Summer at 23 the Strand: A gorgeously feel-good holiday read!. Linda Mitchelmore

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СКАЧАТЬ today, yes,’ Martha said. ‘I suppose people go abroad for the guaranteed sunshine.’

      ‘Ah!’ Hugh said. ‘Not always guaranteed, I’m afraid. A friend’s wedding I covered in Bali was rained off completely – monsoon didn’t come into it! I could set up some wonderful shots here. The bride, barefoot, with her skirt hoisted to her knees, dipping a toe in to test the water for a paddle, with the groom holding her firmly by the waist, his trousers rolled up over his calves, so she doesn’t stumble.’

      Goodness, what a romantic, Martha thought. Was there a significant woman in his life, she wondered, but wasn’t going to ask. They were only ships passing in the night here, weren’t they? Hugh was healing and she was, too, in a way.

      ‘I say,’ Hugh said, scooping up a handful of sand and shells and letting the sand sift through his fingers. ‘Could I borrow a corner of your towel to photograph these? The stripes are sharp and the navy against the white of the shells will be a perfect backdrop.’

      ‘Be my guest,’ Martha said, and edged a little further away as Hugh moved towards her, making space for his photoshoot.

      ‘What I’ll do,’ Hugh said, ‘is lay the shells in a line down the navy stripes. See, some of them have little swirls of long-discarded egg cases encrusted on them. And this one has got a frond of seaweed so firmly attached to it it’s going to take more than my strength to pull it off.’

      ‘It’s like a hat,’ Martha said. ‘Or a fascinator.’

      ‘Exactly that. And this one is so perfect it’s like one half of a pigeon’s egg. And just as delicate.’ Hugh handed the shell to Martha, placing it gently on her palm when she held out her hand to take it.

      ‘Exquisite,’ Martha said. And it was. She knew beaches were always covered in shells from which the living beings had long gone, but she’d never stopped to examine any of them in detail as Hugh was now.

      She watched, in silence, as Hugh took photograph after photograph, so absorbed in what he was doing now that he didn’t speak either. For Martha it was a comfortable silence.

      ‘I’ll photoshop them later,’ Hugh said, holding his phone towards Martha. ‘But you get the gist.’

      Martha was surprised to find Hugh had taken at least twenty photos of the shells against the backdrop of her beach towel. They were all of the same thing and yet they all looked different.

      ‘I’d buy a card – a postcard or birthday card – with any one of these on it,’ she said.

      ‘Now, there’s a thought! Never thought of doing cards or postcards. Thanks for the tip.’

      Martha had finished her coffee, eaten one of Hugh’s Hobnobs, and knew she ought to go. Besides, Hugh seemed to have run out of things to say now they had exhausted the subject of the shells.

      And then Hugh surprised her.

      ‘There’s a fête on the green tomorrow. Two o’clock. Would you like to come?’

      ‘A fête?’ Martha’s father had always termed the village fête ‘a fête worse than death’ but they’d always gone anyway, she and her parents, and bought things they didn’t really need or want because they felt sorry for the stall-holders. She hadn’t been to a fête in years.

      ‘I know. Very old-fashioned things, but it’s for a good cause. They hold two or three during the summer on the green the other side of the promenade and I usually go if I’m in the area. Please say you’ll come.’

      ‘I don’t think I can,’ Martha said. She knew she didn’t have a good excuse if Hugh pressed the issue. It was beginning to feel like a date, this invite, and she wasn’t ready to date yet.

      ‘It’s for a good cause.’

      ‘From my childhood memories of fêtes, they usually are. The church roof or the Scouts’ trip to summer camp or somesuch.’

      ‘Neither of those,’ Hugh said. ‘This one’s for the local hospice. It’s where my brother spent his last few days.’

      Martha hadn’t expected that, but the actress in her made her hang on to her composure – a composure she didn’t feel inside. Inside she felt crass, and gauche, and uncomfortable, as though Hugh had fed her his final line on purpose to test her reaction.

      ‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ she said. ‘But I still can’t come. Now, if you’ll excuse me…’

      She got to her feet and pulled at a corner of her beach towel.

      ‘Of course,’ Hugh said, standing up, although it took a second or two for him to get his balance because of his bad leg. ‘Thanks for the loan of the beach towel.’

      ‘And for the coffee and biscuits,’ Martha responded, pulling the towel towards her.

      It was only as she got halfway up the steps that she realised she’d left her newspaper on the sand where it had been underneath the beach towel. Well, she wasn’t going back for it now.

      But when she got to the door of her chalet and glanced round, she saw Hugh had made it to the top of the steps and was dropping her newspaper in a litter bin. The kindness of his action in getting rid of something about which she had been upset earlier brought a lump to Martha’s throat. He really was such a good and kind man, wasn’t he? But at the back of her mind was the thought that she couldn’t be entirely sure if the invite to the fête had been because she was Martha Langford or… Serena Ross.

      Martha tossed and turned all night. She’d been unforgivably rude walking off like that. Hugh had said his brother had died in the hospice and although she didn’t know how old Hugh was, his brother couldn’t have been very old either. Panic had made her behave the way she had and she was going to have to get over that.

      Martha took a mug of tea and a round of toast and marmalade out onto the deck at half past eight the next morning. She took one of the throws and draped it over her knees while she sat at the metal bistro table and waited for Hugh to emerge from his chalet for his morning run.

      But there was no Hugh that morning. Martha waited until almost ten o’clock then went in search of him.

      ‘Well, good morning. This is a nice surprise,’ Hugh said, opening the door to her knock, as though the fact she’d rebuffed him the day before hadn’t happened. He was in checked pyjama bottoms but naked from the waist up. And his feet were bare. His hair was damp and curling every which way as though he was fresh from the shower and she’d knocked and interrupted him just as he was about to put a comb through it.

      ‘I’ve come to apologise for my appalling behaviour yesterday,’ Martha said. ‘I meant it when I said I was truly sorry to hear about your brother’s death, but I was rude to rush off the way I did without asking you about it. I’m sorry.’

      ‘Apology accepted,’ Hugh said. ‘After Harris – that was my brother’s name, by the way – died there were people who crossed the street to avoid saying anything to me at all.’

      ‘Oh God, that’s awful. Sometimes people simply don’t know what to say, I suppose, and say nothing rather than say the wrong thing. I’ve done it myself.’

      ‘It’s exactly that,’ Hugh said. ‘I’d ask СКАЧАТЬ