Page 51 of The Golden Girls’ Road Trip

‘So, what will you do now? Get a place of your own? You must have made a fortune with all your paintings.’

She laughs then, a proper belly laugh, but as I watch her face convulse, there’s a moment when I realise she could just as well be crying.

‘Con, basically I have nothing. I’ve lived way beyond my means for far too long and retribution has come knocking. I paid my parent’s mortgage off, helped my siblings when I wasn’t realistically in a position to do so, pretty much gave everything I had away. I was so desperate for them to see they were wrong and that the life of an artist was fruitful and rewarding. I thought I’d just produce some more paintings and get back on track, but it didn’t happen. My parents, it turns out, were quite right – the up and down life of an artist is not easy. Fortune and misfortune are both at the behest of other people.

‘Then, when I met Sebastian, he offered me a way out of my predicament, but it came with a lifestyle I had no business indulging in. He wasn’t a steady sort of man really. I don’t own any of the proceeds of the sale of the paintings. Hank is not my business partner as everyone seems to think he is – he’s a friend of a friend, a man who has helped organise the sale of my work and to make sure the proceeds get to the people I owe money to. And he’s just found out that I’ve basically stolen some of my own artwork and sold it behind his back. I’ve had private arrangements for those paintings that we’re delivering. He’s apoplectic.’

‘Bloody hell! How have you managed to let things get to that? How long have you been having financial problems and – God, Alex – why are we staying in such expensive places?’

‘I wanted to impress you,’ she says simply and without a shred of embarrassment. ‘I wanted that original rich chick from that posh London house and posh London family to think I’d done well.’

‘I do think you’ve done well. I think you’re bloody amazing and it has nothing to do with money. I live in a one-bed flat in Brighton and drive a camper van. That is my reality and has been for most of my adult life. I don’t measure success in monetary terms and never have done.’

We sit for a while in a silence that is punctuated with the chat from those around us and from the music coming from inside, but it still feels palpable. I need to get us back to the hotel and get Alex to bed.

‘What are you going to do?’ I ask her as I begin to collect our things. I pour the remainder of Bardo’s water away and tuck his biscuits back in my bag after letting one fall into his waiting mouth. He lets me rub behind his ears.

‘This,’ she says, swinging her arms around. ‘This is what I’ll do. Get on the road, paint, sell stuff as I go. No one can take away my ability, my talent.’

It doesn’t sound like quite the impassioned speech, what with the slurring and the bitter edge to her voice.

‘You can come and stay with me for a bit, if you want,’ I say, but she doesn’t answer. Instead she gets up and begins to pace between the tables like she’s lost something. Bardo gets up to see what she’s doing. People are looking, surprised at this drunk woman staggering around near them.

‘Alex, let’s go,’ I say, taking her arm and bringing her back to the table to retrieve my bag and the dog. We begin the walk back to the hotel, away from the bar. It’s only nine-thirty and families are still out finishing meals and enjoying a walk through the city. I’m dragging a seventy-year-old and a spaniel and would quite like a magic wand to get us back to the hotel.

‘Con,’ she says suddenly, whipping her head up to look at me. ‘I don’t feel very well.’

I steer her quickly to a clump of bushes at the edge of a square garden. Houses line all sides, but I don’t have time to worry about what people think, if they’re looking out of their windows. I hold her hair back while she empties the contents of her stomach under some perfectly clipped hedging. I glance behind me, but no one seems to be looking as Alex heaves and coughs, although Bardo looks away in disgust. When she’s finished I hand her a tissue and she wipes her mouth and turns to look at me.

‘Sorry, Con,’ she says, her words still slurred.

‘Let’s get you back to the hotel.’

I slip my cardigan around her shoulders and take her arm. Despite what has just transpired I’m delighted to have her close to me. I love her. The thought appears in my head without any of the usual nonsense of whether she feels the same way, whether she even cares about me. I realise it doesn’t matter either way. There is absolutely no question, I love her. As we make our way down the street towards the hotel it strikes me that this both pleases me and terrifies me at the same time.

Alex falls onto her bed when I get her back to her room, but I make her sit up and drink some water, then pull her shoes and trousers off, remove all her jewellery and tuck her in under the covers with just her pants, her top and my cardigan still on. The dog ignores his bed and jumps up beside her, turning round twice before settling into the crook between her bottom and her legs. I sit with her for a while. She’s curled up away from me, and I watch her shoulders rise and fall as she slips into sleep. Then, I take a blanket from the top shelf in her wardrobe and settle in the armchair by the window where I intend to keep an eye on her. In five minutes, I’m asleep myself.

25

I have Ruby back by ten and I’m packed up ready to go. I took Bardo with me for the exercise. I’ve transferred money from my savings account to cover the bill, retrieved Alex’s remaining paintings and stacked them in the back. They feel like stolen goods now and even though they’re wrapped, I still cover them with a blanket. I need to get to the bottom of how much money she owes and who she owes it to, although I doubt she’ll be forthcoming. I’ve decided from now on we sleep in the van because it’s free or, if Alex is averse to that, it will be cheap bed and breakfasts. She has to stop spending money she doesn’t have.

She’s applying make-up when I go into her room through the interconnecting door. The door that only yesterday gave me a thrill, but now is no more than a convenience. I realised as I was walking to pick up the van that because I love her, my childish infatuation has to stop. Something more has happened on this trip. Probably more than we ever shared in the past. I’m keen to get on with delivering paintings and then to make decisions about our future, because for the first time since I saw her again at the exhibition, I know that she features in my future in every way. Not the yearned-for figure of the past, but the solid and very real presence of now. And she needs me; that is clear.

‘How are you feeling?’ I ask her, leaning against the doorframe, watching as she brushes mascara onto her eyelashes and fixes all of her jewellery back into place.

‘Fine,’ she says, as if there’s no reason why she would be anything other than fine. I have lots of questions about her situation, but decide to save it for now. She might say she’s fine, but I’ll bet her head is thumping at the very least.

‘Do you want to get breakfast before we go, or pick something up for on the way?’ Personally I’m keen to get on the road to Cornwall. I can picture us on the beach at Portreath or walking the cliff paths near St Ann’s.

‘No, let’s go,’ she says.

In reception she begins to walk towards the desk, pulling her purse from her bag, but I gently touch her arm.

‘It’s sorted,’ I say.

She frowns for a moment and begins to open her purse, but then seems to change her mind and sets her face to resignation. She doesn’t thank me – she doesn’t need to – but I can tell that last night’s conversation is coming back to her and she’s not happy about it. I want to help her; I want to remind her that I suggested she can come and live with me for a bit, or forever, but I bite my tongue. I want to recapture the closeness we’ve managed over the last couple of days before I encourage her towards any sort of commitment.

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