In Bed With Lord Byron

exotic beast ready to take flight. I jumped up, wiping my
eyes, breathing in a snotty breath. Right, I thought in desperate misery, I’m going to go and damn well get into that machine. I’m going to go away for months and months. I’m
going to meet men who are a million times more sexy and wonderful and funny than him. Sod him, I thought, sod him sod him sod him. I hate him hate him hate him.
    I ran over to the machine, slipping into the seat. It was well worn now from my adventures; there were several splits in the leather cover where stuffing was wriggling out like yellow worms. For
one surreal moment I almost felt the machine sigh, as though it was tired itself from so much turbulence and just wanted a rest.
    I told myself not to be silly. Now, where did I want to go? And more importantly, who did I want to meet?
    My mind was a blank. All I could see was Anthony’s face as we’d parted. All I wanted to do was set the machine for his bedroom. For a moment I sat dreamily and pictured myself
surprising him. He’d be lying in bed now in his pyjamas, reading; and I’d just appear, glide across the carpet and kiss him on and on and on . . .
    Concentrate, Lucy. For God’s sake. Just pick someone. Pick a great lover. The greatest of lovers. Casanova!
    Casanova. Perfect. The one man who would extinguish Anthony for good. The only trouble was I didn’t know what date to type in, and I couldn’t even bring myself to get out of the
machine and look it up.
    Eventually I did get out and stumbled back to the sofa. Tears began to pour down my face and I felt exhaustion weighing me down like grey tar.
    It took a while to sink in, for the shock to hit me. I didn’t want to use the machine. I had no wish to go back in time and dally with anyone, even Casanova.
    So now what?
    Up until now, the time machine had always been there, an open door, a way out, a chance to run away, to escape the boredom of my job, my fear of commitment. But now all I could think was:
What’s the point? I could see it all now. I’d end up in whatever century. I’d see Casanova. I’d woo him, or he’d woo me. Even if he did succeed in making me fall for
him, I’d always have to come back, in the end. And no matter how hard I tried to picture Casanova, how hard I tried to envisage a beautiful face, or winsome eyes, or a gravelly, seductive
voice, all I saw was a cartoon, a caricature. I didn’t want perfection: I wanted Anthony. I wanted Anthony with the little scar on his cheek and his slippers and his frightful pyjamas. If I
was going to play the going-to-bed game now, all I could come up with was:
    1. Anthony
    2. Anthony
    3. Anthony
    vii) The email
    In the morning I woke up feeling like death. I ate a few mouthfuls of cornflakes for breakfast and left the rest to form a soggy mountain in a sea of milk. I turned on the TV
and stared at the screen with glazed eyes. I checked my emails. As I typed in my password, I thought about telephoning the temping agency and saying that I was ill.
    And then I saw it.
    An email from Athony!
    Suddenly I was awake and alert, my cells singing and twitching with excitement and hope. My hand shook on the mouse as I clicked on it. I drummed my fingers, cursing at the snail’s pace of
my connection speed, ready to shout at the screen.
    I gulped. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I was thankful that he was still speaking to me. I noticed he hadn’t mentioned his mother once, so I guessed he had just buried that
hurt deep and decided not to bring it up. But it was such a
frustrating
email. I read it several times, taking apart each sentence, zooming in on each word.
I think we both know
we’re not meant to be together
. . . and
I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear that I’m going for a date
. . .
    He wasn’t trying to wind me up. I was struck by the straightforward honesty of his tone. He genuinely hadn’t believed a word of what I’d said last night. He’d assumed it
was just another one of my whims, to be forgotten in the morning.
    Oh God – how was I ever going to make him see that this time it was different – that this time I was serious?

Chapter Seven
    Anthony Brown and Lord Byron
    Lovers may be – and indeed generally are – enemies, but they can never be friends, because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of Self in
     all their speculations.
    L ORD B YRON

i) A plan to win back Anthony
    What is the best way to say sorry to someone you love?
    A gift, I