep him company. At the other end of the office, Chloe begins to file away the stories she’s gathered, the thick pile of envelopes thinning out in her hand until there are none left.
It’s late, black licks at the windows, and the tinny sound from the cleaner’s headphones edges closer. Chloe returns to her desk and switches off her computer. Today’s newspaper is a skeleton now, picked of flesh. She pushes it deep into the recycling bin.
TWO
On the walk home she thinks of Nan. She’s tired and all she wants is sleep. She hopes she won’t find her clawing, cat-like, at the door.
When Nan misses Stella, it stirs the ache inside Chloe. It reminds her every time that she is the last one left to love. She pulls a photo from the breast pocket of her coat. It’s her favourite, a black and white one of Nan and Stella. Nan must be around thirty, Stella is only six; she has white-blonde curls and she’s missing two front teeth. They’re on a beach in Cornwall, the shadow of St Michael’s Mount looming behind their shoulders. This picture anchors Chloe on the days when she feels lost. She likes to imagine Granddad watching them through the viewfinder, nose pushed up to the camera’s black leathery body, teasing them to say ‘cheese’ the way he always did. Not that she remembers.
There’s something about that photograph that she loves: ghosts of the past looking out at the future, a sunny day on a sandy beach, the way Nan’s hand grips Stella’s shoulder. She runs her finger across them, the picture-perfect family frozen in time. She smiles as she slips the photograph carefully back into her pocket.
She fishes her phone from her bag. Three missed calls. She recognizes the number – social services. She dials her voicemail then decides against it and quickly hangs up, ignoring the messages.
She likes walking in the dark, as if threat wraps her in a safety blanket rather than strips her bare. Children are meant to be afraid of the dark; she never had much choice other than to find comfort in it.