Estranged from my parents at 17, I jumped at the chance to go on holiday to Spain. I danced, drank too much – and had a row that taught me about friendship

When I was 17, there was a lot I knew little about. I didn’t know about burning in the sun or how to use euros; I had never swum in the ocean.

I was part of a big family and we were poor. As my parents were out of work, they couldn’t afford to take the nine of us on holiday.

Two-thirds of couples start out as friends first. These readers were looking for love in all the wrong places – before they realised it was staring them right in the face

He was the first person I met at university, the day we moved into halls, and he tried to kiss me that night but I turned him down. I knew we’d be really good friends though, and I even joked that he would be godfather to my children one day. We stayed friends for a number of years as I careered from boyfriend to boyfriend, none of them suitable. Dave remained eternally single, focused on an army career. We stayed in touch and, not long after he returned from Afghanistan, we met up. He was different: he had grown up and looked hot! I saw him in a different light and realised I really fancied him. I was newly single and determined to remain so, but we went on a night out, snogged lots, and the rest is history. I’m so glad we had seven years of friendship – he’s still my best friend, we always make each other laugh and he’s such a wonderful husband and amazing father to our two children. Laura, insurance underwriter, Yorkshire

One hot teenage summer, I made a lifelong friend. Years later, it turned out there was much more between us

It was the summer of 2000 when I fell in love. I would love to say it was hot, but it was probably raining; weather doesn’t bother you when you’re 14 and smitten. My baggy jeans were drenched in south London gutter scum, with knee-high puddle water stains and my try-hard skater shoes that had never once touched a skateboard, ugly as hell and a size too big.

It was the school holidays and a group of us had been kicked out of a daytime house party by an angry briefcase-swinging dad who had returned home early from work to find 30 drunk teenagers in his really nice house. And now we were party-less, location-less, desperately searching for a place to carry on.

We hadn’t meant to knock on the door of a boy I shall leave unnamed (because he was an afterthought and I don’t want to hurt his feelings) but inside his house was Hugo White, also aged 14, sitting on the stairs, innocently, with a massive smile, big blue eyes and rosy dimpled cheeks, his feet in bobbly socks. Instantly, I felt my heart skip a beat.

Those days were spent on a giant trampoline in our friend’s garden while an old, overprotective, blond labrador padded around us. Failing that, we would spread out in giant crop circles on the common, spotlit by the sun and then the street lamps, and the reds and silvers of the night drivers. Sharing purple bottles of cider and beer, sharing rain-soggy cigarettes, smiles, phone numbers, jokes, stories and kisses – sadly never mine – singing our growing pains out to the swollen moon.

Hugo and I began writing letters and making mix tapes for each other. We talked on the phone most nights, his landline number tattooed on my brain. Our homes were opposites: mine chaotic and restless, his manicured and restrained. We lived in each other’s pockets. We could, because we were “just friends”. But I would be lying if I said that every time he kissed a girl I couldn’t hear my heart break. I felt like I decomposed into water, the way Amélie does in the cafe scene, more than once.

But, regardless, I had made a lifelong friend. When my parents split up, Hugo bought me a strawberry Ribena from the newsagent. When Mum married my now stepdad, Hugo was at the ceremony to grip my hand. Hugo bundled me into a cab when I got mugged (there was nothing in my rucksack except for an old, matted, unused tampon with a salt and vinegar crisp attached to it – the real theft was of my dignity). Hugo sat in a pink bathroom with me when I was throwing up and I, in turn, apologised to strangers on the night bus home as Hugo’s vomit pebble-dashed their shoes. When we were 16 and Hugo’s mum died, I stood by his side at the funeral. Out of my depth. Not knowing what to do with his pain, his grief, his grace, his beauty. This love.