Page 49 of The Golden Girls’ Road Trip

‘Oh, fine,’ she says, breezily waving her hand to prove it, but she looks tense, a muscle twitching in her jaw. ‘It’s just being temperamental. I’ve taken Bardo out and he’s sleeping now. Your bag is in your room if you need anything.’

I hesitate before I answer, suddenly disappointed not to be sharing a room after a wonderful night curled up together in the van, but I have to remind myself that Alex booked this before our Brecon Beacon adventure. Also, one row and then a minor reconciliation really doesn’t mean anything permanent.

‘I’ve got everything I need in my handbag,’ I say. ‘Look, do you fancy getting a boat round to the Pump House for lunch? They do a great gin and tonic in there, and there’s no driving until tomorrow. We can be proper tourists. We can take the dog; I’ve got water and a bag of his biscuits.’

Alex slips her phone into her pocket and pulls the smile back to her lips. She was always good at burying a problem, pushing it under the bed and pretending it wasn’t happening. The only problem is that she can never keep her brave face on for long. Eventually her mood will darken unless I can get her to talk about it. She might have a quietly glittering career and a large house with a bank balance to match, but she’s still that eighteen-year-old with the same serious expression that she can’t hide from me, when faced with a problem. I just wish she’d tell me what it is.

We leave the hotel with Bardo and walk the short distance along the street to the landing place to catch the boat. Bristol is busy. All the restaurants along the waterfront are packed with people having lunch and I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll be able to just walk into the Pump House and grab a table. I don’t have contacts like Alex does.

The ferry takes us past the arthouse cinema and the restaurants, the art centre and the amphitheatre, the huge building housing the M Shed on the left, partly obscured by the four cranes anchored out the front. Simon used to love the history of Bristol Museum when he was younger. If we were jumping in the van and taking off for a weekend, Bristol was often his first choice.

I try to engage Alex, pointing out the pretty coloured houses of Melville Heights and Brunel’s SS Great Britain, but I hear how I sound – a poor imitation of the actual commentary going on behind us – and anyway, Alex is scrolling through her phone. Bardo seems interested though. He’s sitting on her lap, staring over the side and wagging his tail at the ducks we pass.

We disembark at the Pump House and are lucky that a couple are just vacating their table so I pounce on it as soon as they leave.

I buy us drinks and order big fat burgers with chips, and we settle down for a pleasant lunch in the sunshine, watching paddleboarders floating past while Bardo takes a great interest in the ducks again.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’ I ask her once we both have a drink inside us. I decide to jump in with both feet. ‘Is it about Hank? Because I took a call from him the other day.’

Her head snaps up at that and she looks shocked.

‘What? When? What did he say? What did you say?’

‘Well, you said you’d spoken to him, so he must have said about the courier he’d arranged for Friday. I told him it was unlikely you’d be back and clearly you weren’t. I told him we were dealing with eight of them by delivering them ourselves. We got cut off though because your phone died.’

Alex lifts her hands to her face and begins to massage her temples, small circular movements that are meant to soothe, but with the pressure she’s applying she might take her skin off.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asks through her hands and I open my mouth to answer. ‘No, it doesn’t matter. It won’t make any difference now anyway.’

‘I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to be embarrassed.’

She takes her hands away and stares at me across the table.

‘Embarrassed? Why would I be embarrassed?’

‘Hank told me you never deliver your paintings, so I knew you chose to be on the road with me, that you never really needed my help.’

Never mind her, I’m the one who’s embarrassed now. She continues to stare at me, her expression becoming incredulous.

‘You think that’s what this is about? That that's all I have to worry about?’

‘I don’t know, Alex,’ I say, feeling the afternoon slipping away, the sunny lunch and warm boozy glow evaporating. ‘You won’t talk to me.’

‘It’s just… complicated,’ she says, standing up. She picks up our empty glasses and Bardo follows her inside the bar.

‘And none of my business, I guess,’ I say under my breath.

By the time Alex comes back with more gin, she seems to have softened a bit so the afternoon isn’t a complete disaster. She doesn’t mention Hank, and I salvage what I can with chit-chat about our onward journey down into the West Country.

It’s been a while since I was in Cornwall and I’d like us to make it down to Land’s End. It would be wonderful to traverse the country with her. Perhaps we can take in the North York Moors on our way back up, maybe stop at Whitby for the best fish at the Magpie Café. We could cut across to Anglesey and jump on a ferry to Dublin – I’d love to take her to Galway and do a tour of Ireland. My heart is bursting with the possibilities and opportunities still open to us. My head, I’m afraid to say, is telling me I have business at home, but I push it to one side for now. I know, ultimately, I won’t be able to push away my responsibilities for ever, but just for now I’d like to enjoy that feeling of hope, for me and this wonderfully stubborn, infuriatingly gorgeous woman.

That’s if I can just get her to open up.

24

Later, buoyed up by the gin I’ve had, I contemplate taking her hand as we walk back to the hotel, but I resist that urge. I couldn’t find the words to get her to open up and even our small talk was strained. Alex was never the easiest person to have a face-to-face, uncomfortable conversation with. I always used to feel wrong-footed and worried about saying the wrong thing. Our currency was action. The things we would do for one another. She’d clean one of the hotel rooms with me; I’d help her set up a painting space in an old shed in their garden. She’d pick out clothes for me when we went shopping; I’d make cakes with her younger siblings when we had to babysit. That was when we talked, and also in the dark, under the covers when we’d find a way to be together.

The sun is disappearing now and the lights begin to twinkle on the boats and along the waterfront. We follow the river back round, past bars and restaurants, tucked-away cafés and beautifully painted moored barges, then along the Millennium Promenade to the shops. Alex is swaying as she walks and not just from her usual hip pain. She’s consumed more than me and she’s a bit drunk. As if to prove my thoughts, she swerves left towards a chain bar, drinkers out on the pavement, heavy bass coming from inside.