An affair to remember

There's nothing like the thrill of a first holiday romance

Photo by Radu Spătaru on Unsplash

It was 2001; I was 21. Still a little awkward, barely out of university, very shy. I’d been in a long, fairly tedious relationship throughout my university years, which had served its purpose and conveniently come to a natural end around six months prior to my first girls’ trip.

Kefalonia, for those that haven’t been, is one of the most beautiful of the Greek Islands. Nestled in the turquoise waters of the Ionian Sea, its dazzling white bays and craggy hilltops take you back in time to a simpler life; down by the harbour, if you’re early enough, you’ll catch the wizened, sun-scorched fishermen shouting to each other as they haul their nets in, cigarettes dangling from bronze, deeply lined faces.

As we arrived, clad in miniskirts and teeny tiny tops, dragging huge suitcases, we had no idea how the next seven days were to irrevocably alter us. Blissfully unaware, we changed excitedly into wholly inappropriate swimwear and raced to the sea, giggling and shrieking.

I’d grown up on a steady diet of Nora Ephron and Mizz magazine, and I was desperate to be wanted. To be loved, to be made to feel beautiful. Like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, minus the glamourised prostitution.

This, combined with the intoxicating freedom of the holiday plus more than a few cocktails was the recipe for falling deeply in love. After a few false starts, snogging locals on the beach at midnight, I met Ben.

He was so handsome. Tall, floppy of hair (remember this was the early noughties) with the most dazzling blue eyes I’d ever seen. When he caught my eye over the bar, he fixed his gaze so firmly on mine that I felt myself blushing as I looked away.

“What can I get you?” he asked, nonchalantly wiping glasses clean as he eyed us, his Geordie accent adding to his appeal - I’d barely set foot outside the Home Counties at this point.

Appearing to have entirely lost the ability to speak, my friends came to the rescue. A few drinks down, the chat was easy, flirting obvious.

Towards the end of the evening, he leaned towards me, elbows resting on the bar, hands outstretched. “So, what shall we do now?”

I couldn’t believe my luck. This gorgeous, older, experienced guy wanted to hang out with me? Without a second thought, and a heavy dose of exuberant, youthful selfishness, I promptly ditched the girls.

We spent the next seven days drinking each other up; working all evening, he slept most days, whilst I either gazed at his sleeping form, or tried to salvage what was left of my friendships before heading back to the bar, sunburned and giddy.

I was so far gone I didn’t see the warning signs. Of course I didn’t. How could I? I was sky high on oxytocin and WKD. Friendships fractured as I angrily defended myself, him, us. Why didn’t my friends want me to be happy? I just didn’t understand.

Our last night inevitably rolled around, as they always do. I was dreading leaving, already aching at the thought of missing him.

He was calmly stacking glasses when we stumbled in after the last dinner, and I’m pretty sure I spent the evening draped over the bar in a mortifying display of availability. My heart was racing, my stomach flipped as I plucked up the courage to ask how we’d be spending our last night.

He stared at me. His eyes never left mine as he leaned in.

“Do I have to spell it out?”

I’d never been on a motorbike before. As the sun rose the next day, we rode around the island, up through the hilltops, back down to the harbour, stopping to stretch our legs every now and again. It remains a treasured memory, one for the ages. I don’t regret that magical time, even if I’ve come to regret much of what happened after.

I cried the whole flight home. Sobbing, inconsolable, snotty ugly crying. But I made it home. My mother was, let’s say, less than thrilled to be returned a lovelorn daughter, pinning all her future hopes and dreams on a 27-year-old builder from Newcastle.

She made me tea, I confessed I’d fallen in love.

Reader, I’m sure I don’t need to spell out what happened next.