Page 17 of The Golden Girls’ Road Trip

For just a moment I feel as if I should be comforting him, not running away, but then the memory of Fiona’s face when she saw the ring, the fact he hadn’t told her about me and my resemblance to Brenda pushes to the forefront of my mind. This is not simple, not clear or an easy fix. Fundamentally, though, if I’m going back to talk to him, to decide if we can work together, to make a life with him, he deserves all of me, not this regretful woman who hasn’t let go of her past. Either way, I have a job to do here; that is clear.

It crosses my mind that I haven’t decided what I’m going to wear tonight, so I pull out a few options from my bag and lay them across the back of the driver’s seat. I’ve brought the cream cheesecloth dress I wore to my birthday dinner, but would it be ridiculous to turn up in something I wore the summer I met Alex? Or would it be a lovely thing for us to reminisce over? Maybe I should smarten up a bit; it could be quite a stylish occasion. Linton Hall does sound quite posh and didn’t the article use the word prestigious? I rummage through the remainder of my clothes. The navy trousers are a possibility, perhaps with the one jacket I packed, but it’s a rich shade of maroon and I don’t want to look like an entertainer on a holiday park. It might have to be jeans with a blouse, but then I don’t fancy sweating all evening; this heatwave is set to continue.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, will anyone care what I’m wearing? No, of course they won’t,’ I say, and elicit a response from someone outside the van.

‘They might do, depends on the occasion.’ A man’s voice comes in through the open door and I poke my head out to see who’s there. He’s in his fifties, I guess, with shorts and flip-flops on and absolutely nothing else. He carries a towel over one hairy arm and a wash bag dangles from the other.

‘It’s an art exhibition,’ I say, amused.

‘Right then, you need something bohemian, unconventional. Basically, what you’re wearing, but throw a scarf around your neck,’ he says and then turns away towards the shower block. ‘Have a nice time,’ he says over his shoulder.

I am too surprised to answer and by the time I’ve gathered my wits, he’s gone, off for his morning ablutions, although, that is as far as my thoughts will allow me to go. I glance down at my pale pink skirt skimming my ankles and the linen mix tunic top. Perhaps he’s right.

*

The boat moves across the water at a fair pace. I’ve chosen a seat on the top deck, in the open, but the sun is burning down on me again like it did all those years ago. An unexpected lump arrives in my throat as my eyes wander over the gold ripples of water and across to the banks of the loch, up into the Scots pines. It’s so odd to be back here on a boat on the loch. Of course this boat is much bigger than the one we used to chug up and down the water, finding secret places to moor and explore. We slept on the boat one night, the stars a blanket above us, the lapping of the water an encouragement to sleep, once the whispering had stopped.

‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ a woman asks, appearing in front of me and momentarily blocking the sun from my eyes.

‘Not at all,’ I reply. She’s a welcome distraction from my thoughts.

The woman seems about the same age as me, little wisps of her grey hair escaping from under her large straw hat, heavy make-up sitting shiny in the lines around her eyes. I wonder why anyone would bother with make-up on such a hot day; surely what doesn’t get trapped by the wrinkles would just slide off your face in a sweaty mess. I reconsider making up my own face for tonight. She slips into the seat beside me, manoeuvring her bag between her legs.

‘I thought it would be cooler out of the sun downstairs, but it’s stifling inside. At least there’s a breeze coming off the water up here. Is it your first time in Scotland, doll?’ The woman has a Scottish accent, the voice of a storyteller, soft and melodic.

‘Second time actually. First time was fifty-two years ago,’ I say.

‘What on earth did we do to frighten you away for that long then?’

‘Nothing,’ I say quickly, but the woman just laughs.

‘Are you from Inverness?’ I ask her. ‘My aunt used to own a hotel over there.’ I point in the general direction of the Lochside Hotel, but actually, that might be it, nestled in the trees. I can see the line of the roof and what looks like the tower, but it looks bigger than it used to. The woman is shaking her head.

‘Right enough, it’s the first time we’ve come to Inverness. Me and my husband Jim – he’s downstairs with a pint – we live just south of Edinburgh, on a wee holiday.’

‘I came here for the summer of 1970, when I was eighteen. I fell in love,’ I blurt out.

‘How wonderful,’ she says. ‘I fell in love with Jim in 1973 at the Edinburgh Reggae Festival. He spilt his pint over me when the Cimarons started playing. I was a bit stoned to be fair, but the care he took in cleaning me up was sweet. Nearly fifty years and three bairns later and nothing much has changed.’ She looks wistful for a moment, then glances towards the stairs that lead down to the bar, to Jim, and her look hardens. ‘Well, actually he doesn’t clean up anymore – that’s for sure. So, are you still with your chap?’

‘No,’ I say, quickly. ‘I made a huge mistake that summer, a terrible decision that I’ve had to live with all these years.’ I glance across at her and her face is warm as if inviting me to say more. And, isn’t that why I’m here, after all? ‘The thing is,’ I begin, but the commentary has started up again because we’ve reached Urquhart Castle and the woman has looked away, towards the ruins.

‘Ooh,’ she says, jumping up. ‘Let me just go and take some photos.’

The captain takes the boat in a wide arc and around into the bay where the castle sits. A photo opportunity that most people up on this top deck take advantage of. The woman joins them, snapping away on her mobile phone. I stand and walk down the steps to the back of the boat where’s it’s quiet and shaded. I take my phone out of my pocket with no intention of taking images of the ruins. I decide that this will be the last time I turn it on today, just check for messages and then off again until tomorrow. That way I can concentrate on what I need to do, although it occurs to me that I have no idea what I’m doing.

I’ve missed a call from Simon and he’s left a voice message telling me how sorry Leo is, and that I need to give him some space to sort out his feelings, but not too much space because I don’t want to lose him. I feel a bit sad about this message too. It’s Simon who doesn’t want to lose him really. I sigh, my finger hovering over the screen. I don’t need to go to the exhibition; I could get back in the van and be home by the end of the day. I could talk to Leo, resolve our issues and get the wedding back on track. But, I know I won’t. Nothing will get back on track until I resolve my issue, and my issue is, and always has been, Alex Mackenzie.

I switch off my phone and slip it into my handbag. We’re heading back now and I stay down at the rear of the boat, not wishing to carry on that conversation. The moment has passed.

The boat is moving into the jetty next to the restaurant and I stand up, keen to get off now. The woman appears with her husband, Jim, who staggers around like he’s had much more than the one pint. She’s waving at me, and I have an awful feeling she’s going to suggest we have lunch together. I raise my hand in response, a dismissive gesture, and then make my way to the stepping-off point. I walk down onto the landing and as quickly as I can up the slope and into the tunnel that cuts under the road. I’m up the steps and into the restaurant in no time and I find a tucked-away table with no view of the loch. I’m not bothered, I just want to eat quickly and quietly, then leave. I order salmon and new potatoes with salad then pull out the baby blanket and wait for my meal to arrive. The blue wool I bought in Durham will not make a full blanket and I decide to buy some more while I’m here in Scotland. Perhaps the colour of the sky or the green of Scots pines. It can be a travelling blanket, I decide: a postcard to my grandchild.

9

Alex’s exhibition is being held in a private house just off the A82 heading out of Inverness, and I check the address again before I pull off the main road, away from the loch and up the driveway. I find a corner to tuck the van into, away from the main house and closer to a row of garages. As much as I love Ruby, she does not sit right in this environment.

The house isn’t really a house, it’s a property. A huge, lavish, probably listed property with stables and a large stone outbuilding, perhaps a studio. Alex obviously has friends in high places. I swallow down a lump of trepidation. This certainly isn’t an intimate art gallery.

I lock the van and push the keys into my handbag, which hangs awkwardly from my shoulder. Everything about me now feels awkward.