As promised I’ve returned to a snowy English spring with all the gossip on the Caribbean, although I was hard pressed to get on that plane back to London. Now I understand why my black boyfriends were always so laid back, a diet of sea, sun sand and sex definitely destroys all the brain cells and any need to worry about anything more serious than the next rum punch.
My first big mistake was to go on holiday with my 29 year old friend Francesca, a personal trainer from my local gym. If I look 38 on a good day, she looks 23, and she’s in training for the next Gladiator series on TV. I look ok in a bikini, but not ‘Gladiator’ good, and for the first time in my life I experienced first hand how the other half live. Not only that but she has a wardrobe to die for, picked up in New York and Miami, and it was like being inside a Vogue model shoot, as she changed outfits six times a day. This was interspersed with her staring fixedly into the mirror scrutinizing nonexistent wrinkles. I began to realise why sometimes younger men prefer older women. If I spent that much time and effort worrying what I looked like I’d commit suicide from boredom.
We found our beach on the first day, Mullins Bay, complete with dashing beach boys, both with and without dreadlocks, and soon our end of the beach was awash with men………all bemoaning their love for Francesca. She flirted outrageously with them all, and then when they became interested, suddenly fixed her attention on her Ipod or headed for the bar to top up on Rose. I became Agony Aunt Extraordinaire…..explaining patiently that she had a boyfriend in London and that she really did like them but was only interested in being friends. The one thing they all had in common was that they were incredibly sweet, romantic, and not so much chasing pussy as looking for intelligent company. I started to enjoy my pack of beautiful men sprawled under my umbrella, telling me stories about their lives. They thought I was cool, and that was better somehow than the adrenaline rush of being pursued. I got my drinks brought for me, free Jet Ski and speed boat rides, lunch on a tray and the necessary sun tan cream spread on my back. I also got told that I looked like Angelina Jolie!!! (In your dreams Victoria)
The evenings were spent on the veranda while Francesca smoked the local blow and told me endless stories of her love life, past present and future. She did once comment that she hoped that she would look as good as me when she was my age. I muttered darkly something about, ‘No chance unless you lay off the alcohol and smoking weed’. Heavy eyed and tetchy she crashed out around ten, leaving me to listen to the frogs and watch the bats flutter amongst the palm trees.
Something was missing!
At the local Karaoke night a Bajan boy appeared at my side. 6’4’’,, the usual age of 26, a poet who ran his own Auto Valet service , so tall, so dark, so slim…….so……Anyway to cut a long story short, we talked and hung out together over the next few days, much to Francesca’s chagrin, she just couldn’t bear any attention going anywhere but towards her. He soothed my wounded heart and made me feel better about life and love; even the possibility of love after the Italian fiasco. He liked my poetry and his open heart and generosity touched me somewhere far deeper than my libido. He tells me I have mesmerised him, and this time I’m not going to bother with the sensible comments about age gaps, and cultural differences. This time I have become smart enough to just let it be. I like him, but at the moment that is as far as it goes my end. He has managed to sever the painful ephemeral connection I still seemed to have with Mr Italian, who of course somewhere in the ether got word of this and immediately on my return was on the phone telling me how he missed me. I told him he’d probably feel ok in a couple of years, and hung up.
So here I am in an English spring having already booked tickets and a house to rent in Barbados at Christmas, and a house swap in August , and I am looking into the possibility of buying an off plan property out there. Not because of any Bajan boy who rings me every day, but because of the sea and sun and sand, oh and I forgot to tell you about the Polo match, but that’s another story.
Victoria Mosley (Siren Song) has two collections of poetry available from Amazon .co.uk The Dry Season (1998) Crazy Love (2002) and a cd downloadable from Idyllic Ipodcasts
