Page 6 of The Golden Girls’ Road Trip

There are so many things I want to say to him now: is it okay to be marrying a woman who you don’t feel you can introduce to your daughter? Is it normal to still parent that daughter like a child when she’s an adult? What will my role be within his family? What does he really want from me? The words line up on my lips ready to spill out, but now doesn’t seem like the right time, with him being so far away.

‘Perhaps you could give her my love then and tell her I’m very much looking forward to meeting her. And, if there’s anything I can do…’ I trail off, convinced that even if I had wise words to impart, Fiona wouldn’t want to hear them.

‘I really just wanted to check you got home okay and your dinner wasn’t totally ruined,’ he says without sounding as if he needs answers to those questions. He’s always a little distant when he visits Fiona.

‘I’m going to pop into the florist today to arrange the wedding flowers,’ I tell him and he doesn’t ask me why I’m not at work, although I remind myself that Leo doesn’t take my volunteering job all that seriously.

‘Right,’ he says distractedly, ‘I’ve got to go, speak later.’ And then he hangs up.

Leo, I decide, is more complicated than I first thought.

I flop back onto my pillow and contemplate the two men in my life and the two women doing their utmost to undermine those relationships. How did I get here? Fiona is easy to work out, but Diana is much more complicated; also much more important. If I want to see my grandchild, I’m going to have to find a way to agree a truce. I allow myself a small smile at the thought of impending grandmother-hood.

Simon and Diana have been trying for a baby for years and after many failed attempts, this round of IVF has obviously been successful. Did I come across as supportive enough when they announced it last night in the restaurant? I’m pretty sure I did, but Diana makes everything so difficult. I wonder if she might soften a little when the baby comes, but I doubt it.

Diana’s mother, Linda, had her when she was forty-eight, and once described her daughter as an inconvenient and unexpected shift in her life’s plan. She’d been suspecting the menopause but ended up with a baby instead. Linda is certainly not the fussing type and her husband the same. I can’t imagine either of them spoiling Diana – quite the opposite. Perhaps because of this, she was always going to be a tense and demanding wife, looking for the attention she never received from her parents. Simon told me he was determined to make this his last marriage and embraced it wholeheartedly. One thing is incredibly clear to me; my son adores his wife and I believe she feels the same way about him. I see it in the way she looks at him and the way she talks about him. I think that, really, they have something pretty solid and that gives me pause for thought.

I pick up the gift box from where I’d left it on the bedside table and pull the brooch out again. The gold shines in the morning sunlight coming through the gap in the curtains. If Diana did really choose this gift then surely that’s a start – an olive branch in gold letters – Grandma. I just can’t reconcile that name with Diana being pregnant somehow. For now, simply, my son and his wife are expecting a baby, and I will become a grandmother at some point, although that rather depends on what sort of grandmother Diana will allow me to be.

My thumb instinctively goes to my engagement ring and I spin it around on my finger. A grandma and a bride in the same year, two badges to declare my age and my status. I sigh and pull back the covers. I have things to do today and perhaps Leo will be pleased with me if I can tick a couple of wedding items off the list.

Picking up my phone again I hesitate with my finger over my contacts. I briefly consider asking Diana to come to the florist and help me choose my flowers. That might be a perfect bonding opportunity. Without Simon or Leo around, we might be able to bridge that gap. I don’t really feel I can take the rejection though, so I chicken out and scroll through for Gita’s number instead.

*

The florist is in St James’s Street and Gita is waiting outside. The sun is already intense for only ten-thirty and I can feel sweat on the back of my neck. I pull a clip from my bag, grab a handful of hair, twist it up into a messy bun and secure it in place. Leo asked me if I was planning on getting it cut for the wedding, but the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. I love my long hair and how easy it is to look after. He had suggested a short bob, but I had said it wasn’t really for me. The next time I was at Leo’s place I had taken a closer look at a photograph of his late wife. It was a holiday shot in Venice with Brenda standing in St Mark’s Square, the sunlight shining on her short, neat, beige bob.

Gita is one of the happiest people I know and has been married since she was in her late teens to the love of her life. I have met her husband, Farin, a couple of times and can see how suited they are. When I asked her what the secret was to their long happy life, Gita said she married her best friend and then shrugged as if it was obvious. It made me want to cry.

‘Can’t believe you haven’t done this yet. Aren’t you leaving it a bit late?’ she says as I cross the road to meet her.

‘The flowers or getting married in general?’ I say, and Gita laughs.

‘Connie, if you’ve found the person you want to be with more than any other, then surely it’s never too late.’

I smile at her while my insides squirm as I remember my dream from last night – stretching out on the banks of Loch Ness, the sun warm on my bare skin, fingertips tracing circles on the inside of my forearms. Although, that wasn’t just a dream, it was a memory and one that I will never forget.

‘Shall we go in then?’ Gita asks.

‘Yes, yes of course,’ I say, pulling myself back to the present.

The bell jingles as I push open the door, and we step inside. The smell of the flowers is overwhelming, all the blooms competing with each other, the lilies most discernible. I suppress a sneeze.

‘Gorgeous,’ Gita breathes. ‘Look at those peach peonies, stunning!’

‘Morning!’ The florist beams at us from behind the desk. He’s wearing a knitted tank top with embroidered daisies on it and I wonder how he can bear to in this heat, but actually, the atmosphere in the shop is cool and I notice the floor-standing air con unit keeping the buckets of blooms from wilting.

‘Hello,’ I say.

‘How can I help?’ he asks.

‘I’m Constance, Connie Fitzgerald, you’re going to be doing my wedding flowers, and I’m here to choose them. This is my friend, Gita, and she knows far more about flowers than me, so I brought her along to help.’

‘Ah, lovely,’ he says. ‘I’ll get my book of ideas and we can have a look to see what you fancy.’

He disappears behind a beaded door curtain to the back of the shop and returns moments later with a huge photo album.

‘So, what’s your theme, colour wise?’ he asks, as he lays the book on the desk in front of us.