Lounging on the beach, I wished my holiday wasn’t coming to an end. It was September 1983 and I had one day left of my trip to Mallorca, where I spent every summer with my mum, before driving back home to France.
As the evening drew in, my friend Elisa, 21, and I set off for dinner. But to our surprise, two boys came running behind us.
‘Excuse me, have you got the time?’ one of them puffed. Steve, then 21, had smiled at me earlier but only just plucked up the courage to introduce himself. He was on a lads’ holiday, staying in the same town. I immediately liked his English accent and bright blue eyes.
SOMETHING DIFFERENT
We arranged to meet later that evening at a bar. As the night went on, we hit it off, dancing in the bars and clubs. At 20, of course, I’d met boys on holiday before, but something felt different with Steve.
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