Page 9 of The Golden Girls’ Road Trip

‘Flowers are sorted and I’ve bought my dress and extras.’

‘Extras?’ he says, and I find a ridiculous heat has appeared in my cheeks.

‘Underwear,’ I clarify and there’s an audible gulp on the other end of the line.

‘How’s Fiona doing?’ I ask, to change the subject.

‘She’s very upset, poor love, burying herself in work at the café. She’s very glad I’m here to help now that Paul’s gone. And, he’s taken quite a lot of their shared possessions with him, the callous little shit.’

I find myself tuning out as Leo begins to list the items, my eyes moving over the cover of the magazine. Art in Action; the font dominates the front cover, each letter made up of tiny images of paintings and photographs, very eye-catching. I flip open the first page, then realise Leo has stopped talking.

‘You sound distracted. Is everything okay with you?’

‘I lost my job at the shop,’ I say, and then wait for him to ask me to join him and Fiona, but he doesn’t.

‘Oh, that’s a shame – what was the reason?’

‘Age. They’re bringing a new team in to give a younger vibe to the place.’

‘Bit odd for a shop that sells second-hand stuff. I don’t understand half of what goes on in the world today.’

‘Leo, it does mean I could come to you and help support Fiona. I can lighten the load in the café and we could take her out for dinner. Perhaps go shopping to replace those things? What do you think? We could go off in the van for a little trip when she’s settled too if you like.’ I don’t know why I add this last suggestion; I know he hates the van. Actually I do know why. I want to challenge him, because there is something going on in his head that I can’t reach. I don’t understand what’s driving him at the moment. I’m not expecting such a quick response though.

‘No, there’s no need. She’s got staff, you know, plenty of hands on deck here,’ he says and there’s a moment of silence as we both digest his words. Which is it? Does she really need his help or not?

‘You know what Fiona’s like,’ he carries on. ‘She’s very sensitive, missing her mum, just needs her old dad around for a bit.’

I don’t know what Fiona’s like, because I’ve never met her, I want to say. He doesn’t bother to mention the trip in the van.

‘So, do you have any idea how long you’ll be there?’

‘I don’t really know; it depends how the next few days go. See how she is. It’s not that I don’t appreciate your offer, you know, but there’s nothing you could do here anyway,’ Leo continues. ‘I do miss you, Connie,’ he says.

‘Miss you too,’ I say, automatically, and then I find I’m staring at a silent phone because he’s hung up.

I rest my head back and uncross my legs. The magazine slips to the carriage floor, open in the middle with a double-page spread of artworks. I bend to retrieve it and am confronted with something that takes my breath away. All thoughts of Leo and his odd behaviour disappear instantly.

There’s an image of a painting in the top left-hand corner of the page with some writing that I can’t quite make out without my reading glasses. And even though the image isn’t super clear, I recognise it immediately. It’s so familiar to me, which of course it would be as I have the sister painting hanging on the wall in my living room.

Gripping the corner of the magazine, I draw it back onto my lap while rummaging in the front pocket of my handbag. My chest tightens and it’s with trembling fingers that I slide my glasses onto my face and look again at the image.

The sun is setting over the loch, casting long reflections of iridescent gold light on the ripples of the water. I had always been amazed that they could have been produced with such a few touches of the paintbrush. In fact I wouldn’t have believed it at all, if it hadn’t been for the fact that I had witnessed those light touches at the time they were made. Reluctantly, I move my gaze from the painting and over to the words printed to one side.

Reclusive artist Alex Mackenzie is exhibiting for the first time in four decades.

In the beautiful setting of Linton Hall, Inverness, Highland Art Group are delighted to showcase this talented and hardly seen artist in a prestigious collection. Open to private guests on Friday 8th and Saturday 9th July, then to the public on Sunday 10th July.

Something gives in my chest, and for a moment I can’t breathe. I flip to the front cover to check the date, the year, but see it is current: 2022. Clutching the magazine to me, I stand up and then when I find my legs won’t move and I have nowhere to go, I sit back down again.

‘Alex Mackenzie,’ I whisper, ‘how could you do this to me now?’

*

Later, back at home, I take the cafetière from the kitchen windowsill and pile in my favourite coffee. The kettle boils and the sweet, nutty aroma begins to fill the air as I pour. My mind is whirring in a way that stops me from formulating a plan. After taking my coffee into the living room I stand in front of the painting I’ve looked at every day for the last fifty-two years. Tonight, it’s as if I’m seeing it for the first time. A physical ache grips me as my eyes sweep the canvas, at the sun that rises over the loch with subtle shifts in paint tones to capture the light perfectly, so similar to its companion painting, while at the same time, vastly different. I still have the magazine from the train and I open it now, hold it up next to my painting. The two together again at last. Alex called them collectively, Gold Was The Day and when I take mine off the wall and turn it over I can see the name written in that familiar sloping hand across the back of the canvas along with its individual title: Sunrise Over Loch Ness. Alex, it appears, still has Sunset.

Thoughts crowd in on memories and just as I try to grab hold of one, to settle it, to decide, it’s overtaken with another.

Because, the problem is, this article speaks to me like an invitation.