The Lido – Part 2: Warm Towels
Mature & Silver·EN·2 min read·Published 2026-11-07, updated 2026-11-07·Part 2 of 2
Breakfast was at a seafront cafe with steamed-up windows, plates of bacon and eggs the size of dinner plates and a pot of tea that never ran out. They talked until the lunchtime crowd arrived. About swimming and the sea and the way grief changed shape over years. About his wife, a painter, who had died of illness. About her husband, a gentle schoolteacher with a terrible singing voice.
"I thought I would never do this again," said Carol.
"Eat breakfast?"
"Sit across the table from someone and not want to leave."
"Nor did I." Anthony smiled, a little shy. "I think the water thawed me."
They walked along the pier in the pale spring sun, past the closed arcades and the screaming gulls, the wind whipping Carol's hair. At the end, she took his hand without thinking.
"Is this all right?" she asked.
"It is the best thing that has happened in three years."
He kissed her on the end of the pier, gently, with the sea spreading out vast and bright all around them. It was a soft, careful kiss, a little salty, and she laughed and kissed him back, her cold nose against his cheek.
"My flat is five minutes away," said Anthony, a little hoarse. "It has hot radiators and warm towels. I keep them on the airer. In case of emergency."
"Is this an emergency?"
"I am beginning to think so."
His flat was on the top floor of an old terrace overlooking the sea, bright and book-filled, with an enormous bay window. The radiators were indeed hot. The towels were warm. They dried each other in the sunlit room, laughing, and then they stopped laughing. They undressed slowly, with humour and care, talking about knees and hips and the ridiculous comedy of age, and under the heavy quilt their love-making was kind, unhurried and very sweet, like the long steady strokes of a good swim.
In the morning they were back in the lido at six, in lanes four and five, in the pink early light.
"Eleven," said Anthony.
"Twelve," said Carol, passing him.
"I'm almost certain it was eleven."
"Count in whatever way you like." She smiled and flicked water at him. "I'll keep the real total."
More mature romance stories: Autumn in Quebec · The Quilting Circle · The Silver Ballroom
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