Angela Meyer - Sea Fever: From First Date to First Mate

Perhaps you remember me I put down my suitcase with one hand and hold the beautifully handwritten letter in the other. My heart starts beating faster. I reread the old-fashioned script again slowly.

Dear Angela,

Perhaps you remember me? We shared a wonderful night together but I had to leave unexpectedly. Im in town for six weeks; please email me if you would like to meet.

Sincerely, Ross

I take a deep breath. Of course I remember him.

Hes the sailor who played I Was Made for Loving You by Kiss on the guitar, who pashed me on the wharf and who stood me up, four months earlier.

Shaking my head, I get up and lug the suitcase into my room. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. A Real Hot Bitch smiles back. For the first time in a long time Im not obsessing about being single. Two weeks drinking cocktails and reading detective novels on the beach in Koh Phi Phi have done wonders. I stare at my peeling shoulder and cant resist picking it. I am ready for a new chapter in the life of Angela Meyer, one that doesnt involve boys masquerading as men, or foolish booze-fuelled antics.

I am thirty-two. Its time to make some changes.

Bloody men! I throw the letter on my dressing table and unzip my case. After spending the best part of two thousand bucks on a trip to Thailand to forget him, he contacts me! I begin unpacking my white towelling frock (so handy on a beach), three bikinis and my newly purchased gold sandals. I flick on my stereo, desperate to hear something other than the high-pitched Asian pop I have been tormented with for the last fourteen days. Pat Benatar is belting out I Am The Warrior. Some would say this is hardly a step up, but my musical tastes were shaped by Solid Gold Hits Volume 31. Good on ya, Pat.

I start singing along with her Bang, bang Thats what I am: a warrior fighting heartache. No more crying into my pillow over blokes.

As the clock struck midnight on 1 January 2007 I had made a vow. I would date no more. I would focus on my business, The ManBank; my dance troupe, the Real Hot Bitches; and travel. As the final wail of I Am The Warrior dies out I strike a dramatic pose and look at myself in the mirror. Sailor boy, you missed your chance.

There is only so long you can shoot the energy out of your jazz hands, and soon my arms begin aching.

Looking down, I see the letter has a halo of dust around it. In the time I have been away a thin film of filth has settled on the hairclips, half-used lipsticks and flashy earrings.

Picking up the letter again I start musing He obviously uses expensive ballpoints no one can flourish an A like that with a Bic. Maybe he had a genuine reason for his disappearing act

It was time for some answers.

We had only dated, if you could call it that, once, four months ago.

It was a nasty night in October 2006, and I was on a date with a guy called Dylan. We both knew it wasnt going to be repeated; in a last-ditch attempt to have fun we stopped in at a little bar, The Pit, for a nightcap. Sitting in the corner table was Ross.

Hey Ange, this is my friend Ross, Dylan said. I reckon you two would get on well he plays in a band and you dance.

There before me in a spectacular brown-checked jacket was a take-your-breath-away total fox.

So you dance, he said slowly, sizing me up. One look at my body and its obvious Im not on the payroll of a contemporary dance company who do movement phrases in flesh-coloured undies.

Bitch, actually. I am the Mistress of the Real Hot Bitches comedy dance troupe, I answered, hoping it made me seem interesting, a bit naughty and explained the figure.

He raised his bushy brows and gave me the first of his twinkly-eye looks. A real hot bitch

I smiled coyly. You should come and watch us sometime.

I just might do that, he said, sipping his red wine.

Make sure you do, I tried to purr in a sexy, flirty fashion.

I had been speaking to him for approximately two and a half minutes and already I wanted to ditch my date and hook up with his mate! To hell with dating etiquette. Ross was dark and mysterious and newish in town and I was sure I felt a spark a connection . Oh God, maybe even a vibe

My good manners won over, however, and Dylan and I continued making halting conversation over our nightcaps. I positioned myself to spy on Ross. He looked like he was in good shape, with a great head of hair, and an easiness about him. He wasnt fiddling with a mobile phone and earnestly pretending to text; no, this gent was reading. Obviously he was intelligent. Good. I couldnt quite make out the title of the book but it was leather, oxblood with gold lettering.

OK, well, thanks for a nice night, Dylan said, finishing the last of his drink. It was time to leave no point in dragging it out for either of us. I stood up, put on my coat on and accidentally-on-purpose caught Ross eye. I threw him a casual wave.