Page 46 of The Golden Girls’ Road Trip

‘Well, he didn’t tell me that. He just said you were a walloper, whatever that is, and that you’d buggered off to waste your life away.’

‘An idiot,’ she says. ‘He was annoyed that I was studying art, said it was a waste of an opportunity.’

‘Well, he was wrong, clearly,’ I say, motioning over my shoulder at the last of the paintings stacked in the back. ‘Look at you now.’ I raise my glass to her, but she doesn’t reciprocate.

‘Yeah, look at me now,’ she says, despondently, but then, she seems to rally. ‘Look at us both! You were the golden child, set for university and a career in whatever took your fancy. Or maybe the wife to a prominent figure in the world of finance or law, politics or – I don’t know – any kind of rich mans’ game. And you did what? You went to Scotland, got knocked up, and ran away.’

I’m about to interrupt, but she continues.

‘And I wasn’t set for any of those things, but I did catch a break and went on to become an artist – and a dead brilliant one.’

She seems to run out of steam again and sinks back in her seat, pulling her cardigan closer around herself. It is getting colder in here.

‘Yes, what a turn-around,’ I say. ‘But, I always knew you’d be successful. You’re so talented.’

‘You’re missing the point, Con. You have a family, a life with people who surround you, who have your best interests at heart, who don’t want to exploit you. Maybe not your daughter-in-law to be fair, but others. And, you’re going to be a grandmother, so the family continues. I have absolutely nothing. Maybe I made poor choices.’

‘What are you talking about? You have an amazing talent, a successful business; we’ve yet to find somewhere in this country where you don’t have friends.’

Alex waves a hand at me dismissively and takes another fistful of nuts from the packet.

‘Acquaintances, Connie, there’s a difference.’

I turn back in my seat. She’s a bit drunk again, becoming maudlin.

‘Why did you do it, Connie?’ she says, suddenly. ‘Why did you sleep with William?’

22

‘What?’ I spin round to look at her, but her face is firmly on the dark night beyond the windscreen.

‘We had something good, really good if my memory serves me well. I thought we were going to break away from the negativity and oppression our families exerted over us. I thought we were going to get out of Dodge, do something amazing, travel, be in love, be untouchable, a force to be reckoned with.’

That jigsaw piece finally slots into place in my head and I want to laugh. I don’t, of course. Now is certainly not the time.

‘I did not sleep with William,’ I say, simply. ‘How could you think I would sleep with our friend?’

She doesn’t answer, but is hopefully processing what I’ve told her.

‘Alex, I never told you why my parents sent me to Scotland because I was so ashamed. I should have told you, but I just couldn’t.’

She picks up the wine bottle, wedged by the handbrake, and refills both of our glasses.

‘I thought we were deeply in love and that you had sex with our best pal,’ she says. ‘What could be more shameful than that?’

I put my glass by my feet; I really don’t want any more to drink tonight. This is so important; I’ve waited a long time to say these words. I want to do it with a clear head. I want Alex to stop drinking too, because I have a horrible feeling that she might not remember any of this in the morning.

‘I was pregnant before I left London, not that I knew it at the time of course,’ I begin, and Alex turns to me, her face a picture of surprise. ‘Of course I didn’t sleep with William.’ I watch her as everything she thinks she knows slides away.

‘Who the hell is Simon’s father then?’

‘I had an encounter with a man.’ I can’t bring myself to tell her I was assaulted. I just don’t think I could say the words. ‘It’s why I was sent to Scotland, to get me out of the picture until things blew over. He was a married man with kids, a friend of my parents.’ I swallow a hard lump and pick up my wine. Sod the sobriety, I need a drink.

‘Christ, Connie, why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Like I said, I was ashamed. I didn’t know I was pregnant for weeks. It didn’t occur to me until I starting feeling sick. I thought it was a mix of nerves and being in love.’ I laugh, but it comes out as a hollow bark. ‘When I left Scotland,’ I continue, keen to move on to safer territory, ‘I went straight home, because that’s what I always did. I was a good girl who did as she was told and always went home. My father wasn’t there, luckily. My mother was furious.’

I remember that day as if it was just last week. I arrived back to my mother drinking a cocktail at three in the afternoon and it clearly wasn’t her first. I had realised at this point that she had a problem with alcohol and that it was probably caused by my draconian father. It was a mistake to not let her know I was on my way; we didn’t have the sort of home you just turned up to, even if you actually lived there. She was not pleased to see me. I took the opportunity to tell her about my predicament and to remind her of the truth that led me to my situation, but she was too flustered to listen. She helped me pack some more things and gave me some cash, quite a lot of cash actually, then told me to get myself sorted before my father came home.