Page 32 of The Golden Girls’ Road Trip

We cross the River Ribble into Preston at three o’clock. Alex has returned to her navigational chatter while adding in her potted history of the city.

She starts with Preston being mentioned in the 1086 Domesday Book, moves through the Roman period to the English Civil War and the Battle of Preston in 1648, and then on to a visit by Charles Dickens during a strike by cotton workers in 1854. Before we reach the city centre, Alex is telling me to turn right and head north while informing me about the opening of St George’s shopping centre in 1966, and my head is swimming.

‘Are we stopping soon, Alex? I’m quite tired, to be honest,’ I say, feeling that an afternoon nap is just what I need, and I’m more than happy to pull over and do that in the back of the van if I can shift the dog. He’s abandoned his bed on the floor, because it’s too cramped with the paintings and Alex’s suitcase, and he’s taken up residence on the seats.

‘We are, Con,’ she says and then seems to catch herself at shortening my name. She used to call me Con when she was being affectionate, Connie the rest of the time and Lady Constance right back at the start, when we first met. I hold on to that thought. ‘My friends have said we can use their house for a night or even two if we need it. They’re in Spain for a month and it’s empty. It’s a couple of miles up the road.’

‘That’s so kind of them,’ I say. She seems to have friends everywhere. This reclusive artist with a hoard of mates.

She directs me up the A6 and then off into a leafy residential road with an eclectic mix of properties. Some are pretty bay-windowed 1930s semi-detached houses, some are bungalows and others are mock Tudor modern properties. One thing they all have in common, though is money. I think we must be in one of the more salubrious areas of Preston.

‘Just here, on the left,’ Alex says pointing to a substantial bungalow behind clipped hedges. I pull onto the driveway and come to a stop outside the front door. The place is vast, a single-storey long beige building, with no character at all. The windows reach down to the ground and whatever lies beyond is shrouded by vertical blinds drawn to an angle that makes voyeurism impossible.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Alex says, opening her door. ‘But wait until you see inside. Leave your sense of taste for the traditional at the front door.’ She laughs.

Bardo jumps down from the van when I open the side door and immediately cocks his leg on one of the potted bay trees that stand sentry to the front door. I wonder if we should wash it away, but Alex is fiddling with the key in the lock.

‘There’s a key safe for the cleaners,’ she explains, as she swings the door open.

Footballers’ homes is the first thought I have when I take in the crystal chandelier hanging in the hallway. There’s no second floor to this bungalow, but they have made a space into the roof with a glass skylight above and the hallway is flooded with sparkly, fractured light shining from an ornate fitting. The walls are covered in rich, dark wallpaper decorated with tropical birds sitting in golden trees. Paintings, ornaments, plants – the place is festooned with expensive-looking stuff.

Alex leads the way into the kitchen at the back of the house, which unsurprisingly is vast and gleaming. Dark blue and gold is the theme in here and the whole room sings with its particular style. My thoughts go to my tiny kitchen and its fairly basic cream, shaker-style doors and standard black Formica worktops. These tops are granite, sliced through with gold, blue and black, and they cover a huge island in the middle and a long breakfast bar that separates the kitchen from an orangery. I might call it a conservatory with its vaulted glass roof and sides, but the oak struts that support it make it look far grander than that. The area is covered in well-tended plants that hang, climb and creep. My eye, though, is on the large sofa by the doors to the garden. That nap is still forefront in my mind.

Alex steers me away, much to my disappointment, and off to the right, out into another brightly lit space, but she’s taken my hand and I’m so surprised at her touch, I follow without a word, her warm skin wrapped around mine.

We’re in an indoor swimming pool room with a jacuzzi. And is that an actual palm in the corner?

‘Goodness!’ I say.

‘I know, it’s a bit mad isn’t it?’ she says, dropping my hand.

Suddenly I feel less tired and the thought of a swim is welcome.

‘Can we get in?’ I say, and she turns to look at me in surprise.

‘Alex, I’ve learned to swim. I’m pretty good now.’

She hesitates for a moment, but then a smile appears and she almost looks excited. I’d forgotten that Alex wasn’t always the spiky grudge-bearer she seems to be now and I’m taken right back to the past, to when we were planning our escape.

We were in her room one evening after coming back from a day spent cycling around the loch. She had a map spread out on the floor and we sat, talking about where we were planning to go. She had a felt-tip pen and was busy drawing rings around all the places she wanted to visit. Our skin was singing from another day in the sun. Scotland was enjoying an unusual heatwave for those weeks I was there and everyone was sunburnt. I remember how excited she was, how excited I was.

Alex was braver than me, though. She was prepared to say goodbye to her lovely parents to take off with me in her brother’s battered old car. Two friends on a road trip, two lovers on a road trip, not that anyone knew how close we’d become. I think William perhaps guessed at that point, but he would never judge or say anything. I wanted nothing more in the whole world than to climb into her car and never look back, but I was still terrified of what my own parents would say. They controlled and demanded, expected, but rarely rewarded. And yet, I still felt drawn home as if they owned me.

I look at her face now, her eyes shining.

I push down the memory and how it still affects me and force a smile.

‘Let’s get in,’ I say.

*

We swim in our underwear because I don’t have my swimsuit and refuse to rummage in the owners’ drawers for a loan. Of course there’s a moment of self-consciousness when we undress by the edge of the pool, when we expose our thickened middles, nothing quite in the same place as it had been in the past. One good thing about getting older, though, is the ability to care less what others think. In my youth, even if we weren’t in direct competition with our friends, then we were certainly comparing ourselves. My female friendships post fifty are infused with a sense of solidarity. We have seen some life, taken some knocks and we are all about lifting each other up.

Alex quickly defuses the situation by saying that we both look pretty good for a couple of old women and then we jump in, laughing, and hide any wobbly bits we have, under the water. Bardo sits at the side watching us as we swim back and forth. Alex is happy to do a couple of widths of the pool, but I take in a few lengths. My body feels relieved to move and stretch out after so long sitting at the driver’s seat over the last couple of days.

I left home last Saturday and it’s now Wednesday, I calculate. Home seems a very long way from us here. We have managed to cocoon ourselves into a bubble and it will be hard to leave it when I have to. And I will have to. Leo and I still need to talk; I owe him that, despite his head and heart being all over the place. It’s also important that I make an effort with Diana, like Alex suggested. I am determined that we will be on the same team by the time the baby comes. For now though, I just want to enjoy being with Alex for as long as possible.

We do sleep after our swim. There are guest robes on hooks by the pool and the loungers are inviting. Alex makes up cool glasses of sparkling water and we stretch out. I’m ready to talk. It feels like a golden opportunity, but as I try to think of the best way to start our long-awaited conversation, I feel my eyelids drooping and I’m asleep in moments.