Page 33 of The Golden Girls’ Road Trip

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It’s the smell of cooking that wakes me. The rich aroma of onions, garlic and oregano brings me out of my sleep and I sit up on the lounger and rub my eyes. My hair feels horrible after the swim. A combination of leaving it to dry without brushing it and the chlorine from the pool has left it in a bit of a mess. I run my hands through it, make a quick plait at the nape of my neck, tie my robe a little tighter and go through to the kitchen to find Alex.

She is at the hob on the island stirring something in a pan. She has earbuds in, listening to music. I know it’s music because she’s swaying in time with whatever she’s hearing. She doesn’t see me in the doorway and I watch her for a while. She’s dressed again, in black trousers and a pink blouse and it looks as if she’s blow-dried her hair into little Eighties flicks. There are so many things I want to say to her and my heart aches to. I want to tell her she’s beautiful, that despite the steely exterior she has, I know how soft she can be inside. She can be fun and kind and incredibly sexy. My mouth dries with that thought, because it’s been fifty-two years and our time together, in that way, is a long distant memory.

She looks up and catches my eye and there’s a moment, just a tiny moment, where I wonder if she’s contemplating the same things I am. Then she smiles and takes her earbuds out, reaches for her phone to turn the music off.

‘I’m making a spag bol, which is pretty much all I can make these days. If you want to shower and change, then the guest rooms are down to the left off the hallway. Your room has teal and gold elephants on the wallpaper; you can’t miss it. I was thinking we could eat this and get a taxi into the city, have a couple of cocktails. What do you think?’

‘I think that sounds great,’ I say, and walk away to find my room. Bardo trots down the hallway behind me for a bit, but then seems to change his mind and turns back to his owner. I’m not sure if he likes me. He will allow a quick pet from me, but then seems to move away. I think he’s still sizing me up. But then I think Alex is doing the same thing.

17

I’m not dressed for this, I realise, the second we join the back of the short queue to get into the cocktail bar. I’m not used to coming to places like this. My long gypsy skirt and floral blouse are so out of sync with the plunging necklines and tight trousers of the other people here. It’s youth, I realise, and I shouldn’t be wearing the same clothes – that would be weird – but Alex seems to have it right with her outfit. She didn’t change after dinner and even though she’s dressed fairly casually in her black trousers and a pale pink, cotton blouse, her statement jewellery of long gold chains and colourful bracelets bring her far more up to date than me. She’s also navigated the cobbled street we’ve walked up in high-heeled shoes, although I had to pull her up and out of the taxi that dropped us off by the gardens at the end of the lane.

‘Can’t we just go to the pub next door?’ I ask, and she laughs.

‘No, they do such wonderful cocktails in here; you’ll love it.’

‘I feel uncomfortable though.’

‘Connie, why do you worry about what you look like? I’m sure no one cares.’

‘I don’t, usually,’ I say, with a bitter edge to my voice. I can’t really keep up in Alex’s world, but then, I never could. I always felt a bit like the spare part. I suppose that was why I was so keen to get on the road together then, because apart from the expected gentle ribbing between friends, Alex never judged me, not really.

We file in behind the others and wait to see if there’s a table for us. It’s surprisingly busy for a Wednesday evening.

A young man with a gorgeous ginger beard and a bright blue shirt appears. We’re shown to a booth in the corner and menus are placed down in front of us.

‘Can you tell Rachel that Lex is here?’ Alex asks him and he nods and then disappears.

I put my glasses on and glance through the menu for something simple and palatable. What I’d really like is a glass of wine or a gin.

A woman appears from behind the bar. She’s in her sixties I would guess, tall and willowy, reminding me of Vic. Her blonde hair is in a pixie cut and I notice she has a skirt on not dissimilar to mine, but she’s teamed it with a jacket and that makes it look more chic. She wears a long string of pearls around her neck and a delighted expression on her face.

‘Lex!’ she says. ‘It’s bloody lovely to see you.’

Alex gets up and the two women hug tightly. She really does have friends everywhere. I wonder if it’s only her inner circle that gets to call her Lex. I also wonder if she’ll allow me to do the same.

‘Join us,’ Alex says, and I feel that tug of something unpleasant. It’s the same tug I felt whenever Alex would invite others out with us, when I would really just want her all to myself. I’d dearly love to be back at the bungalow now with a cup of tea, curled up on the sofa, curled up with her.

‘Go on then, I will,’ she says, turning to me. ‘Rachel Ewart.’ She extends her arm and I get up to shake her hand. I’m about to tell her I’m called Connie, but Alex gets in there first.

‘This is Lady Constance Fitzgerald,’ she says with a smirk, and I cringe. I also notice Rachel’s eyes flick to Alex and then back to me with some sort of knowing behind them.

‘Connie,’ I say, as the waiter arrives to take our order.

‘I’ll come and get them, Graham,’ Rachel says, and we all sit down. I glance at the menu again, with no idea what to have, so I ask Rachel what she recommends.

‘Are you a gin lady?’ she asks.

‘Alex is the only lady here,’ I reply with a laugh and Rachel looks at me, bemused. ‘But, yes, gin I do like.’

‘I’d recommend the White Lady then, funnily enough: Beefeater gin, triple sec, lemon, sugar, egg white. It’s a simple, silky and delicious gin-laced classic with a sour finish.’

‘Perfect for you, Connie,’ Alex says. ‘I’ll have the Last Stand,’ she adds.

‘Of course you will,’ I say, watching Rachel trying not to smirk. ‘What’s in that, then? Something cool and spiky with a hint of resentment?’