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arrived in La Romana with just a few belongings in a carry bag. I’d used some of my meagre savings to buy a swimsuit – a tiny gold bikini that glittered in the light – and a pair of sandals witha thick wedge. I had a cotton dress, a skirt and the white blouse, and if that wasn’t enough for me to fit into whatever ritzy establishments that he had planned, then he’d need to buy me more things.
    A car and driver appeared to collect me at the airport. Chey was apparently in a business meeting and unable to come in person. I sat alone in the back seat of the sedan with the window open, enjoying the warm air brushing my skin and the sweet smell that wafted on the breeze from the sugar factories as we raced along the wide streets lined with palm trees towards his private villa on the resort, which was so large that when we pulled in I had thought the ring of airy white stone buildings with their thatched roofs by the oceanfront comprised the entire resort, where we would have one bedroom. In fact, the driver explained that all of this was Chey’s and mine, at least for the next few days.
    I was shown upstairs by a uniformed maid who led me silently to a vast unoccupied room overlooking the villa’s private beach with its endless shore of golden sand. I dumped my bag on the king-size bed and briefly admired my surroundings.
    The floors were marble, polished and shiny, and the balconies offered a perfect view of a glittering ocean on one side of the villa, and an oval-shaped pool on the other. I had never come across such luxurious surroundings before and almost felt as if I didn’t belong here. The fittings were elegant and devoid of ostentation, but spoke of taste and wealth.
    I stripped off in one of the expansive bathrooms, revelling in the feel of the cool slate tiles against my feet. I washed away the dust from my travels, donned my bikini, and made my way downstairs to the pool. I ordered a fruity cocktailfrom a barman who had seemingly come out of nowhere the moment I appeared. Drink in hand, I pulled my book from my bag and settled in to wait by the pool, marvelling at the strangeness of life and how a girl from Donetsk had ended up in a place like this.
    Chey arrived just as the sun was setting: an enormous orange orb that had flung its flame-like tendrils into the sky as if in an attempt to stop itself from falling. Shades of pink and tangerine as bright as the mango that had decorated my drink glowed brightly against the deep blue of the ocean.
    I didn’t see him come out to the pool, but I felt the warmth from his skin as he perched on the side of my deckchair, leaned forward and kissed my cheek. I looked up. He was shirtless, dressed in just a pair of cream board shorts and sandals. His skin was a rich bronze colour, no doubt the result of several days lounging in the Caribbean sun before I had arrived.
    ‘Would you like to go for a ride?’ he asked.
    Without waiting for my reply, he threw me the loose cotton dress I had hooked over the back of the chair and took my hand, leading me out to the front again, where a scooter was parked on the grass. He climbed on and I slid up behind him, wrapping my arms around his strong, muscled waist. I hung on as we sped down to the seafront at La Caleta, passing a row of ugly concrete buildings that contrasted strangely with the straw-thatched roofs and colourful painted walls of nearby tropical-themed bars and shop fronts where bunches of bananas were piled alongside fishing gear and signs advertising various tourist activities.
    Chey hired a boat at the marina, a small white speedboat with Valya painted on the side in faded black. It felt like an omen to me, seeing the name of my old friend, the girl whohad set about my sexual awakening. I wasn’t sure if it would turn out to be a positive or a negative omen, but I felt instinctively that it would lead to sex.
    And it did.
    We flew over the water in Valya , my hair whipping back behind me in the wind and the taste of