In Bed With Lord Byron

was that? I know that a rose called by any other name is meant to smell as sweet, but let’s face it, if roses were called snot-plants, nobody would buy them
on Valentines’, and men called Nigel were not meant to be charming and handsome. In my fantasies, I had pictured him as a Matt, or a Harrison, or at least a Steve. Still.
    ‘Now, Lucy, I need your—’
    ‘For God’s sake!’ The man in the suit behind me finally snapped. ‘Just bloody well organise your shag and let me pay for my paper! Oh, sod it – keep the
change!’ He flung a coin down on the counter and walked off.
    We both looked at each other and laughed blushingly.
    ‘Well, er, maybe you could come over to discuss the order at my place,’ I suggested, taking a deep plunge. For one terrified moment I feared it was all a mistake; his smiles had just
been smiles, not invitations, and he was going to call the police and I’d never be able to buy another paper again without crying. But he said, ‘Sure,’ and winked at me playfully
and that wink made my heart skip a beat. I tore off a corner of my
Daily Telegraph
and scribbled my details on it, and as I passed it over our fingers touched, and we caught our breath and
then looked at each other and laughed.
    Back in the office, I couldn’t type, couldn’t take calls, couldn’t think.
    How many times, I pondered dreamily, have I longed for this to happen? For my fantasies to become reality? Like those moments where you’re on a train and you see a stranger sitting
opposite and he’s oh-so-handsome and he smiles at you and you wish, just wish you had the courage to be bold, to say
hi
and strike up conversation and take his number, only you never
do, you just get off at your stop and go home full of erotic dreams and dampened frustrations and sighing what-ifs.
    Only now, Lucy, it’s happened! You’ve got your stranger, and your fantasy can be reality: you can have dinner and amazing sex and—
    Lucy,
a stern voice cut in furiously,
have you forgotten you have a boyfriend?
    Oh yes.
    A very nice boyfriend who is funny, handsome, loving
. . .
    Yes yes yes.
    My excitement cooled off and I began to feel distinctly sheepish.
    OK, Lucy,
I told myself sternly,
you have to blow the
Daily Telegraph
guy. I mean, blow out the
Daily Telegraph
guy.
I tutted at my filthy mind and told it off
several times, then promised myself, seriously, cross my heart and hope to die, that I wouldn’t betray Anthony, not while we were still going out.
    iv) Dinner
    I was three-quarters dressed for dinner when the doorbell rang.
    ‘Bugger!’ One stocking was fully on but the other was a tan pool on the floor. I had put on mascara but no lipstick and my toothbrush was sticking out of my foaming mouth.
    The doorbell rang again. Anthony didn’t anger easily, but waiting on doorsteps made him very peevish.
    ‘Hi.’ He kissed my cheek and waggled the end of my toothbrush. This was a minor disaster: a trickle of white foam ran down my chin and – ah! – was about to hit my little
black dress—
    I caught it in my palm just in time, glaring at him.
    ‘Sorry,’ he said meekly.
    Why is it, I wondered, that these tiny, harmless little things he does make me feel so cross?
    Anthony went off to say hello to Lyra. I retreated to the bathroom, where I rinsed my mouth and applied lipstick. I found myself yawning, still gritty from insomnia, and thought hazily:
Wish
I didn’t have to go out tonight. Wish I could just stay in and have an early night and a long bath and read Emily Brontë and nibble on some chocolates. Maybe we can escape early, but
then Anthony will want sex, won’t he? It’ll probably be gone midnight by the time I can slip between the sheets
. . .
    In the mirror I saw the door opening and Anthony snuck in. I busied myself with lipliner while he started fiddling about with the bottles on the shelf. Both his flat and mine had sets of his
’n’ hers bathroom paraphernalia. But while Anthony’s shelves were made of sparkling, pristine glass, his bottles lined up neatly on the left, my Body Shop concoctions on the
right, my bathroom shelf was complete chaos. Bottles oozed shampoo; lipstick-stained tissues trailed like kites through clouds of used cotton wool. Anthony, as usual, had started cleaning up.
Irritation prickled my stomach. We’d had numerous rows about tidiness; we’d both fought hard to preserve our habits, and after a lot of negotiation I had agreed to try to be good when I
stayed