Life couldn’t get any better than this. I was in my twenties, sitting in a beach bar on the French island of Noirmoutier with Jan, a handsome German man I’d met a few days earlier; not daring to think about what was in store for me that evening, but not thinking about anything else either.
Every time Jan touched my arm, I felt a chill. It’s possible that he was accidentally touching me when he took his drink, but I hoped that wasn’t the case.
Jan’s hands were big and deft, not like the guy I’d just broken up with in London, who could barely open a packet of crisps. I was ready for a holiday adventure, but I wasn’t expecting to fall in love on my last night.
Even now, after all these years, I still think of Jan sometimes, especially during the summer months. He is the ghost of holidays past, before I was married, before I had children, before I felt so self-conscious in a bikini, when I could just decide to pack my bags and go. When I was young and free and the boys on the beaches could still tear my heart out.
It was 2001 and I was on holiday with my brother, who is great company and enjoyed chasing boys with me, sometimes the same ones.
“We had our hands everywhere, inside each other’s clothes,” says Annabel Bond.
We had stopped in Noirmoutier, in the Vendée region, on our way south. White houses with blue shutters and red roofs huddled against the blue sky, marshes carved the landscape into shimmering squares. Everyone travelled everywhere by bike.
The bike rental place was where I had first seen Jan, two days earlier. He was in his 30s, with a broad, friendly face and a slightly receding hairline that did nothing to diminish his attractiveness. His French was excellent, his vest showing off his broad shoulders. He smiled at me before pedaling away skillfully.
My brother and I followed them, with less efficiency, but soon happiness invaded us and we advanced steadily to the Gois Pass, a path to the mainland that only reveals itself during low tide.
As we made our way across the gleaming plains, I spotted Jan ahead of us. My brother is a talker, so it was only natural that he waved to Jan as we approached. Perhaps my brother had also admired Jan from behind, because he soon started talking about how wonderful French cycle paths are.
I didn’t talk much; I was socially shy and was busy admiring Jan’s calves. It turned out that Jan led bicycle tours to exotic places, hence the calves and the language skills. The next day we met Jan again, at a party in one of the island’s villages. Old men were singing tunes on their typewriters; throw the hoop and table tennis were being played on the sidewalk.
I’m good at old games (it’s the modern ones that baffle me) and although I was still shy with Jan, it was easier to chat as he tried to throw balls into a bucket. He was funny and self-deprecating, even in English. He made a joke about how Germans never make jokes and was adorable with his young nephews. He had a sexy aura of capability.
When my brother invited Jan out for a beer after the fair, we sat on either side of him on bar stools, vying for his attention. I was pretty sure I had the upper hand: Jan was giving off straight vibes.
We all agreed to cycle together to the town of Noirmoutier the following afternoon, our last day. By the time we reached Plage De Dames, it was too late to swim, but the bar was open. Jan bought us a beer, and then another. My brother isn’t a big drinker, and after a while he went off to talk to other people. I finally had Jan to myself! And the alcohol made it easier to suggest we take a walk on the beach, alone.
As we walked across the uneven sand, we bumped shoulders, touched fingers, and leaned on each other.
When Jan put his arm around me, I fell silent. Suddenly, I felt uncomfortable. But when I looked at him, he put his hand on my face and leaned in to kiss me. My discomfort disappeared and I returned the kiss enthusiastically.
We kissed for a long time. Then we lay down on the beach and hugged each other. As I had suspected, Jan was very capable. It was dark, I was tipsy from three bottles of beer, dizzy with lust. We had our hands everywhere, inside each other’s clothes.
‘I suggested we go to the beach, just the two of us, and I kissed him back wistfully.’
In my youthful exuberance, I would have had sex right there on the beach. But Jan was more sensible and resisted my attempts to remove his belt. “You should probably go home,” he finally said.
“Should I?” My heart ached, which was ridiculous; I barely knew him. I hugged him and buried my face in his chest. I knew I’d probably never see him again, and it hurt. Maybe it was pheromones; maybe Jan and I were extremely genetically compatible. Or maybe I just found it easier to fall for someone who wasn’t available.
We emailed back and forth for a while. Unlike most holiday romances, I was desperate for Jan to come to London or visit him in Berlin. But he didn’t suggest it, so I didn’t either. I never forgot our night on the beach, though.
Annabel Bond is a pseudonym. Names have been changed.
