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
The barista scribbles it onto the side of the cup without question.
Alec leaves early to take his wife for one of her hospital appointments. Chloe has never asked him what’s wrong with her. It grates that he can take so much time off.
Once he’s gone, she starts sifting through the pile of cuttings that need to be scanned to the new system. She opens the flatbed scanner on her desk. Bright white light shines through the fine newsprint; she places the lid down again, clicks the icon on the screen, and watches as the image appears seconds later.
DOCTORS DIDN’T BELIEVE I HAD CANCER
Chloe enlarges the story, zooms in once, twice, and then starts reading.
FOR thirteen years, Karen Stanmore was fobbed off by doctors who believed she was making up stomach pains.
Chloe reaches for her own stomach.
The thirty-five-year-old city woman even convinced herself that her pains and tiredness were psychosomatic, but after being admitted to hospital with suspected appendicitis, surgeons found a cancerous tumour that had been growing inside her for more than a decade.
Chloe reads on as the office thins out around her. At the back of her mind nags a vague memory of a collection, talk of leaving drinks. Perfume spritzed at desks travels the length of the newsroom towards her, tangling together in the air around the archive. She hears a cork popped, plastic cups passed around. One appears at the edge of her desk filled with something pale and fizzy she hadn’t asked for. She doesn’t look up, too engrossed in the story about Karen Stanmore and her stomach cancer.
It’s almost 6.15 p.m. by the time she’s finished googling the rare cancer the doctors finally found. She ticks off all of the symptoms until she’s satisfied there’s nothing black growing inside her. The office is quiet when she next glances up, but there are still another five or six files to get through. The phone rings on her desk. Without thinking, she snatches the receiver from the cradle.
‘Archive.’
‘Chloe?’
Her stomach sinks into her seat.
‘It’s Claire Sanders, social services. I’ve been leaving messages on your mobile.’
‘Oh yes, Claire, sorry, I—’
‘We need to speak urgently about your grandmother’s care, the sale of the house . . .’
She starts talking without invitation, about ‘assessment reports’, ‘needs meeting criteria’, ‘care homes’, ‘financial eligibility’.
Chloe goes back to the article about Karen Stanmore’s tumour.
THREE
Nan shuffles through the cemetery, clutching the daffodils inside gloved hands. The bright yellow of their happy heads stands out against the grey of this Sunday morning.
‘Have I been here before?’
‘Yes, Nan,’ Chloe says.
She doesn’t argue.
Chloe walks slowly behind her, keeping hold of her at the elbow; the disease that started somewhere in her brain has worked its way into the tips of her toes, making it easier for her to fall these days.