Back home in South London, in the suburb of Balham, life was as different from the Caribbean as it was possible to get.
There were plenty of black guys around, but it just wasn't the same as in St Lucia. Their manners, attitude and general approach to life didn't seem the same. Whatever happened to them as They became immigrants wasn't an improvement on the happy-go-lucky cheerful attitude Tara and I had loved so much on our all too short holiday in St Lucia.
So it wasn't perhaps surprising that we didn't date any black men in Balham.
Balham was, as the late Peter Sellers described it in his memorable soliloquy, the Gateway to the South, Four-square on the Northern Line. Balham should have been called "Dullsville" for the sake of accuracy.
As Tara and I lost our tans and settled to our humdrum working lives, we couldn't help thinking of our holiday as one of those golden memories we would carry into old age.
We managed to scrape together enough cash for a short Caribbean cruise out of St Martin. We only had one day in Castries, the capital of St Lucia. How disappointed we were to find that Raoul and Cal's place was occupied by others and their business premises were derelict. Our inquiries revealed they had sold up and left for England eight months ago, looking for a pair of English girls whose surnames they didn't even know.
I guess they hadn't realised that although England is a small country geographically, there are nearly fifty million people living there and there must be thousands of Ellens and Taras!
We returned to the ship sadly and consoled ourselves with the amorous attentions of a couple of the black stewards on the return voyage to St Martin. We both loved their cute French accents. It's not called the language of love for nothing.
It was at a family gathering over the following Christmas break that I met an old friend called John again. We had been friends as youngsters. In fact , John had been my very first lover. The very day I reached the "age of consent" he had taken my maidenhood in our mother's kitchen while she was out shopping. At first I felt as if I had the words, "No longer a Virgin" tattooed across my forehead in big red capitals, but once I found out she couldn't tell that I had lost my virginity just by looking at me , it didn't seem so much of a big deal. Especially as I hadn't even come.
I must have had some feelings left for John because I agreed to go out with him a couple of times. On the second date we ended up in bed. I found out he had improved a lot in the sex department since our earlier encounter.
After a few more nights together, John started asking me to marry him. I laughed it off at first, saying we were far too young. When I thought about it, most of my girlfriends of my own age were either married or living with their boyfriends on a regular basis. Four of my school classmates already had children.
John kept on campaigning to make me his wife, pointing out that at twenty-four and twenty we were hardly shallow teenagers. In the end, I began to wilt under pressure from John, my peers and family.
All except Sarah, my mother, who agreed with me that I was too young. John, however, managed to get round her somehow and, eventually, even she agreed to our union.
I know I should have been stronger, but hindsight is a twenty-twenty form of vision as any thoughtful person knows only too well. John had never given me the sort of buzz I had got from Raoul on our first Caribbean holiday. But I wanted children and John agreed. And he was certainly a very eligible spouse.
What surprised me most of all was John's suggestion that we wed in the Caribbean. He had a brochure from a place at the north end of St Lucia in Rodney Bay. The pictures of it looked good with the blue seas and the marina. Also it was a part of the island I had never seen and it wouldn't bring back memories of our first visit.
We got a good deal from an airline for the family and friends who wanted to come out for the ceremony and return the following day. Our mother accompanied Tara and me as an advance party to make preparations. We took over the conference room at the hotel and decorated it appropriately with bunting, flowers and ribbons. John arrived with the guests the next day. Most of them got an early night, but John and I went dancing at the marina. When John got tired, I did a couple of turns round the dance floor with a couple of black guys. Tony and Jesse were pleasant, well turned out and polite, although they made no secret of the fact they found me very attractive and desirable. But it all seemed like good fun. Eventually John and I tired and bid my admirers goodnight.
Next day started early for me. First bathing and manicure, then the hairdressers. Then Tara and Sarah (Mum insisted on her first name 'at least for the trip,' she said) helped me dressing in a beautiful white satin and lace wedding gown over my fancy new underclothes, which included stockings and garter belt. Fortunately the hotel was air-conditioned, so I wasn't too hot in all the gear.
When I was ready I got quite a thrill seeing my reflection in a full length mirror. A beautiful 21 year old blond was smiling back at me. I felt like a million dollars.
I felt the same as I walked up to the specially arranged altar on my Dad's arm, followed by my sister, Tara, in a shiny pink satin gown.
After the ceremony came the wedding 'breakfast' followed by music and dancing. Finally it was time for John and me to leave.
We had arranged to stay for a few days at a little chalet a few miles north of the marina. It was right on the beach and almost as far north as anyone could go without getting their feet wet.
I had a strange feeling as we drove the few miles to the chalet in our hired car. In fact I looked back expecting to see someone following us. But it was dark and I could see no headlights behind us.
Once inside the chalet, John poured us a couple of drinks.
"To our future together," he said as he raised his glass.
Hardly had we downed the drinks before there was a knock on the door.
"Who on earth can that be," John said as he went to the door and opened it.
Some sort of cosh or club hit him over the head as the door opened and he was over powered by two hooded figures. His hands and feet were locked with cable ties before he could recover or I could get across the room to help him.
As I got there, one of the men grabbed me and threw me onto the bed. Then my own hands were tied to a bed post. They tied John to a chair facing towards the bed.
"Now you're going to see your pretty wife get blacked, white boy," one of them said to my new husband.
The voice sounded familiar. Suddenly I realised these were the two guys who I had danced with last night.
They had told me how much they fancied me when we were dancing out of earshot of John, but I didn't things would ever get this far. I remembered one of them had rubbed his erection against me during a slow dance and I had flirted to the extent of returning the pressure against his cock. The other one had kissed me on the cheek, and when I hadn't objected, he had kissed me again but this time on the lips. Not only had I allowed him but I returned his kiss.
Now I realised what a foolish girl I had been. They were going to rape me in front of John. It wasn't fair on him. I accepted I was at fault, to some extent, for my behaviour on the dance floor.
One of the men produced what looked like a Stanley knife. He proceeded to draw the small sharp blade from the hem of my lovely dress right up to my waist. Then as the sides slipped away, he did the same thing to my slip. Then he reached up and ripped my pretty panties off.
