In Bed With Lord Byron

and put it around Kerry’s shoulders, and I felt as
though someone had stabbed an icicle into my heart.
    Just look back,
I willed him.
Just look back at me and show you care.
    Byron put his arm around my shoulders and whispered into my ear, ‘Now, my darling Lucy, you owe me a favour . . .’
    I ignored him, my eyes fixed intently on Anthony.
    Just look back. Just once
. . .
    But they rounded the corner and the darkness swallowed them up.
    I turned back to Byron, feeling sick with misery. I barged past him, stormed into the kitchen and downed nearly half a bottle of wine. He watched in astonishment.
    ‘OK,’ I said, slamming the bottle down. ‘I give up. I’ve lost, haven’t I . . . I’ve lost . . .’
    I went into the living room and curled in a miserable ball on the sofa. A short while later, Byron marched into the room, naked except for a huge erection and a raggedly angled condom.
    ‘You’ve broken it,’ I said, rolling my eyes. ‘See, there’s a hole in the top.’
    ‘Well, that’s because my cock is so huge,’ he cried. ‘Keats would need an extra-small variety.’
    ‘Look, I’m really sorry, but I’m not going to have sex with you,’ I sobbed. ‘I just can’t . . .’
    ‘Even if I put the condom on properly?’
    ‘
No
.’
    Byron, to my amazement, didn’t throw a sulk. For once, his more gallant side came into play. He chucked away the condom, got dressed and made me some hot chocolate. We snuggled up on the
sofa in pyjamas (I lent him an old pair of Anthony’s), sighing and mulling over why on earth we bothered with love at all when it brought us so much suffering.
    ‘Still,’ said Byron, ‘you’re lucky love has hit you so young. Like the measles, it is most dangerous when caught late in life. You’ll get over him, and the next
time the disease hits you, you’ll be a little more immune.’
    ‘Maybe,’ I said, pursing my lips. I already felt immune, for I simply couldn’t imagine falling in love with anyone but Anthony.
    iv) Byronmania
    What happened next was totally unexpected.
    I kept meaning to tell Byron that it was time for him to get back into the time machine and return to 1813. I didn’t want him to get into any more nerve-racking encounters with my family,
or, worse, Anthony. I was also worried for him – if he became too much of a modern man, how was he going to remember how to behave when he finally did make it back home? He might start
rapping instead of scanning and telling Lady Caroline Lamb she was a crazy fan who looked like a man.
    The sad thing was, I was so heartbroken after Anthony, I desperately needed company. Sally, for some reason, wasn’t returning my calls, and whenever I rang my mum she kept asking whether
I’d got it together with that nice Byron. I think she was already hearing wedding bells. And though Byron was obnoxious, domineering and full-on, he did cheer me up. He even cooked the odd
lunch, quoting lines of poetry as he sprinkled and stirred.
    I kept waiting for a call from Anthony. Just something along the lines of ‘Thanks for the dinner’ and a verdict on Byron. But it never came. I felt raw with hurt. After we’d
broken up, he had put so much emphasis on wanting to be friends, and now he couldn’t even be bothered to get in touch. At one point I went into my bedroom, locked the door, squeezed my eyes
shut and desperately
willed
him to call. Sure enough, the phone shrilled, and my heart leapt. I picked up – and it was Barclaycard, asking me why I hadn’t made my minimum
repayment and if I was in difficulty.
    I knew that with my debts piling up, I ought to be looking for a job, but I felt too listless. Thoughts of lottery numbers surfaced again. It was very tempting, but a strong gut feeling held me
back. I’d seen too many TV programmes where lottery winners had complained how all those millions had only made them more glum. I felt I’d caused enough trouble as it was with that
machine; there was no doubt it was more of a curse than a gift.
    So I tended to sit around reading a lot, burying myself in fantasy worlds in order to hide from the pain of reality. This was why Byron was such good company – we’d curl up at
opposite ends of the sofa, sharing a packet of chocolate digestives – happy to be silent together.
    Then, a week after Byron had arrived in 2005, he started moaning about Andrew Motion again.
    ‘Well,’ I said sarcastically, ‘if you think you’re so much better a poet, why don’t you