In Bed With Lord Byron

convinced that only one pin had to drop out and the entire thing would unravel. Hence, when I stepped out of the taxi, I walked at the speed of a snail,
ignoring Adam’s impatient cries.
    The house was like an enormous white birthday cake, surrounded by a profusion of plants. The door was open and we were just entering when a portly, middle-aged man with a jolly red face and
sideburns came out.
    ‘Thanks, Peter,’ he said, shaking his hand. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ He smiled and nodded at me before walking off.
    ‘That was just Roger, my business partner,’ said Peter. ‘Now, Lucy, don’t you look fabulous.’
    He shook hands and I smiled. Behind him a woman stared at me coolly.
    She was beautiful. She had long dark hair like a mermaid and was dressed in that sort of seventies retro look that is so fashionable now: a tiered white hippy skirt with a flowing flowery shirt.
Then I became aware of something small and dark and faintly threatening lurking by the door. The next thing I knew, water was flying over me and I was completely drenched. Adam only just ducked
away in time.
    ‘Tony!’ Peter roared with laughter.
    ‘Tony!’ the woman cried. ‘Oh, Lucy – you are Lucy, aren’t you? – I am sorry. Tony, what on earth do you think you were doing?’
    ‘It’s the Holi festival!’ he said sulkily.
    ‘Tony, Holi is months away, and anyway, they throw coloured powder over each other.’
    Tony shrugged apologetically.
    ‘Sorry, wrong date,’ he said to me. Then he turned to look at Adam, and smirked, sensing Adam’s repressed fear. ‘Hello.’
    ‘Hello,’ Adam said warily.
    Peter introduced his wife as Marie, and she took me upstairs to her bedroom to change. It was a pretty room with a marble floor, patterned grey as though rain had fallen and dried in swirls.
Everywhere were draped cloths blazing with colour, hovering over wardrobes and couches like enormous butterflies, quivering in the faint balmy breeze that wafted in through the window. My eyes fell
on the bed. Only one side was slept in. She caught me looking and I quickly glanced away.
    ‘I rather think you need a lesson in how to put on a sari,’ she said, smiling.
    ‘Maybe you could teach me,’ I said, eager to be friends.
    ‘Well, I’m quite busy now, being a wife and a mother,’ she said, her warmth disappearing behind a cloud of mistrust. ‘Here, change into this.’ She passed me a hippy
skirt and a droopy blouse.
    As she left, I wanted to shout after her, ‘Look, I’m not having an affair with your husband, OK, and I’m not even sure why he invited me here!’ But I swallowed my words
back like an aspirin.
    Dinner was a rather tense affair. The servant, a stooping, elderly man called Jagabhandu, brought in a delicious meal of lemon rice and dahl. The conversation was decidedly
stilted, and for once I felt quite thankful for Tony, who kept interrupting the silence with demands and tantrums.
    I noticed that the servant poured wine for everyone except Marie.
    ‘My wife is pregnant,’ Peter said, with a touch of pride.
    ‘Oh, wow.’ I quickly concealed my shock. ‘Well – congratulations!’ I raised my wine glass and chinked it against Peter’s, but somehow the gesture seemed
inadvertently conspiratorial and mocking.
    ‘So, do you run a business here?’ I attempted to keep the conversation chugging along.
    ‘Peter does,’ Marie said acidly.
    ‘You saw Roger, my business partner, back there,’ said Peter.
    ‘He’s a very capable man,’ said Marie, in a tone that implied the exact opposite.
    ‘Marie is a great fan of Roger,’ said Peter. ‘She feels the slight loss in profits we made last year is his fault.’
    The use of the third person was starting to make me feel uncomfortably like a marriage guidance counsellor. I could hardly wait for the meal to end. I snuck a glance at Adam, who, in
Tony’s presence, had become quieter than I had ever seen him before.
    After dinner, Peter insisted that I stay for coffee. To my relief, Marie took Tony off to bed and I tried to cheer Adam up by suggesting he could help Jagabhandu make the coffees in the
kitchen.
    Peter disappeared to go to the toilet and I examined the stash of English newspapers on the coffee table – I remembered Peter saying that they had them specially delivered to make them
feel more at home. I picked up a copy of
The Times.
That’s strange, I thought. The logo’s changed, and they’ve gone from tabloid size back to big serious