The Birthday That Changed Everything: Perfect summer holiday reading!. Debbie Johnson

back home, possibly competing at international level.

      Pride, of course, is the traditional forerunner of a fall. Or, in my case, the onset of a panic attack. I realised, when the learners back on the shore started to look like tiny colourful ants, that I’d travelled quite a long way without really noticing what I was doing. It felt as if I was miles away. Halfway to the nearest Greek island at least.

      Despite my obvious natural talent and the international windsurfing career that beckoned, I had one very big problem: I had absolutely no idea how to turn this thing around. I could head in only one direction – towards a watery death.

      The instructors were back there, dealing with all the others crashing into each other and almost drowning, and I was out here. On my own. Far, far away.

      Would they send out a search party when it got to dinner and I didn’t show up? Would Lucy and Ollie notice I was gone at all until they needed their passports? How far away was the next Greek island anyway?

      I made a few weedy attempts at twisting the sail around in the opposite direction, but that didn’t work. I dipped my foot in to use as a kind of rudder, but one size-five foot against the whole ocean wasn’t much use. My arms were getting tired. My legs were starting to feel like rubber. And I was so scared I thought I might wee my pants some time soon. Where was David Hasselhoff when you needed him?

      I’d just decided to jump for it and try to swim my way back, somehow dragging the board with me, when I heard a shout coming from behind.

      ‘Sally! You okay? Can you tack?’

      I recognised the voice straight away. James. Bloody typical. Of all the gin joints in all the world…I had to splutter into his. Drowners can’t be choosers, though, so I yelled back: ‘No! I can’t tack! I don’t even know what that is! Help! Send out a distress flare or call the coastguard or something!’

      ‘Just jump off,’ he yelled, ‘and swim to me – I’m not far behind you. Don’t panic – you’re going to be fine.’

      Easy for him to say. He was probably an expert on tacking, whatever the hell that meant – and I was presuming at that stage it was nothing to do with dressmaking.

      I jumped in, holding my nose, fighting back a surge of panic as I splashed down.

      James was in a small white boat, leaning over the edge and holding out his hands to me. He had his lower body stretched out over to the other side for balance.

      I doggie-paddled my way over, choking afresh each time a wave hit me in the face, until I was by the side. He grabbed hold of my hands and pulled me up. I landed in a wet, undignified heap in the middle of the boat, with what felt like a wedge of wood poking up between my bum cheeks.

      ‘Ouch!’ I shrieked, wanting to leap up but only capable of throwing myself forward on to all fours. James was sitting directly in front of me, trying not to laugh. He was wearing form-fitting cycling-type shorts, and a second-skin top that made his muscles look as if they’d been coated in shiny black paint. None of which made it easy to hate him.

      ‘Thanks,’ I said, perching myself on the opposite ledge. ‘I think you might have saved my life…or at least saved me a long swim. I kept going and going and I just couldn’t turn round…’

      ‘Tack,’ he said, ‘that’s what you do to turn. I’m impressed you made it this far on your first lesson, even if you did get stuck – most beginners just fall in for an hour.’

      ‘I know!’ I answered, wringing out my hair, ‘I’m made up with myself! Not sure I’ll be doing it again any time soon, though. I had a few minutes before you turned up when I was petrified. I don’t think a life on the ocean wave is for me really.’

      As we spoke he was untying some rope, pushing a stick around, and doing something that made the sails move. As you can tell from my masterly use of the terminology, I am a sailing expert.

      ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘I bet you could sail this. I could show you how.’

      Yeah, I thought. And I bet it was like golf or tennis in the movies, and he’d have to put his arms round me in the process.

      ‘Erm…what is this anyway? A little yacht?’

      ‘This is a dinghy. Small enough to sail single-handed, but big enough for a few more if needs be. Jake loves them – next year he might even start going out on his own.’

      Even a six-year-old was better at water sports than me. Why wasn’t I surprised?

      ‘Okay, well, good for him. I need a bit of a rest, though. Give me a few minutes to dry out and then maybe I’ll try. And what do we do about the gear?’

      ‘Don’t worry, they’ll nip out in the speedboat and collect it later. They’ll just be glad you’re back. I’d like to pretend I’m your knight in shining armour, but they’d have fetched you before long. So relax – take your few minutes,’ he said, a gentle smile curving those luscious lips. He went back to doing things with ropes and sticks and sails, and I did as I was told.

      I stretched out my legs as far as I could, closed my eyes, and let the sun soak into my skin. It was so quiet out here. Serene, in fact, if all you had to do was act like a cat on a window ledge on a summer’s day.

      We were both silent for a few minutes, and I could feel from the stable bobbing of the waves that we were staying put. Perhaps he was taken aback by my beauty and unable to move. More likely I was supposed to do something to help him.

      ‘One day,’ he said, ‘I’ll take you out on a bigger boat. Then you can bring a blanket and just stretch out in the sun all day like that…’

      I opened my eyes sharply and looked at him. That sounded blissful – and dangerously flirtatious.

      ‘We could always take Jake if you need a chaperone,’ he said, a hint of challenge in his voice. ‘Anyway, come on, help me sail this little yacht back to shore – it’s easy,’ he said, before I had chance to answer.

      He pointed at the stick. ‘This,’ he said, ‘controls the tiller. You use this to steer, and turn around. When you’re sailing a dinghy, you use your bodyweight as ballast, which is what stops it from capsizing. That bit there’s called the dagger board. You sat on it earlier. You can see the sails yourself, and they’re attached to the boom at the bottom. Watch out for it, if you don’t pay attention it can whack you on the head.’

      Great. Another way to injure myself. I was obviously fated not to get to shore safe and sound.

      He did some strange slow-motion action that involved him feeding the stick – sorry, the tiller – behind his back, pulling on the ropes, and moving from one side of the boat to the other. All of which he did with total ease, of course. Bet he was never picked last for the netball team.

      He tried to make it simple, but I was distracted by a million and one things: exhaustion, stupidity, and the lazy curl of lust in my tummy as I watched him moving and listened to him speak.

      ‘Right – your turn,’ he said.

      ‘No. Sorry, but I’m knackered. I need you to be a knight in shining armour for a bit longer.’

      ‘Well, when you put it like that,’ he answered, laughing, ‘how could a man resist? I’m going to need you to move around when I tell you to, though, okay?’

      As we made our way back, he mentioned that Jake’s mother took him sailing when he stayed with her for holidays. Hmm. That meant he had Jake full time, which wasn’t what I’d assumed…I’d assumed, in all honesty, that he was a weekend dad. Shagging his way through his middle-life crisis Monday to Friday, and going to McDonald’s on Saturday.

      It sounded as though I’d been wrong. I hated that. Before I could find out any more, he moved quickly on to another subject.

      He asked about Ollie, who he’d met that morning snorkelling, and about Lucy, who he hadn’t met and who I hoped he never would meet, for his sake. He