In Bed With Lord Byron

decided. Gifts were glorious gestures that epitomised all the great affairs. Antony, for example, had given Cleopatra the land of Syria as proof of his passion. Napoleon had given
Josephine an exquisite golden medallion on their wedding night inscribed with the words
To destiny
. A gift, if properly thought out, could be treasured in a lover’s possession and
memory until death.
    The only problem was, I couldn’t really afford something like Syria. So I had considered and rejected gloves, a Pink Floyd CD, and a new set of golf clubs. The trouble with Anthony was
that, like all men, he was simply impossible to buy presents for. At Christmas I always nagged him endlessly and he would always come up with socks. When I gave him dagger glances, he would shrug
sheepishly and say, ‘Well, they
are
useful, Lucy.’ I mean, Guinevere hardly gave Lancelot socks for the battlefield, did she? And Juliet didn’t die with Romeo’s sock
clutched in her hand. And yet I found myself in a shop dallying with the second worst option after socks.
    Ties were dull. They represented work and repression. They always looked better in the shop, in their rows of blazing colour, like a shoal of tropical fish. Alone, back home, their glitter
faded.
    I felt my heart wilt. Perhaps I’ll just have to send him an amazing email, I thought in despair. Or phone. But . . . oh come on, there must be
something
. . .
    Then, just as I was to leave, my eye caught something.
    Yes
, I thought, my heart skipping. That’s Anthony.
    Five minutes later, I walked out, swinging a fancy little cardboard carrier, full of hope.
    A week had passed since Anthony’s email had arrived and I had read it so many times that by now I knew it by heart.
    I’d been very good. I hadn’t called or emailed him once, despite having to sit on my hands to stop myself. In fact, a week apart
had
been the best thing for both of us.
I’d taken time to sift through my emotions, to poke and prod my heart. And I was certain: I was ready to commit to Anthony. When I looked back on myself, on the Lucy who had broken up with
him that night, she seemed terribly selfish and immature and naïve, with her head in clouds that were so thick she couldn’t see reality, and a severe grass-is-greener syndrome.
    But I knew that I had hurt Anthony. It seemed as though we were standing on opposite ends of a sheet of ice and I sensed that it would crack unless I trod oh-so-softly. A present was a gentle
apology; a present was a good first step.
    Humming Vivaldi, I let myself into my flat. And then I stopped. And frowned. That’s strange, I thought. Without fail, every single time I opened my front door, Lyra would come running up
and roll over, exposing her fluffy tummy for a tickle, followed by a sharp
miaow
that said, yes, since she was so very cute, surely a plate of tuna was in order?
    But – no Lyra.
    And – God – what was that?
    My eyes fell on a large muddy footprint on my beige carpet. And another. And another. A whole line of them leading to my kitchen. Then I heard a clinking noise. It sounded like someone was
playing with my knives. I felt my heart explode in panic, adrenalin rollercoastering through my bloodstream.
    OK, I told myself. Keep calm. Just step back very quietly into the hallway and call 999.
    I backed up slowly. Foot-sole by foot-sole. My heart tore at the muscles. I kept thinking: This can’t be happening, this is like the movies, this can’t be real life. Finally –
the door. My hand on the latch. Open it slowly, make sure it doesn’t squeak. Inch by inch, I twisted the knob.
Squeak!
Footsteps creaking, from the living room. A tall, dark, shabby
figure – coming towards me!
    I screamed, and grabbed an umbrella from the coat-hook. I slashed about wildly with it.
Get out, get out!
I yelled at myself.
You’ll never win this fight, just run.
But to my
surprise, he didn’t seem to be putting up much of a fight. He bellowed and sank to the floor, shielding his face with his arms.
    Suddenly I realised that the heap lying at my feet looked very familiar. And smelled strange. And was wearing clothes that clearly belonged in the nineteenth century. Good Lord – it
couldn’t be . . .
    ‘Byron!’ I gaped down at him.
    ‘Lucy!’ He smiled up at me. ‘Well. Help me up, then.’
    I helped him up, wondering if I was hallucinating.
    ‘But . . . but . . . have you got a time machine too?’ I cried in bewilderment.
    Byron roared with laughter, then turned