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Until a captivating young Argentinian woman sitting side-on to me, but just sufficiently within eyeline to clock her striking looks and knee-high boots, leaned across and asked: "Has anyone ever told you you look like Quentin Tarantino?
It was 2am and Rhett, all 6ft 5in of him, accompanied my friend and me (of course I had a friend) on to the beach.So despite several hours roaming the streets trying to find Emma, I never did manage it. We might have embarked on a torrid and passionate affair and stayed on Ibiza for ever.Or she might have seen me without her beer goggles on and been sick on the spot.We'd got a bit ahead of ourselves in those letters and she hadn't told her folks about me.I could stay the night (guest's bedroom) but then I'd have to begin my Greyhound Bus trip. Checking on her whereabouts online, I found some nice obituaries from a few months ago, praising his skill at rose-growing. ASHLEY DAVIESA precocious 15-year-old girl will lie about most things to get what she wants but will often be too deluded to imagine she'll ever get caught out.Unlike every other girl in San Antonio, she was funny, interesting and - crucially - seemed to be quite keen.
In what I assumed to be a miraculous turn of events, she asked if I wanted to ditch my pals and her mum and set off on our own. Emma and I got on famously, and in my teenage hormonal haze I thought maybe she was my perfect woman.
All day long, as my friend and I cycled from one side of the island to the other, picnicked, sunbathed and swam in the azure blue sea of clich, I saw him round each corner, behind every rock, in every pool. We met by the sea wall as the sun was setting and watched the horizon turn as red as Atlanta burning.
Which is when Rhett decided to tell me about his holiday job as a gas station attendant out West; all six weeks of it, and with all the parched delivery of a dust storm on a forecourt at the end of the world. I don't give a damn, I rasped, my voice unaccountably high and squeaky. MARK SMITHFOR many thirtysomethings, Ibiza in the late 1980s and early 1990s will always be about the dance music revolution that turned the island into a paradise of superclubs and sexual freedom.
At the end of the night we bought a bottle of Bacardi and headed off to the beach, where I drank a bit too much, but remember having a lovely time.
So pleasant, in fact, that when we sheepishly returned to her apartment, she called me her "wild Scottish pal" and insisted I pick her up for another night of wild abandon the next evening.
For all I know, these days strings of coloured lights loop around the bay.