In Bed With Lord Byron

there – he was obviously lonely!’
    ‘Well, why don’t you go back down there and comfort him then?’ Anthony snarled sarcastically.
    ‘Comfort? Anthony, I don’t fancy him – I want you – and – and – what’s all this about me flirting everywhere we go?’ I demanded, trying to keep
up.
    ‘You know what I mean. I don’t have to spell it out and cite all the times . . . ’
    ‘
All
the times? Anthony, please do cite
all
the times.’ I put my hands on my hips, my heart hammering. I felt all shaky at having to assert myself; I simply
wasn’t used to being attacked by Anthony. ‘Really, I’d like to know.’
    ‘Okay, d’you want me to give you a list?’
    ‘Yes – please do give me a list.’
    ‘Okay – one – there was that time that we went to the pub in Islington and you went over to the guy who was filling up the condom machine and asked for a freebie.’
    ‘I was being cheeky – it was just a laugh! And come on, Ant, we did end up using those condoms that very night!’ I winced at the memory; they had been mint flavoured and just
the scent of them had made me feel as though I was cleaning my teeth, which hadn’t been very sexy really.
    ‘We had to throw them away. And the next evening you said you wanted to go back to the pub—’
    ‘Because I liked it! I thought it had a nice atmosphere, and that log fire was lovely—’
    ‘Oh yeah, right, I knew you wanted to see him, and then he wasn’t there, and you went all quiet for the rest of the evening.’
    ‘Was I? I don’t remember that. I mean, maybe I was tired . . . ’
    ‘Okay – number two –’ God, he was relentless ‘– that guy we met in Berlin. The musician we met in that bar. You said to his face that you thought he was
nice-looking.’
    ‘Well.’ I felt as though I was being whiplashed here. Suddenly I understood why Anthony was such a good businessman. I’d once overheard one of his secretaries saying he was
tough and I’d secretly laughed; but now I was seeing a glimpse of his ruthless side. ‘Okay – I admit it.’ It seemed easier to. ‘I was flirting with him
but—’
    ‘You said you thought he was nice-looking—’
    ‘No—’
    ‘Oh, so you’re lying now . . . ’
    ‘I . . . ’ I opened and closed my mouth.
    ‘Three,’ Anthony pushed on. ‘You smiled at that hot black guy.’
    ‘Who? I – what – I smiled at someone?’
    ‘You know who I mean. That guy. The one in Covent Garden.’
    ‘
Who?
’
    ‘That day we went Christmas shopping. He was standing watching—’
    ‘Anthony, I have no idea who you’re talking about! This is crazy. Really crazy. I can’t even remember who that guy was but,’ my voice rose in frustration, ‘I do
remember that I was so happy that night at being with you that I was smiling non-stop.’
    No answer.
    ‘Don’t you believe me?’ I cried.
    Silence. Anthony swallowed. He broke off to slap a bloodsucker which had just landed on his arm, muttering, ‘These fucking mosquitoes!’
    I stood very still, still shaking. I kept thinking: is this the real Anthony? Is this the Anthony I know and love?
    And did he really mean all those comments? One look at his face showed me that yes, he did. I felt as though a long shadow had been cast over our relationship. So: all those times when I’d
thought we were having a nice evening out in an Islington pub or shopping together, or having picnics, Anthony had been silently simmering, scoring points. I rewound events scene by scene,
rewriting the past from his viewpoint. And yet I couldn’t really understand it. I am in the right, I thought, I’m not just being a contrary Lucy at this point, I am in the right.
He’s crazy. My stomach churned. So this was the real Anthony. The real, raw Anthony, with all his layers of niceness peeled away. He’s one of those nightmare boyfriends who want to put
you in a box or on a leash. He’ll have me wearing a burka next. Or handcuffing me to an Aga, declaring women shouldn’t work.
    Oh God.
    ‘Oh God,’ said Anthony. He suddenly got up, his face contorted with pain. He ran into the bathroom and threw up.
    Immediately our row was forgotten. I ran in to his side, touching his face. He stared at me with bloodshot eyes. I saw the mistrust in them and revulsed, I pulled my hand away. Then I felt my
stomach churning like a cement mixer. I thought: that meal hasn’t gone down very well. Then I realised.
    ‘Anthony, I think we’re in trouble . . . ’
    ‘I knew we