“Av you ever been up Greenwich Park?” he asked. I shook my head, conscious of every limb, then swiftly nodded. Yes, I’d love to go with him; our second date. He could have invited me to Chornobyl and I’d have agreed with celestial wonder in my eyes.
It was 1999. I was 17, he was 24, and he was about to become my first boyfriend. I already felt giddily, hopelessly, dangerously besotted. I knew we’d be an illegal couple – the age of consent wasn’t equalised until 2001. Frankly, I’d have served a decade in prison just for him to hold my hand, like he did in his off-white Vauxhall Nova on the drive there, breaking only to change gears.
