How to have a holiday romance that ends happily ever after

After her sister pointed randomly at St Lucia on a map, life would never be the same again for Rachel Luca

Do you ever look back over time to pinpoint the exact moment where significant events began? It’s like a game of dominoes, one thing leading to another, both random and inevitable: if we had never taken that bus, then we wouldn’t have bumped into so-and-so. Or, if you hadn’t lent me that book, I’d never have taken that course which landed me that job – and so on.

If I play this game, then the life I’m living now, so far from home, can be traced back to the moment my sister stood in front of a map of the world, closed her eyes, and stuck her finger randomly on it to decide where we would go on holiday.

So that was that. We booked a fortnight in St Lucia, the only country in the world to be named after a woman, and known to locals, as we would discover, as the “island of love”.

By the end of the first week, my sister and I were well adjusted to island life – snorkelling off the golden beaches in tropical waters and admiring the World Heritage-listed Piton peaks while drinking cocktails in the beach bars.

One evening, back at the chilled little nine-bedroom Hotel Capri in the north of the island, we were lying on our beds beneath mosquito nets, reading (totally acceptable) and smoking (totally hazardous), when there was a knock at the door. It was Andrew, the hotel proprietor.

“Come on ladies,” he said, pretending not to notice the fug of smoke. “It’s Friday night. We’re going out!’

Packed into Andrew’s jeep, we drove on bumpy roads to the Captain’s Cellar pub on Pigeon Island. A few Bounty rums here; then it was on to the second bar, a place called Rumours in Rodney Bay – a melting pot of locals and tourists all having a great time together on the dance floor.

The atmosphere was exhilarating. With Andrew as our chaperone, we danced and made new friends. It was a great spot.

And a busy one. The queue for the ladies’ was a mile long, so I darted into the empty men’s bathroom instead – the next defining moment, as it turned out. When I came out, a man was waiting. “Isn’t this the guys’ bathroom?” he asked. I mumbled something about the queue and sloped back to my table.

Then suddenly, there he was next to me. Tall, tanned and handsome, he had a soft voice and a charming smile. One hand extended, the other pulling up a seat, he announced that his name was Pierre. For the next few hours, we sat like neat dominoes, leaning into each other with our conversation.

Pierre was from South Africa. He was working in St Lucia for an accounting firm, after a three-year stint in London. His plan was to work in the Caribbean for two years and then return to Cape Town. He missed his home.

Within a very short space of time, I felt like I’d known Pierre for a very long time. He was the close friend with whom you never run out of things to say. The companion you can tell anything to without judgment.

Our conversation flowed with such ease and authenticity it felt like an embrace. We met up a few more times before I had to catch my flight back to England. It was sad to say goodbye but we exchanged email addresses and agreed to stay in touch. As my plane took off, I was already looking forward to returning to St Lucia to see him again.

Back to my familiar routine in Brighton, I started to have doubts. Had I imagined our connection? Friends told me to leave it, it was just a holiday romance, not to embarrass myself by going back. It might be different next time, they said, and I’d be stuck there alone.

Our lives felt so different, his still in the chilled Caribbean, mine back in busy Brighton. But we exchanged emails and calls every week. I couldn’t wait for us to be together again in St Lucia; and a few months later I booked a flight back there. The next domino was in position.

Our reunion dispelled my fears. We picked up where we left off. Our days were spent trekking in the rainforest, sailing a catamaran to the neighbouring islands, eating fresh fish at the Anse La Raye seafood party, swimming at Reduit Beach in Rodney Bay, watching sunsets sipping chilled Piton beers. Time passed too fast. This time, saying