Standing on a Sinai Peninsula beach in Egypt in 1997 as a 27-year-old man, I marvelled at the good fortune of finding myself employed as a scuba diving instructor. The irony of living in a country that frowned upon its male citizens having contact with the fairer sex wasn’t lost on me as I gazed across this paradise filled to the brim with bikini-clad women sampling the pleasures of sunshine, warm-water scuba diving and tanned instructors.

Being a mere Western male, I had dived into bed with all who were willing. One of these encounters included a girl whose telephone call that day, while I stood on the beach, startled me out of my musings. I heard a female caller with a very sexy voice say: “It’s me.” To save her any embarrassment I didn’t ask her name, instead I pretended to know exactly who she was and let her talk while desperately willing the penny to drop.

It emerged that she had been one of the many students with whom I’d shared a few drinks followed by a no-strings romp. She fondly recalled the previous time our paths had crossed and then declared that she was due to be married in three weeks. She seemed to be hinting that now would be a good time to visit as her fiancé was going away on a business trip.

Tragically slow on the uptake and still thinking wedding invitations, I asked if I would be meeting her friends and relatives. The answer was no; we were going to hit the road and tour Israel instead. Realising that she was not going to get anywhere by being subtle, she got straight to the point. Would I come, as soon as possible, to fulfil her wildest desires? Not feeling the slightest bit of remorse towards her fiancé, I agreed.

Telling my boss the necessary lies to ensure a speedy departure I set off filled with anticipation. Throughout my dash to Israel I desperately tried to recall who she was, but try as I might, I could not put a face to the name.

Imagine my surprise when I was met at the bus station by a beautiful young woman. Perfect in every way. How could I have forgotten her? Our passionate reunion was followed by countless erotic adventures, carried out while she avoided friends and family who believed her story of needing “me-time” before her big day.

Our affair ended at the bus station. There were no tears as we knew we’d never see each other again. Weirdly, during our time together, I’d had no desire to learn her name. For one week she was simply every woman who has ever been.

Do you have an affair to remember? E-mail your 500-word story to loveaffair@thetimes.co.uk

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