Summer at 23 the Strand. Linda Mitchelmore

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      ‘Thank you for bringing me, Hugh,’ she said, sitting back down, quite giddy with emotion now.

      ‘It’s been my pleasure.’

      The dolphins were moving further away now. Still rising from the water but not as high as they had been.

      ‘I’ll hold this experience to me for ever, I think,’ Martha said.

      ‘Me too. And we could,’ Hugh said, ‘make a few more before your fortnight’s up. If that’s okay with you, Miss Martha Langford.’

      There it was again – Hugh’s use of her real name, not her stage name. He liked her because of who she was, not what she was.

      ‘We could,’ Martha said. ‘And I think we should.’

      So they did. They still ran each day, but separately, because Martha was never going to be able to keep up, running on sand, with Hugh. But they always met for coffee, at one of the many cafés along the seafront, or back at Martha’s chalet, taking their drinks down onto the beach to drink if the tide was out, burying their bare feet in the sand, and letting the sand trickle through their fingers as they talked and shared aspects of their past lives. In the evenings they wandered up into the town to find a restaurant or pub for supper. They even had a hilarious hour in the Penny Arcade playing the gaming machines – winning sometimes, losing sometimes. A bit like life, Martha thought, although she thought she might be on a winning streak now she’d met Hugh.

      Hugh had taken Martha’s arm in a gallant way and linked it through his to cross roads, but they didn’t hold hands. Or kiss.

      On Martha’s last night, sitting on the deck of 23 The Strand, Hugh uncorked a bottle of champagne he said he’d had cooling in his fridge, along with a plate of deli nibbles Martha had a feeling he’d bought for just such an occasion.

      ‘Glasses out,’ Hugh said, indicating the frothing champagne and the need to get it into glasses before it frothed all over the deck.

      ‘Yes, sir!’ Martha laughed, holding out the champagne glasses towards him.

      When they were filled to the brim, she handed one to Hugh.

      ‘A toast,’ he said. ‘To you. For helping me with my grief over Harris. So, to you.’

      Martha gulped back tears, then took a sip of champagne.

      ‘And to you,’ she said, clinking glasses. ‘And to legs and hearts that will mend, given time.’

      ‘That too,’ Hugh said, tapping Martha’s glass again.

      ‘What will you do now?’

      ‘Photography, of course. I’ve a fancy for photographing the oceans of the world, running on the world’s beaches. I’ve got an idea for a TV series running around in my head – 90 Mile Beach, Bondi Beach. Woolacombe in North Devon, even. It doesn’t have to be a big beach or a famous one. The concept is I’d run with a well-known personality and we’d look at the geography and wildlife around us, and put the world to rights as we ran. What do you think?’

       I think it’s a rotten idea. I want you to stay in my life, not go running off with some random person you might fall in love with on a tropical beach. Was he telling her this was the end of their friendship? Or was he putting the ball in her court, giving her an ‘out’ if she wanted it?

      ‘Sounds good,’ Martha said.

      ‘Once more with feeling,’ Hugh laughed.

      ‘Sounds really, really good.’

      ‘That’s better. A seven out of ten that time. And you?’ Hugh asked.

      ‘I’ve not made any firm plans yet. I quite fancy stage work again. It’s all too easy to iron out mistakes while filming for TV or the cinema. The money would be less but I’ve got enough to live on for a while. Then again, there’s an idea buzzing about in my head like a mosquito that I could train to teach drama. Not at a stage school but in an ordinary comprehensive perhaps.’

      ‘Go for it,’ Hugh said. ‘You’ve got a beautiful speaking voice. Well, a beautiful everything actually.’

      ‘That’s a lovely thing to hear,’ Martha said. ‘And?’

      ‘And what?’ Hugh swirled the stem of his glass in his fingers. He looked down at the table, up at the sky, out to sea. His eyes settled on Martha for a second and she saw his Adam’s apple going up and down.

      He was struggling for the right thing to say, wasn’t he?

      ‘To our respective futures?’ Hugh said eventually.

      ‘I think we both know that isn’t what I meant. And I do believe, Hugh, you’re blushing.’

      Martha prised Hugh’s glass gently from him and placed it on the tiny table between them.

      ‘I was taught in drama school that, in the right situation, more emotion, more feeling, more truth can be conveyed by what people don’t say than by what they do. Action – and conversely inaction – really can speak louder than words sometimes.’ Then she cupped Hugh’s face in her hands and kissed him. Just a gentle kiss but she let it linger.

      ‘Wow! Is that how they teach you to kiss in stage school?’

      ‘Nope. That one came from the heart.’

      And then Hugh kissed her back.

      It was that old cliché of fireworks and music playing for Martha.

      ‘And so did that. But back to our futures… I like live theatre,’ Hugh said. ‘Can I come and watch?’

      ‘Of course. And I’ve decided a bit of running on the world’s beaches is something I’d quite like too.’

      ‘So, we’ve rewritten the end of Roman Holiday.’ Hugh kissed her again.

      ‘Get a room already!’ someone shouted from the prom.

      ‘Your cabin or mine?’ Martha asked as Hugh released her from the kiss.

      Martha wrapped the amethyst necklace Tom Marchant had given her in tissue paper and slid it into an envelope. She had no need of it any more but it might be just the thing someone else might love and cherish. On the outside of the envelope she wrote her message:

       Dear next occupant,

       I’ve had the most interesting and wonderful fortnight at 23 The Strand. Life-changing even. I hope you have a wonderful time too. I leave you this gift, which I hope you’ll enjoy wearing or will give to someone you think would like it. It might be fun if you could leave some little thing as a welcome gift for the next occupant but that’s by no means obligatory.

       Best wishes

       Martha

       P.S. Formerly known as Serena Ross

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