Page 29 of The Golden Girls’ Road Trip

‘A woman after my own heart,’ she says, and then quickly looks away, but I keep my eyes on her while she studies the painting above the fireplace.

I get my phone out and look up places nearby that deliver and within half an hour we have plates of Goan fish curry, tarka daal, cauliflower bhaji and fluffy naan bread. It’s all delicious and despite our large lunch, we manage to finish the lot. And then we stay at the kitchen table, even though we should probably go to bed, and I tentatively ask Alex about her career.

She sits back in her chair and contemplates. Whether it’s what to tell me or how to say it I’m not sure, but eventually she begins.

‘I studied art in Aberdeen, travelled, came back, travelled again, came back and then settled in Inverness,’ she says, which really only makes me want to ask more questions. Her parents didn’t encourage her painting. As loving a family as they were, they were practical, and would have promoted her getting a ‘proper job’. I remember her dad was always complimentary about whatever she produced, but then he’d move the conversation on to work. I’m so happy that she made it to university, but I wonder how she managed it. How did she go from that tumbledown little house with her quirky and loving, but potless family to being able to study art? Someone must have helped her. Even though there wouldn’t have been tuition fees at the time, there would have been living costs.

‘Where did you travel?’

‘I won a scholarship and studied in Italy, then worked and travelled in Spain and France. It was wonderful, but my yearning for home was always greater than my wish to be away.’

‘I overheard someone at your exhibition saying you were a reclusive artist; in fact, the article I read said the same. How do you produce such…’ I falter for a moment on the word, but I’ve had enough wine to aid me ‘…expensive pieces and stay reclusive?’

She looks surprised at my question, but then her eyes narrow and it looks like I’ve annoyed her again.

‘It’s quite simple, Connie, I paint damn good paintings and don’t shoot my mouth off about it.’ She reaches for her wine and finishes the glass.

‘I’ve travelled,’ I say, but she just shrugs. I know she’s dying to know though, because I can see the questions burning in her eyes. ‘I didn’t get to all the places we talked about going to though.’ I foolishly throw this out there and I now know I’ve had too much wine and should probably go to bed.

‘You’ve got a bloody nerve; you really have, Connie. Glad you got to some of the places that we talked about going to.’

‘I’m sorry; I truly am. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry you weren’t there when I came back.’

Her eyes snap up at that, but she pushes her chair back and stands up.

‘It doesn’t matter now does it and, let’s be honest, it probably didn’t matter much then, either. I’m going to bed.’

She fills her glass again and then walks out of the kitchen, leaving me with the plates to clear away.

*

It’s raining properly when I wake in the morning. I can hear it bouncing off the roof of my van, parked below my bedroom window. Alex is in the kitchen with a cup of tea and she’s making her way through the packet of biscuits that were left for us along with a small fruit cake and a bottle of cloudy lemonade. She drank twice as much as I did last night, but she looks fresh-faced and seems much more awake than me. I brace myself for silence or the cold shoulder, but she smiles and makes me a tea. Bardo ignores me, his head in a bowl of his own biscuits.

‘I thought we could take a walk through the museum gardens and have breakfast at Bettys before we drop the painting off, if that sounds all right with you?’ She opens a plastic pot with a selection of pills inside and throws them into her mouth before finishing her drink.

‘Betty? A friend of yours?’ I ask.

‘A famous tea room,’ she says, rolling her eyes.

‘Oh, right, of course,’ I say, remembering the one in Harrogate. ‘But it’s pouring down out there.’ I take a mug from the counter and also grab a biscuit to see if it’ll help to mop up last night’s overindulgence.

‘Bit of rain never killed anyone,’ she says. ‘Do you have an umbrella in the van? You seem to have everything else.’

‘I do actually – I have three. Will you be okay with the walk?’ I ask, but she just frowns.

‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? I’m not at death’s door yet, you know,’ she snaps, but then her face softens and for a moment she seems to be deciding whether to be nice or not. Luckily she seems to choose the former.

We pack up our things and put them in the van ready for when we get back. Alex lets Bardo out for a bit, but then we leave him in the apartment and set off at a sedate pace down the street and towards the museum. The rain has eased a bit and is now more of a drizzle. I’ve given Alex my favourite rainbow umbrella – although I don’t tell her that – and she rests it on her shoulder as she walks.

I’ve done this walk before, the last time I was in York, some years ago, and the gardens are just as pretty as they were then, with their Roman ruins and tended borders. We wander down past the museum towards the river, where we leave the gardens and begin walking up the steps of Lendal Bridge towards the shops. We pass a McDonald’s and even that looks fancy within the stunning York architecture. And then I see Bettys on the corner and understand why Alex wanted to come here. It looks totally up her street. I do remember it from being here before, but the queue to get in and the price list had put me off. Neither of these things faze Alex. We are greeted and seated at a table by the window after leaving our dripping umbrellas at the door. I pick up the menu, and am about to untangle my glasses from my hair, but Alex takes it off me.

‘I’ll order, trust me,’ she says. ‘Can we have the imperial breakfast for two please?’ she asks the young man serving us. ‘Connie, shall we go for avocado and poached egg?’ she asks me, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I was expecting something more than that, but poached egg and avocado I can handle.

‘Tea or coffee?’ he asks. ‘And orange juice or perhaps a glass of mimosa?’

I’m beginning to feel this may be just as extravagant as I originally thought.

‘Do you mean a cocktail for breakfast?’ I ask.