Page 23 of The Golden Girls’ Road Trip

Alex turns her head to look out of the window, but I catch the smirk on her face before she does.

‘You’ve changed from that Kensington chick who turned up in my home town,’ she says.

‘It’s been fifty-two years since I turned up,’ I retort, but realise a little too late what I’ve said. Alex turns back to look at me, and even though I have my eyes firmly on the road I can feel her gaze hot on my face.

‘Yes, it has been fifty-two years. You’re quite right, Connie.’ She breathes out a long low breath and then in almost a whisper she says again, ‘Fifty-two years.’

I grip the steering wheel, my emotions mixed. She hasn’t forgiven me for leaving – that is clear – but to know she is still so affected by me is heartening. This is not going to be easy.

*

We pull up outside the doctor’s surgery and Alex has gone back to being uncomfortable. She’s gritting her teeth and steadfastly not looking at me.

‘Shall I come round and help you?’ I ask and she shoots me a look.

‘No,’ she says simply, before shifting in her seat to face the door. She pulls the handle and pushes it open as wide as she can, then begins to shuffle her bottom round until her legs are dangling down. Then she seems to slump in her seat. ‘For Christ’s sake Connie, why do you drive this ridiculous vehicle? You’re going to have to help me down.’

I leap out from my side and straight round to help her. Alex’s face is thunderous as I slip an arm around her to take as much weight as I can, then she seems to slither to the ground with a sound that speaks of pain escaping from her lips. She begins to hobble towards the surgery building.

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ I call out, already knowing the answer. Alex doesn’t respond and I climb back into the van, sensibly deciding that what she meant with her silence was: absolutely not.

As I wait, I deliberate what to do next. What I should do is drive Alex home and then leave, but now I’m here, now I’ve seen her, I know that is going to be nearly impossible. Hasn’t she let me into her world a little, a very little? It would be a shame to leave now and not get to say all that I want to, all that I’ve waited these years to say. It’s a sad state of affairs to think that I’d rather be here with someone who doesn’t seem to want me, than to go home and see my family. For the first time since I drove over the border I feel a bit bereft. Haven’t I left my family? Haven’t I done exactly the opposite of what I did in 1970?

This time, I’ve chosen Alex.

The door to the surgery opens and she reappears. I fight the urge to go and help her as she limps back across the car park, but I do climb out and aid her back into the van, touching her as little as possible and ignoring the murderous vibes radiating from her body.

‘How did you get on?’ I ask cheerfully as I start the engine.

‘I don’t want to talk about it; it is what it is,’ she says, shutting down that conversation before it can go any further. I decide to persist, though. I want to know what it is that’s wrong with her.

‘Maybe it would be good to talk about it, don’t you think?’ I ask, as I pull out of the car park. I catch the look on Alex’s face as I glance left and turn onto the main road. I can’t make out her expression. It swings between annoyance and confusion and settles somewhere in the middle. ‘Shall we go and get some lunch, or do you want me to drop you back home?’ I brace myself for the answer, fully expecting a big, fat no.

‘Aye, go on then,’ Alex says. ‘This whole thing couldn’t really get any weirder could it?’

I can’t help the smile twitching on my lips.

*

The pub I’ve chosen is quiet and we take our drinks into the garden after ordering food at the bar. I find a spot in the shade and move a dirty ashtray onto a neighbouring table, then brush some crumbs onto the ground. Perhaps not what Alex is used to these days, although she doesn’t seem bothered.

We sit and then stare at each other for a moment. I can’t think of the best way to begin with all that I have to say, so I sip at my Diet Coke and hope that Alex has something.

‘Did you say you live in Brighton? I thought you said, last night, that you had a flat there,’ she asks.

‘Yes, I do, been there for five years. North Wales before that and lots of other places in my time.’

‘So, what made you move to Brighton?’ she asks, her large Rioja disappearing fast.

I think about this for a moment, because the truth is that being closer to Simon is the reason I moved, or rather, Simon thinking I should be closer to him. Is this the time for revelations? But, there is no other time; once I drop Alex home I might never see her again.

‘My son, Simon, he wanted me to be closer to him.’

Alex just nods as if it’s of no consequence whatsoever, when the truth is quite the opposite. Simon was the reason for everything.

‘What about you?’ I ask quickly. ‘Do you have any children?’

‘God no!’ Alex shudders as if I’ve asked her if she eats mud for breakfast. ‘I once heard Tracey Emin talking about having children and how her creative yearning and her want to be an artist far overrode the physical feelings of wanting to be a mother. That’s exactly how I feel.’