Page 21 of The Golden Girls’ Road Trip

‘But she told someone she’d had devastating news?’ I say, dubiously.

‘Aye,’ Morag says.

‘You did no’ tell me that,’ William says, visibly shocked. ‘Why did you no’ tell me that?’

‘Well, it’s nobody’s business and I don’t think it’s supposed to be common knowledge. But if this lass means something to her, perhaps she should know.’

‘Lass? I’m seventy.’ I laugh.

‘Aye, well, you know what I mean. You were a lass to her back then I dare say, and would probably still be a lass to her now.’

‘She said I was no one.’ My voice comes out as a strange strangled sound and for a horrible moment I think I’m going to cry.

‘I doubt she meant it,’ says William, kindly. ‘She’ll just be sore on account of you upping and leaving like you did. Why did you do that, anyway?’

‘It was a family matter; I had to go home. I did mean to come back, but it was impossible to start with.’

‘Impossible?’ William asks, but Morag shuts him down quickly.

‘You’re no’ but a man; you know nothing,’ she says and he rolls his eyes again.

I think about the American: Hank. ‘But she’s married though? The American?’

‘No, that’s her business partner. Her husband died last year.’

‘She did marry then?’

‘Oh aye, she married a very rich man. Lord Sebastian Linton, no less.’

‘Bloody hell!’ I say, imagining the Alex I knew: the skinny, fearless girl she was, marrying a lord of all people. ‘And she calls me Lady Constance! What a cheek… So the house where she had her exhibition – that’s her house?’ I ask, as it all slots together in my mind.

‘Yep, that great big monster is where she lives. No one had really seen her for ages. I’d kind of forgotten all about her, then the house was opened back up after being empty for a long time and they both turn up, married.’

‘She only got married a couple of years ago,’ William says, with a knowing look I don’t really understand. ‘A marriage of convenience we all thought. She never got over you,’ he clarifies.

‘And what do you know of it?’ Morag chips in.

‘I just know,’ says William. ‘I just know.’

11

The road back to Linton Hall winds its way around Loch Ness, and I keep glancing out of the window at the vista. Alex’s painting is everywhere: gold rippled water, the dappled reflections of the surrounding trees, the loch seemingly endless, disappearing into the distant haze.

Morag’s words are spinning through my mind. Alex is ill. How ill is ill? Is it terminal? She didn’t use that exact word, but she hinted, didn’t she? Devastating news? I have thought of every dreadful possibility, the terrible options flying through my head in a grisly list. The exhibition was her last then, I think, as I take a turning at speed, the van wobbling violently before I have it under control. I ease my foot from the accelerator and take a deep yogic breath to calm me, to slow my breathing, but my wish to get to Alex is acute. After all this time though, I probably need to slow down. I can hardly go marching in there talking about imminent death. And anyway, I remind myself, Alex was not happy to see me last night, and is not likely to have changed her mind now.

I turn off the main road and back onto Alex’s driveway. I park again by the detached garages off to the side with their three large oak doors. I wonder, absentmindedly, how many cars Alex actually has. Perhaps her late husband, the lord, had a fleet. I roll to a stop and pull on the handbrake, the van deciding that now is a good time to backfire. I cringe and glance at the house, imagining Alex looking out with her narrow eyes. There’s no one there, and I allow myself a moment longer to take in the property.

Alex lived in a tiny house with her family when I knew her. She shared a bedroom with her younger sister, and one bathroom with her parents and three other siblings. It was chaotic and warm; the family were kind and lovely. I remember her mother always with an apron on, flour down the front, the makings of a cake on the go. I never saw my own mother with a floury apron, but then she never baked. The closest she would get was to slip a silk wrap around her shoulders to protect her clothes when she applied her make-up before guests arrived.

Alex has done very well for herself. I bite my lip as the thought occurs. Faced with her imminent demise, all of this really means nothing at all.

I climb out of the van and walk up to the front door with a renewed sense of confidence, but when I ring the doorbell, there is no response at all. I decide to go for a snoop around the back.

Between the house and the boundary hedge is an iron gate and a pathway winding round behind the building. I push it open and follow the path until I’m in the most beautiful garden. The borders are stacked full of summer plants in a riot of colour. An impeccably clipped lawn stretches towards the cedar trees beyond as if a carpet has been rolled out. And, in the middle, is possibly the most stunning willow I have ever seen. There is a stone patio with perfectly placed rattan furniture and a hammock swinging in the shade. A canopy is strung between the edge of the house to a garden room like a sail. The whole place is utterly idyllic.

I can hear animated voices and duck back to the path while I try to see where they’re coming from, but after only a few moments I realise that it’s an audiobook or a podcast I can hear – some sort of recording – and it’s coming from where the hammock is swinging gently. I hesitate, suddenly unsure about creeping around Alex’s garden, invading her privacy. I can’t get an image of her narrow eyes and unsmiling mouth from last night out of my mind. She called me a nobody. There was no tearful reunion. My confidence leaves me. I go to take another step back the way I’ve come, deciding that leaving is probably the best option, when Alex’s arm suddenly flops down from the hammock and hangs limply to one side.

She’s dead. I’m too late! The thought is like a stab to my heart and I take a step closer. I take another step, swallowing down a sob that threatens in my throat. I can see her now, stretched out, one arm above her head; the other, dead and hanging. She looks so peaceful lying there, no more worries about her illness. Whatever that illness was.