In Bed With Lord Byron

as a teenager and forget you’ve grown up since then.
    ‘You know, I think you just need to grow up, Lucy. You’ve got to see relationships through. You’ve got to work at them. You can’t expect it all to be roses and candles.
Talk to him and see if it gets better. If not, then think about dumping him. But don’t give up at the first hurdle.’
    ‘I guess,’ I said, feeling chastised and slightly irked. Her advice had hit me straight in the heart because there was truth in it. Sally was such a know-it-all. I
did
tend to
give up on relationships the moment something went wrong. It always seemed easier just to walk away rather than work at things.
    So Anthony and I went for another dinner. This time, we opened up and talked things through. When we made love that night, we stared deep into each other’s eyes, every
caress a confirmation of our love for each other. As I lay in his warm arms, our noses nuzzling in an Eskimo kiss, I felt so relieved I had decided to give things a second chance.
How
annoying,
I thought, as I drifted off,
that Sally’s turned out to be right once again
...
    But, inevitably, after the honeymoon there were more problems. And more honeymoons. And then more problems.
    Our relationship improved and didn’t improve. It followed a cycle: times when the tide was flowing out and we were surfing it, deep in love, and times when Anthony suddenly went back to
being jealous and possessive and I went back to being flighty and indecisive and our love ebbed right back on to the shore.
    During those times, I felt uncertain. Is Anthony really right for me? I would wonder. Is my sister wrong to say I’m being idealistic? What if there
is
a guy out there who
wouldn’t ever get jealous and who I wouldn’t ever row with, who is The One for me? What if he exists?
    iii) Shopping
    Peter turned up promptly the next morning. My first surprise was that he had brought his son along. That meant there was a Mrs Peter lurking about somewhere. Unless he was a
single father, I thought hopefully. As he patted his son’s head, I glanced at his left hand. No rings.
    ‘This is Tony,’ he said. ‘Tony, this is Lucy.’
    Tony was a few years older than Adam. But whilst Adam, for all his bravado, tended to be shy and hide behind people’s legs, Tony was very confident. He stared up at me with cold black
eyes, sparky with suspicion and fear.
    ‘Well, how lovely,’ I said. ‘Adam, here’s a friend for you to play with.’
    ‘Uh, yeah.’ Adam smiled at Tony. Tony didn’t smile back. Something subtle passed between them: a silent exchange in a language that only children could understand. I realised
that if they had been alone in a playground right now, Tony would have been taunting Adam into a fight. I felt uneasy and made a promise to myself not to let Adam out of my sight.
    Perhaps this whole trip was a mistake, I thought. I couldn’t let any harm come to my dear nephew.
    Then I looked up at Peter. He smiled, a lovely, slow, sexy smile. It was a very reassuring smile too. It seemed to sweep away all doubts and clouds and promise that everything would work out
just fine.
    ‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘Let’s go!’
    We had a wonderful morning together. Well – wonderful and strange.
    We never did sort out the passports, for we were too wrapped up in having fun. Peter insisted, with amazing warmth and generosity, that I needed some new clothes and swept us along in two
rickshaws to a local market. On the way we passed elephants strolling alongside the road, their sides painted with colourful designs, and barbers cutting hair under the shade of trees. We browsed
through stalls proffering saris and beautiful cloths and shawls and spices and neon-coloured notebooks with Ganesh smiling across their covers, and kept Tony and Adam happy by buying some
petha
, a speciality of Agra that was made from sugar and cucumber and was deliciously cool and sweet.
    As we explored, we chatted a lot. I was curious about my handsome stranger and kept meaning to ask him more about himself. But somehow he always shifted the conversation back to me. Like all
great charmers, he was a good listener, interrogating me as though I was the most fascinating woman ever to have been born, bathing me in flattery like warm milk.
    Answering his questions, however, involved a certain amount of verbal tango-ing. He asked me what I was doing in India, and I told him I was on holiday. When I told him about my job and career