Page 40 of The Golden Girls’ Road Trip

And incredibly expensive, I think, as we take our bags down the steps to the door. There’s a veranda overlooking the lake with comfortable chairs. I know where we’ll be spending the evening.

There is only one bed.

‘I’ll be more than comfortable on the sofa,’ I say quickly.

‘Okay,’ Alex says without bothering to argue. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but try to squash any disappointment.

We make our food and take it out onto the veranda to catch the last of the sun. Bardo is the king of finding a ray of sunshine and he settles in its full glare. It’s been a busy and tiring few days and we’ve got plenty more to come, but right now, I feel relaxed and happy with my glass of wine and bowl of comfort food.

‘Where are we dropping the painting tomorrow?’ I ask, resting my head back against the chair and watching the ripples across the water. There are paddleboarders and kayakers out on the lake, their trails sparkling as they move across the surface. I’m determined to swim in the sea tomorrow in Aberystwyth. All this driving is not doing my joints any good.

‘It’s three actually, a private collector in Machynlleth.’

‘Wow, three! A Welsh collector of Scottish art. Is that unusual?’

‘She’s Scottish, married to a Welshman and wanting a bit of home around the place. She’s bought from me before when she lived in Dundee.’

‘That’s great then. Alex, you’re very successful. I’m so impressed.’

She scoffs and finishes her glass. I’ve barely started mine and intend to keep it that way; although, it’s not that far a drive to Aberystwyth, I’d still like to do it with a clear head.

‘You don’t think you’re successful?’ I ask her.

‘Define success, Con,’ she answers.

‘Selling all your paintings for a lot of money?’

‘But, does it make me happy, and is it even enough money? That’s the question.’

‘How much money do you need? I’m pretty sure that amount would set me up for the rest of my life,’ I say, but she scoffs again.

‘Well, you and me are different, clearly.’

There’s an unpleasant and bitter edge to her voice now and she leans forwards and tips more wine into her glass. She’s hardly touched her food.

‘Have you spoken to Hank?’ I ask her, and she looks across at me, her expression sharp. ‘About the paintings, I mean. He’s your business partner, isn’t he? Is he happy that you’re hand delivering some of them? I suppose he encourages that personal touch?’ I pick what I say carefully, my intention to drag some truth out of her.

For a long moment I don’t think she’s going to respond and she takes a long draw from her wine before she does.

‘Yeah,’ she says, slowly. ‘He is my business partner, and of course he knows I’m on the road. Why wouldn’t he?’ she says, a little defensively. ‘It was his idea, in fact. Now, I don’t want to think about all that; I just want to enjoy my time away.’

I wonder why she’s lying. It can’t just be embarrassment about this trip, surely. I’m delighted she made it happen. Or has she actually spoken to him? I haven’t heard her on the phone at all, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t been. What she’s saying isn’t making much sense. I try to remember what it was, exactly, that Hank said to me. ‘You’re doing what?’ He was surprised, almost scornful I think. Perhaps the wine has got to Alex, maybe the sun today too.

‘Are you happy, living in that huge house by yourself?’ I continue, keen to pursue some conversation now I’ve started, even if she’s shut down about Hank. I wonder if he’s a controlling business partner, perhaps she’s trying to become more independent. What does she need him for anyway?

She sighs and then drinks some more wine. Her words are becoming slurred.

‘No,’ she says. ‘I’m not. It’s too big for me on my own. I don’t even like the house. I mean who needs ten bedrooms?’ she asks, but I know she doesn’t need an answer to that.

‘How did you meet him – Lord Linton?’ I say, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice when I say his name. He sounds like a fictional character: either a swashbuckling hero or a cad. I’m inclined to think the latter.

‘I met him in Venice a few years ago. We were both at the Peggy Guggenheim Collection.’

‘I don’t know what that is,’ I say.

‘It’s a museum of modern art on the Grand Canal in Venice. It doesn’t really matter, but that was where I met him. I was travelling with a friend…’ she pauses, but doesn’t catch my eye ‘…and I met Sebastian who was there with his wife. We realised we had a mutual friend – another artist we knew – Helena – and we got chatting. Then he appeared again a while later at Helena’s party in Edinburgh. She has one of my early paintings and Sebastian was complimentary about it, said he could inject some oomph into my stagnant career. He was a prolific collector and entrepreneur; he had property, status, a name. I’ll be honest, and this is difficult to admit, I was swept off my feet.’

‘I thought you said he had a wife.’