The evening had begun with the most noble of intentions. A quiet night watching a film at the historic Sun Pictures cinema and, before that, a quiet drink.

I was in Broome, in Western Australia – gateway to the Kim-berley, an abundance of pearls and, more significantly, mother-of-pearl shell. The town’s importance grew in the late 19th century as pearl-divers from around the globe came to make their fortune in the perilous industry. Many fell in love, creating a genetic alchemy that might just have explained the vision of womanhood sitting in the bar. I forgot all about the movie.

She batted her dark eyelashes at me and a smile danced across her face, before her tongue fleetingly appeared on her lips. I checked what she was drinking with the disconcertingly amused barman – bourbon and Coke – then sent one over to her and held my breath.

I was still holding it when she came over and slid onto the bar stool next to me. She was a mesmerising blend of Aborigine, Japanese and Chinese, with Mexican thrown in for good measure, and she rarely broke eye contact as we drank.

She said she wanted to dance – and giddy at my apparent success, so did I. So we ambled arm in arm to the nearby night-club, she nuzzling my neck and whispering in my ear. The world was my oyster and I had found a striking pearl.

I was ever more smitten with the passing of each delightfully slow dance and felt extremely pleased with myself when I later watched her walk away to the ladies’ room. That all changed when a large and animated Aboriginal man blocked my view and jabbed a huge finger towards my face.

“You’re dancing with my wife,” he snarled.

“What?” I squeaked, sobering up rapidly.

“You are dancing with my wife,” the man confirmed with mounting fury, drawing out each syllable.

“Oh, sorry,” I began, panic rising. “I thought she was single. Can I buy you a drink?”

This was an error. “Buy me a drink?” he roared. “You make out with my wife and offer me a drink? Oh, that’s it. Offer the Abo a drink and it’ll be all right! Why not take my land, too?”

Great. Somehow I had taken potential infidelity and turned it into a political argument from which there was no way out. My amateur flirting had brought forth two centuries of oppression and I was convinced my life was over.

The bouncers had hurriedly left the building and the crowd had retreated to a safe distance. Better still, the DJ had helpfully turned down the music so that everyone could enjoy the stimulating dialogue.

Then I spied my partner in crime: smiling like a cat still convinced she was due some cream, she sashayed towards us. I braced for fireworks. This could be ugly.

Suddenly, he burst out laughing, slapping me on the back before announcing that he was her cousin – her husband was in prison for drug-smuggling.

Oh, that was all right, then, I thought, suddenly sober, with visions of a gang of convicts hunting me down . In an instant, my appetite for adventure had left me. I made a pitiful exit, with the pair’s laughter following me out of the door.

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