Politeness was their watchword, and each of them was applying it scrupulously. He was glad of it. Appreciative. They were making progress. But where they were going was still uncertain.
All he could do was keep on in the same direction, glad that she seemed to be acquiescing to his suggestion that they take a break from their lives, have some time away. She had chosen this place—he’d never heard of it—and it seemed acceptable in the circumstances.
‘It’s supposed to be the prettiest seaside town in Britain,’ Siena had told him when she’d let him know that, yes, she would consider his suggestion of getting out of London for a few days.
Overall, Vincenzo felt the description justified. The resort dated, so Siena had told him, to the end of the eighteenth century, when sea bathing was becoming fashionable and resorts were springing up all along the south coast from Brighton to Devon.
Selcombe was small, and all the more charming for it, he thought. He had booked them into the town’s main hotel at the far end of the promenade—a handsome white stucco-fronted house, with gardens giving direct access to the shingle beach beyond. Though hardly a luxury hotel, it was comfortable in an old-fashioned way, and he was not displeased with it.
‘How are you feeling?’ He turned to Siena, sitting beside him—she had left a good space between them, but not pointedly so. ‘Can you make it back to the hotel, or shall we take a taxi?’
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ she answered. ‘It’s such a lovely day. Let’s keep walking—it’s only about half a mile, and flat going.’ She turned her head to look at him. ‘It’s really important I keep myself fit, you know.’
‘But you must not overdo it,’ Vincenzo said.
‘A leisurely stroll along a mile of promenade is hardly overdoing it!’ There was no sting in her words. ‘But it’s nice to sit and watch the sea in the sunshine.’
He heard her pause for a moment, as if wondering whether to say what she said next.
‘Do you like the seaside? I mean, in Italy? Is it your thing? Some people love the sea...some don’t.’
‘It’s very pleasant,’ Vincenzo said.
‘Did you go to the seaside when you were young? We lived less than an hour from the coast, and my parents used to take my brother and me to the seaside for the day quite regularly. What about you?’
She was making conversation, he could tell. In principle, he welcomed it, because he was doing likewise. Had been doing so ever since he’d collected her the day previously, in the hire car he’d rented for the week, and headed out of London towards the west country. They had been civil to each other the whole time...polite, pleasant.
And guarded, too, he knew. Both himself and her.
That aspect rose to the fore now.
‘No,’ he said. He didn’t mean to sound curt. ‘Milan is not near the coast,’ he went on.
‘I suppose not,’ she said, her gaze going back out over the sea beyond the railings at the edge of the promenade. ‘But isn’t it close to the Italian lakes?’
‘Lake Como is the closest.’
He never went near Como—too many bad associations...
‘Did you go as a child? I don’t know whether one can swim in the Italian lakes... Not like at the seaside.’
‘No,’ he said again. This time he managed to make his voice sound less curt. ‘And, yes, one can swim, but it is not that safe. The lakes are very deep. They are more appropriate for water sports—there is a lot of sailing, windsurfing, motor boats...that sort of thing.’
‘Do you indulge?’ she asked.
‘No.’ He paused, his eyes resting on a sailing boat skimming along the horizon. ‘I never seem to have time.’
‘That’s a shame,’ he heard her say. ‘I’ve never done anything like that either.’
From nowhere, Vincenzo heard himself say, ‘Perhaps we can do it here—go out on the sea. I’ve seen signs advertising boat tours along the coast. We could take one. Would that appeal?’
He looked at her again, and saw she had turned her head as well.
‘It sounds nice,’ she said. There was more than politeness in her voice now.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Perhaps tomorrow...if the weather is kind.’
‘Yes, let’s,’ Siena agreed peaceably.