It took two 12-hour bus journeys to get to the right beach, so I was in full-on sweaty-backpacker mode when I arrived at the full-on, not-sweaty-backpacker yacht. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before — the size of a ferry, all white, with tinted windows, a huge radar, two motorboats, a sailing boat and an on- deck whirlpool.
Sophia greeted me with a wobble (she was tipsy), a snigger (I was grubby) and a glass of champagne, then introduced me to the family: aunts, cousins, second cousins, grandparents, nephews, a few other school friends and, finally, Mr Big himself. That’s not Daddy’s real name. If I told you that, he’d have to kill me.
He was a short and serious man, with a terribly big nose. How could Amazonian Sophia have come forth from those loins? Maybe he could tell what I was thinking, because little Mr Big ignored my proffered hand. Almost inaudibly, he said: “Welcome.” It was terrifying. I was about to launch into my “Thank you so much for having me — your daughter and I are old school friends” speech, but he had already turned his back.
It seemed like a sensible plan to stay out of his way during my stay. My roommate — Sophia’s brother — was much easier to get along with, and I soon felt at home. Happy to abandon the heavy constraints of my backpacker budget, I indulged. We ate, we swam, we drank, we slept, we ate. Our every need was attended to by a staff of thousands. Perfect, you may think, and it was — apart from one thing. We were stuck on the yacht. Despite the free-flowing champagne, claustrophobia set in. We needed an escape. Anywhere but the boat.
The local beach bar was everything the yacht wasn’t: small, dark, packed and sweaty. Just what we needed. We drank a lot, danced a lot and increasingly split into two groups – Sophia and I in one, everyone else in the other. Then they left and we stayed. We kissed on the dancefloor, which should have been a huge shock, as we never had before, but it seemed perfectly natural at the time. And then we went for a walk on the beach.
Advertisement
I remember feeling rather caddish: an 18-year-old seducer, in the Caribbean with the beautiful daughter of a terrifying steel magnate at 3 o’clock in the morning. If I’m honest, though, it was she who was really in charge. If I kissed too earnestly, she would stop me and whisper: “Later.”
It was getting light by the time we stumbled back to the silent yacht. We sat up on deck for a while, listening to the lapping water and watching the sunrise of her 18th birthday. Her long, brown legs were draped over the side of the boat, and I was miserable. All physical contact was now outlawed because we were back on the boat.
“I’m going to bed,” she said, finally. And I muttered goodnight, which is when she turned back and whispered: “Come on, then. I want my birthday present.”
In the safety of her bedroom, she was no longer coy. Clothes were torn off, sheets thrown aside and, very quickly, we found ourselves making what can only be described as mad, passionate love. A night’s frustrating game-playing had all been worth it. That is, until she froze.
Like all 18-year-old boys, I was accustomed to getting things wrong. Maybe I needed to go faster? She just lay still. Maybe softer? Nope. Perhaps some gyrating of the hips, like a horizontal Tom Jones? Still nothing. For a good 15, 20 seconds, she had been entirely unresponsive while I tried a few different manoeuvres. It didn’t cross my mind that I should stop.
Advertisement
“Happy birthday,” said that quiet, terrifying voice, and I spun round as the door clicked closed. I’ve seen too many films about rich, protective fathers making unsuitable long-haired boys who express an interest in their daughters disappear. I had done far more than express an interest. Sophia and I went into free-fall panic, and she kept coming back to the same thing: “Why didn’t you stop?” I was burning with embarrassment and fear, trapped on what suddenly seemed like the smallest yacht in the world. I hid in my cabin for the whole morning, but eventually, I had to come out for the birthday lunch, hosted by the relentlessly doting father.
I found a seat as he worked his slow, deliberate way around the table, offering each guest grilled scallops. “Scallops? Scallops? Scallops?” It came to my turn. I braced myself and, with equal deliberateness, he bypassed me completely.
It was the psychological equivalent of finding a horse’s head in your bed. Or getting the thumbs up from a Roman emperor. Everyone noticed.
I still had to endure the rest of the three-hour meal, but, that afternoon, I got back on the 12-hour bus.