Page 156 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 1-4

Vincenzo sat back in his seat, looking out across the road and the promenade beyond.

‘I assume this must have been a fishing village originally,’ he observed. ‘Before it became a seaside resort.’

‘Yes, I think so,’ Siena said.

It was a good safe topic to discuss, and would help to keep her mind off the things it must be kept off.

All the same, a thought went through her head...

Had it really been wise to do this? Agree to Vincenzo’s suggestion that they spend some time together away from London like this? Well, it was too late now. Too late for a whole lot of things in her life...

Including my art degree...again.

But as she responded to Vincenzo’s question about the fashion for sea bathing that had emerged in the mid-eighteenth century, leading to Regency resorts like this and any number of others along the Channel coast, she found herself thinking about something else. Found herself wishing she had her sketchpad with her. She would happily sit on a bench on the promenade...do some pencil sketching of the seascape.

The idea was appealing. Maybe she could find some kind of art shop here and buy some basic kit?

‘Did they really have those strange caravans drawn into the sea by horses, so the bathers could walk down the steps right into the sea?’ Vincenzo was asking, his voice amused.

‘Yes,’ said Siena. ‘Bathing machines, they were called. I’ve seen prints and early photos. Women wore massive swimsuits—for want of a better word—that covered them voluminously from head to toe. Rather like a modern burkini, but even more encompassing! But it let them get into the sea, so it was probably worth it.’

‘Thecoldsea,’ observed Vincenzo.

‘Well, a lot colder than the Med, that’s for sure!’ she said lightly. She gave a wry laugh. ‘In England we say “bracing”—which translates as totally freezing!’

He gave a low laugh. It did things to her.

She went on hurriedly, because she must not let that happen. ‘I’m wondering whether to be brave enough to go in myself,’ she mused. ‘The Channel can’t be any colder than the North Sea—but then, of course, back then I was a child, and didn’t care about cold water! Besides, after a while you warm up.’

He cast a sceptical glance at her.

She gave another wry smile. ‘You could always just paddle. You know—take your socks and shoes off, roll up your trouser legs and wade in.’ Now her smile turned to a laugh. ‘You could also do the time-honoured old-fashioned English thing that men did a couple of generations ago, and that is to take a linen handkerchief, knot it at each corner, and put it on your head.’

He looked at her. ‘To what purpose?’ he enquired, nonplussed.

‘To keep the sun off,’ she explained.

‘If the sun ever gets that hot, I shall purchase a hat,’ he told her decisively.

She laughed again. ‘Definitely more stylish. The knotted handkerchief was never a good look!’

‘Thank you for the warning,’ he said dryly. His mouth quirked. ‘And as for paddling... I think I may give that a miss too. The hotel pool will suffice—it is heated.’

‘Yes,’ she conceded, ‘I have to agree it sounds more tempting. But when the tide is out we can walk along the beach, at least. Feel the shingle crunching. It’s a shame it’s not a sandy beach,’ she mused. ‘Where we went as a child had a wonderful sandy beach, with dunes behind. My brother and I were delirious, making sandcastles, playing beach cricket, as well as actual sea bathing. My parents would sit on deckchairs, glad just to watch us, and my mother would knit, and my father would read a paperback, and then they’d call us back to them for a picnic lunch. We were always starving by then, and when it was finally time to go home we were treated to ice creams to eat before setting off.’

She realised Vincenzo was looking at her with a strange expression on his face.

‘You sound as if you had a happy childhood,’ he said slowly.

‘I did,’ she said. ‘Very happy...’

‘How old were you,’ he asked quietly, ‘when your parents were killed?’

‘I was eighteen. My brother twenty-three. He’d just qualified as a vet and was newly married, and—’

She broke off. This was painful territory. The attentive waitress bustled back to their table with their drinks, and Siena was glad. She sipped hers thirstily, and Vincenzo took a leisurely mouthful of his beer. She looked away, over the other holidaymakers having their lunch, carefree and happy. Or were they? How could you tell just by looking? After all, who, looking at her and Vincenzo, would know why it was they were there, apparently together, apparently a couple...

When all we have between us is a baby that neither of us planned, envisaged, expected or wanted.

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