I was 16 years old when I met my first “bad boy”. He was 17, rode a motorbike, had shoulder-length hair and wore vintage Levi’s. He was a heartthrob. He had been expelled from a boy’s boarding school and was attending a college over the road from my school in Kensington.
I was introduced to him by a friend as I stepped off the coach that took us to play lacrosse. He was up against the wall smoking a cigarette and blew the smoke in my face. He took one look at me – and me at him. That was it.
