In Bed With Lord Byron

offices sounded without the usual buzz of daily activity.
    The moment I entered Anthony’s office, I could see at once just how much I had hurt him. Whenever he was upset, he threw himself into his work. At various times in the past when he’d
had spats with his mother, he had been known to work for seventy-two hours straight, though I would frequently march in with takeaways and demands for him to come home. Tonight he looked absolutely
exhausted, his eyes lost in a sea of purple, the veins in his forehead pulsating with strained concentration. There was something guarded in his eyes too, something mistrustful. I felt my heart
twist. I wanted to jump on him and engulf him in a tight hug. But I knew it wasn’t as easy as that. I had to explain.
    But how to begin? All the way to his office, I had been trying to assemble my emotions like a jigsaw, to create a clear picture to present to him. I’d imagined myself making a messy sort
of speech, like a heroine in a movie, and Anthony, like the perfect hero, smiling at me, his heart softening, forgiving me. The scene would end with a kiss, and then on a more practical note we
would go out for dinner and talk late into the night and finally, once and for all, find a happy ending to the History of Lucy and Anthony’s Love Life.
    But now that I was standing here, I felt foolish and awkward and I didn’t know where to begin, and Anthony really didn’t look like a romantic hero.
    ‘So,’ he said, swinging back in his chair and tapping his pen impatiently. ‘What can I do for you?’
    ‘
What can I do for you?
Anthony, I’m not one of your clients,’ I said, wounded.
    ‘Well, I’m busy,’ he said tersely, stinging me with the sharpness of his tone. ‘This really isn’t a good time. I’m snowed under, I have a pile of paperwork
and—’
    ‘I just wanted to talk,’ I said quickly. ‘Look – maybe when you’ve finished we can go out for a meal. I’ll treat you. We’ll get Chinese . . .’
    Anthony shook his head solemnly, his glazed eyes returning to his computer screen, fingers tapping on the keys.
    ‘I don’t expect to be finished until three a.m.,’ he said. Then he glanced at me. I hated,
hated
it when I called him up and heard the clatter of keys; I would refuse to
speak to him, in fact. And now he was doing it right in front of me.
    ‘Sorry,’ he said, dropping his hands and flexing them. ‘It’s just not a great time, and look . . .’ He broke off, taking a sip of coffee from his Bart Simpson mug,
then wincing. ‘Shit, that’s cold. Anyway – Lucy, I think . . . I think we need some time apart. OK?’
    ‘No,’ I said, taken aback. ‘Anthony – look, I know I hurt you, I know I shouldn’t have run away from you in Suffolk, but I’ve come here – well,
I’ve come here to say sorry. I’ve come to say I really think it can work between us.’
    ‘Do you?’ Anthony said, in such a soulless voice that I quailed inside. ‘I’m not so sure.’
    Then he started tapping away at the keyboard again.
    ‘Anthony!’ I cried. ‘For God’s sake, can’t it wait one minute? I’m trying to talk to you!’
    ‘No, it can’t wait!’ Anthony suddenly exploded. ‘Lucy, for God’s sake, we’ve had plenty of time to
talk.
Fuck, we’ve spent weeks having
talks
about whether we should be friends, or not be friends, or date other people, and we never get anywhere. We just end up back at square one all over again. I mean – I just –
I don’t know . . .’ He trailed off miserably. ‘It seems that however hard we try to move up a ladder, we just fall back down a snake. I give up, Lucy. I’ve given up on
talks, I’ve given up on us.’
    I stared at him in shock. It wasn’t so much the truth in his words as the way he delivered them in such a matter-of-fact, businesslike tone. As though his subconscious had been grinding
through it all and already reached a conclusion.
    Oh God, I thought, I’ve blown it. I’ve pushed him too far. I’ve been too selfish. And now I’ve well and truly blown it.
    ‘Anthony, I know I’ve hurt you . . .’ I managed.
    ‘It’s not that,’ Anthony snapped. ‘Yes – you’ve hurt me. But it’s me really. I’ve put myself up for it. I’ve kept coming back after you,
I’ve kept trying to patch things up, and it’s all just a pointless waste of time.’
    ‘It’s not a waste of time, Anthony. I really think we can do this. I just . . . I just needed to think and I’ve . . . I’ve