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

on the front page and then at Martha.

      ACTRESS SERENA ROSS QUITS BREAKING ICE

      The photo was one taken on the steps of the hotel as Tom had guided her to her taxi. There were, Martha knew, more photos of them both inside, cosied up in the restaurant, because she was wiser now and knew that the man in the corner hadn’t been taking selfies but had been taking photographs of her and Tom.

      ‘I’ll take that,’ she said. ‘Thanks. The press scraping about in the gutter as per usual, I expect,’ she added, with a nod to the front page of the newspaper.

      ‘More than likely,’ the man said. ‘Don’t shoot but… Hugh Fraser. Photographer. Currently on sick leave while my leg heals.’

      Oh my God! What sort of a photographer, she wanted to know – paparazzi? – but she was afraid to ask. Her hat had slipped back over her head as she struggled with her bags. If he was paparazzi, would he recognise her? She might have changed her hair colour and be wearing coloured lenses, but her mouth was the same shape. Her nose. Her high cheekbones, for which she was known in the world of acting.

      ‘I’m sorry about your leg,’ she said, acting a calmness she didn’t feel inside, although it was true she was sorry. ‘What happened?’

      ‘You know how, on TV, when you see photographers following a story in the street and they’re running backwards and taking photos? Have you ever wondered if they fall over?’

      Martha gulped. So he was paparazzi? What on earth was she doing keeping him here, engaging him in conversation?

      ‘Yes, yes, I have.’

      ‘Well, I did. Right over a low wall. Only it was an urban fox I was trying to film without scaring it off. Compound fracture. Hence my stay here for a couple of weeks to strengthen my muscles now the break’s been sorted. Running on sand is good for that.’

      ‘Oh!’ Martha said, unable to stop the smile that crept to her lips as a cartoon strip of Hugh running backwards and going over the wall played in her head. ‘Sorry. It’s not funny, I know.’

      ‘That’s okay. Every one of my colleagues fell about laughing. And you are?’

      ‘Martha Langford.’

      ‘I’d shake your hand, Martha Langford, if you had one free for me to shake. How about I come over all macho and carry this newspaper up the steps for you?’

      And then he did just that, but carefully and with a bit of a limp, Martha noticed.

      Hugh took Martha’s bags and parcels from her as she scrabbled in her pocket for the chalet key.

      ‘I’m at Number 20.’ He waved the newspaper in the direction of his chalet. ‘Belongs to my parents, actually. Holiday home of sorts. I’d stop with them in their house back in Exeter but Mum would smother me to death with kindness. Much better I fend for myself a bit, get those muscles working again. Keep an eye open for the next big scoop, as it were.’

      Martha shivered. She had no intention of being Hugh’s next big scoop.

      ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘You know. For your help. Just put my bags on the deck. I can manage now. Things to do. Bye.’

      With almost indecent haste she scooped her bags into her arms and grabbed the newspaper from him, pushed the door open with her knee, sidled in behind it and then closed it with a foot.

      Hugh seemed like a nice bloke – the sort of bloke she’d be happy to spend time with in normal circumstances, because photographers could be useful to an actress. But her circumstances weren’t normal, were they, if the papers were still carrying stories about her quitting Breaking Ice? And she wasn’t entirely sure she still wanted to be an actress any more anyway. And what was more, she badly needed to get to know herself better before she even thought about making a new relationship with anyone. And could she trust Hugh not to be on his laptop right now letting the world know he knew where Serena Ross was holed up?

      Martha kept a low profile for a few days, always on the lookout for Hugh in case he wanted to talk, or asked too many probing questions she didn’t want to answer. She’d seen him running a couple of times a day, not fast and rather ungainly, as though he was still carrying pain from his broken leg. She’d also seen him look up at her chalet as he made his way back to his own. But the red sand of the beach and the soft shush as the sea met the shore with a petticoat frill of white foam was calling her. The only thing Martha was missing from her old life at the moment was the gym. There were probably more than a few gyms in the area but she didn’t want to join one. Power walking and running could be just as good. She couldn’t hide from the world for ever. Or from Hugh. She had to get out there.

      Hugh always looked glowing and happy when he got back from a run. Martha badly needed some of that – glowing and happy. But running on the beach was tide-dependent so she bought a tide-table from the kiosk at the end of The Strand that also sold teas, coffees, ice creams and a few beach toys, so she could work out when Hugh might be running and when he might not. She simply couldn’t risk, at the moment at least, that he might recognise her, although she had a gut feeling he already had. Only that morning she’d seen him swing his long legs – rather stiffly – over the sandstone wall and drop onto the beach, landing awkwardly, struggling to get his balance the way a duck might on a frozen pond. She ought not to have laughed. Hugh had looked up directly towards her chalet as though he had sensed her watching him. She’d ducked quickly behind the curtain, but the speed of her movement made the fabric flutter. Had he seen?

      To run, Martha would need trainers and some leggings and a T-shirt, so she went out to buy everything along with a few groceries. And a newspaper. Back at her chalet she decided to take a mug of coffee and the newspaper down to the beach. She laid a towel on the sand and sat down.

      Martha shivered, a double-page feature on the demise of Tom’s marriage – TOM MARCHANT’S WIFE FILES FOR DIVORCE – falling open on her lap. Another actress, Amy Stevens, had been cited. Not her. So she’d been right – she hadn’t been the first to turn Tom’s head. And neither would Amy be the last. Martha felt relief wash over her that she hadn’t entered a full-blown affair with Tom and that there had been little between them except animal attraction, a few small gifts and one dinner after filming.

      ‘Was it something I said?’

      Hugh. Standing above her on the steps that led to and from the beach. Could he read the headline from there?

      Martha closed the newspaper with one deft movement. She did not look up.

      ‘No.’

      ‘But you’ve been avoiding me?’

      ‘If that’s what you think,’ Martha said with a shrug.

      ‘I like to think I’m thicker-skinned than that.’

      Hugh jumped – rather awkwardly it had to be said – down onto the sand and sat beside her without being asked.

      ‘You’re not still letting that get to you, are you?’ Hugh asked, tapping a finger on the newspaper in Martha’s – now shaking – hands.

      Oh my God. He knew, didn’t he? He knew that, despite the red hair dye, the coloured contacts, the wide-brimmed hat, and her almost exclusion from normal life, she was really Serena Ross.

      ‘You haven’t written this, have you?’ she asked, waving the newspaper at him. Sometimes it was better to graciously admit defeat than fight a corner she was never going to win. He would know by her answer that she’d guessed he knew.

      ‘No. Of course not. I’m a photographer – wildlife and landscape mostly – not a fully paid-up member of the paparazzi. But I did recognise you. And I’ve read that particular newspaper this morning and I see Mr Marchant has moved on.’

      ‘That’s not a very flattering remark,’ Martha said. He was making it sound as though she were totally dispensable, which, while it might be true in Tom Marchant’s case, was doing nothing for her self-esteem.

      ‘I’m