Imogen Robinson
I t had become tradition fairly quickly although I don’t think that was ever the intention. Summer and six of us piled into the car in a sticky flurry of pillows and tennis racquets and a Michelin atlas stuffed in the seat pocket. A ferry crossing and a long drive and steak haché at the service station, more driving until we arrived at a campsite that looked and felt and sounded and smelt the same as they always did. They were unremarkable holidays in many respects but I can remark on all of them and I can do this because I remember the boys.
First there was Ruud and I met him in the Dordogne. Beautiful, Dutch, year younger than me. Blonde hair and angel eyes, too young to give a shit but I put the work in nonetheless. He was good at table tennis so I got good at table tennis and I got his address and wrote to him but he never replied. The next year was Redmar. Taller, older, also good at table tennis but I was too now so that was fine. We stole a slimy kiss outside the wash block and then he whispered goodbye, pressed his Limp Bizkit business card in my hand.
I emailed him at the address provided on the Limp Bizkit business card, too bad we are not yet eighteen, he replied. I’m 27 now and it’s still too bad really. Bas was after Redmar and he was Dutch too. Darker hair and browner eyes and another secret snog as the Pyrenees groaned in the background and the rain came in a tunnel that was as damp and delightful as the snog.