Page 18 of The Golden Girls’ Road Trip

Others are getting out of their cars and moving towards the main house and I hover, plucking up the courage to do the same. It’s only when a small group gather at the entrance that I move forward and join the back, trying to appear part of them as they chatter about the exhibition and how wonderful it is to be here, how Alex seemed to have dropped off of everyone’s radar and disappeared, but has now somehow reappeared.

‘I wonder why Mackenzie decided to exhibit now, after all this time,’ says a young woman with a pretty blue scarf artfully swathed around her neck and shoulders. I smile to myself, remembering the man at the campsite and his unsolicited fashion advice this morning. ‘I suppose it’s usually about money.’

‘I very much doubt it. The artwork has always been sold under a veil, I’ve heard, not that I could afford anything of course. My son’s boss commissioned a piece apparently, and it was thousands,’ says one of the men wearing brown cords and a Fair Isle sleeveless sweater over a T-shirt. I glance down at my long skirt, wondering if I’ve made the right decision, but it’s too late now; it will have to do.

I take in the information as we move forwards into the house. The thought of Alex being so revered and me never having bothered to try and reconnect… Then again, during the time when I would have wanted to, there hadn’t been the means. In later years when information was only a click away, I’d been too scared to do it. Choices had been made, and they had to be stuck by. Which begs the question: why am I here now?

We shuffle along as a group, and the others don’t seem to mind that I have tagged on to their party, the man even offers me a smile as we take a brochure each from a table positioned in the main entrance hall.

The room is vast with a grand piano right at the centre. Family portraits hang from the heavily wallpapered walls and tell of an estate that goes back some way in history. Fresh floral displays in vast vases sit on the tables showcased by three windows with views out over the grounds. There is nothing here that says Alex Mackenzie to me, but I have to remember, I don’t know my old friend anymore.

I move away from the group as I experience a moment of something that could be fear or excitement. The two are so closely linked it’s often hard to pick them apart. Beyond the doors in front of me is Alex, or certainly a record of Alex’s life in paint. I take a calming breath and push the door open.

I’m met with a brightly lit room, no dark corners to hide in, despite my overwhelming urge to find one. The room has been stripped of anything resembling the decor of the entrance hall and has been transformed into an exhibition space. The area is cavernous and looks up to the galleried landing above. White screens have been placed along the lengths of the walls with Alex’s paintings hanging perfectly. Of course they’re Alex’s – I would know them anywhere, that distinctive style.

I quickly scan the area, ignoring the artwork at first, in favour of the people. My eyes roam over the heads of everyone here, but not one face is familiar. Of course, it’s quite possible that Alex only attended the opening or the private viewing. Maybe artists don’t hang around for the last night. There’s a crushing feeling in my chest, quickly followed by a huge sense of relief. There will be no grand meeting and I can just relax, enjoy the artwork, leave here with my pride intact and pretend this was just a silly idea all along. A waiter walks up to me with a tray loaded with glasses of champagne, so I take one and compose myself.

Beginning with some portraits, I immerse myself in the art, allow myself to remember watching the artist at work. How close I feel suddenly to Alex after all this time.

There are cards pinned to the wall next to each painting. Sometimes it’s made clear who it is with their name, but others just say sitter #12 or sitter #13. Firstly I notice that every single painting has a red dot next to it, declaring it sold, and then I see sitter #1 and my breath leaves my body for a moment. Sitter one is me.

I am eighteen again with pink cheeks and bright eyes. My blonde hair falls in waves around my shoulders and my head is turned ever so slightly away as if I’m about to leave. Alex never had a photograph of me; this has been painted by memory. I raise my hand to touch the canvas, to trace my fingertips over the brush marks, but manage to stop myself in time. It’s probably not the done thing.

There is no red sold sticker, I notice, and I very much want to buy it. I’m mesmerised, but eventually I pull myself away, determined to find the landscapes. For just a moment, I feel as if I’m being watched and I turn around, but everyone here is absorbed in the artwork. No one is looking at me.

Taking my glass I walk through to the next room: the library. I can see some of the books hiding behind the screens and peeping through the gaps. Here I find scenes of Scotland: lochs and rivers, mountains and forests, bleak landscapes and bright, sunlit glades. There isn’t a building in sight; it is nature all the way.

As I make my way amid the maze of paintings I see it at last. The companion painting hanging alone on a large screen with a glaring space beside it. It looks odd on its own and the way it’s been displayed makes it obvious that there’s something missing. I take a couple of steps closer and then I notice the small plaque pinned next to it, declaring that it’s not for sale. For the first time a chill runs through me and I try to take myself back to the time when I left with the painting. I didn’t steal it; Alex as good as told me to take it, that it was for me, but still, all these years later the details are hazy, and why did Alex never sell this one? I open the brochure for the first time to look at the price list and gulp when I see the figures. There isn’t a painting in here for less than three thousand pounds and this one in front of me is superior to all the others. I feel a presence behind me and I’m convinced someone is watching me now. I sidestep out of their way and then I glance back.

There’s a woman wearing a black silk dress with gold trim on a plunging neckline. She has glorious golden, red hair, hanging in soft curls around her face. Her piercing blue eyes, not dulled with time, bore into my own. My legs feel like they may buckle.

Alexandra Mackenzie. Alex.

We stare at each other, my heart pounding so hard, she surely must be able to hear it.

‘Lady Constance, what brings you here?’ Alex says, without a flicker of emotion on her face. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. All thoughts of words vanish at the sight of my old friend. How beautiful she still is, how much I would have known her anywhere. All the years I have travelled and the cities and towns I’ve visited, always looking out for a glimpse of the woman I knew. I’d often thought that maybe she might have walked past me but I’d not recognised her, forgotten what she looked like, but now it is clear that in all that time of looking, I never once saw her.

‘Alex,’ I breathe, because that is all I can say, and still she stares unflinching. I force myself to speak. ‘How lovely to see you,’ I say, all mock smiles and fake cheerfulness, ridiculously over the top. Alex’s eyes narrow and her lips remain in their thin, tight line.

‘Where’s my painting?’ she says, and I shrink under her stare.

‘I still have it,’ I gabble. ‘It’s on the wall in my Brighton flat. I still love it,’ I add and instantly wish I hadn’t. Alex looks past me to the empty space on the wall. ‘I should have thought to bring it with me; they always did look so good together.’

Her lips soften slightly at my words, but nothing close to a smile, and I plough on, hopeful. ‘How are you? What have you been up to?’ I ask, and her lips thin once more.

‘What have I been up to? Do you mean for the last fifty-two years? I think it’s probably more important to hear what you’ve been up to, don’t you?’

I don’t mean to and later I’ll blame the glass of champagne I’ve consumed, but Alex’s face is so severe that I snort out a bark of laughter. It does go some way to breaking the deadlock, because she looks surprised and for a moment it’s as if the years have rolled back.

‘Alex, your exhibition is wonderful and you look so well. You haven’t changed a bit,’ I gabble again, desperately trying to win my friend round, to see that smile I’ve missed so much, but she remains unmoved.

‘You don’t look the same,’ she says. ‘You look old.’

I laugh again and Alex’s lips twitch. ‘It was our seventieth birthday last week, remember? I am old – exactly as old as you.’

I managed to get invited to Alex’s eighteenth birthday party, but only I knew it was my birthday too. Her friend had set it up in a secluded spot on the banks of the loch. There was music, a fire and a fair amount of booze. Alex and I weren’t close at that point, but I was hanging off her every word, desperate for her to look in my direction. I would spend an embarrassing amount of time having imagined conversations with her in my head while I cleaned the rooms at the hotel. I’d come up with witty statements and clever jokes, but in reality, whenever I was face to face with her, I would hold back and keep my mouth shut, terrified of saying the wrong thing. The night of that party, though, everything changed.

A man approaches from the side now, dressed in grey wool trousers and a crisp white shirt. His silver hair is slicked back and flicks up on his collar. He’s holding two glasses of champagne.