In Bed With Lord Byron

challenge him to a duel?’
    ‘There’s an idea,’ said Byron. ‘I could write the challenge in verse.’
    I frowned as he leapt across the room and snatched up my phone. Then, hearing him ask for the literary editor of
The Guardian
, I thought: Oh God. They’re going to think he’s
insane. The reincarnation line might work on my mother, but not on
The Guardian
.
    I think they did think he was insane, but he managed to switch on the charm, and the poem he sent across was so outstanding, they had no choice but to publish it. A gay photographer was sent to
snap him and had orgasms over Byron’s cleft chin and forehead-kissing curls. The article came out the following Monday and caused an absolute furore. By that I mean that everyone hastily
jumped on the bandwagon, desperate to get themselves into print and have a point of view. The critics called his poem everything from ‘sick’ to ‘hilarious’ to
‘inspired’. Then an It girl started selling T-shirts in her boutique saying SUPPORT BYRON and SUPPORT MOTION. The literary establishment got very sniffy about it, which resulted in
another round of intellectuals expressing their points of view. But secretly I sensed they were rather excited by the T-shirts. After all, how long had it been since society was remotely interested
in poetry? Society had, for so long, been aching for an upswing from dumbing-down and finally it had come. Suddenly poetry was cool; it was sexy; Byron and Motion’s poetry collections were
reissued and went storming up the book charts as though they were new albums released by Oasis and Coldplay.
    What happened next was inevitable. History repeated itself. Byron had created Byronmania back in the nineteenth century, and his thirst for fame recreated it in the twenty-first. Within a few
days he was being invited to every celebrity party going. He offered to take me with him but I had no wish to be snapped hanging off his arm like some piece of fluff, and besides, I felt too
listless and depressed. Soon he was photographed coming out of Chinawhite. This cemented his fame, and he was splashed over every tabloid in town.
    Frankly, I was quite glad when he moved out. I didn’t want photographers sniffing about, snapping me in the morning taking out the rubbish and looking like shit.
    But I had to admit I missed him. Now that he was gone, I was left all alone with nothing but my aching for Anthony. I went out with some girlfriends for a drink and managed to forget my pain for
a few hours. But when a group of handsome guys began to chat us up, I simply couldn’t raise any enthusiasm. I knew I ought to move on, but every other man seemed a limp pastel compared to the
bright colours of Anthony.
    A few nights later, I was curled up in front of the TV, channel-hopping despondently. I settled on
Celebrity Big Brother,
figuring it might be a good laugh.
    Then my jaw dropped.
    There was Lord Byron – trust him to get on there! And he was lying on a sofa, alongside, of all people, Germaine Greer. The camera zoomed in on them. Germaine’s normally stern face
was flushed with a youthful bloom that could only have come from one thing.
    ‘Since arriving in London,’ Byron whispered, ‘I’ve slept with many a pretty face. But you, Germaine, are the first woman I have met who has
brains
.’
    v) Kerry offers consolation
    I found myself bursting into an ocean of tears. I kept reminding myself that I hardly cared about Lord B, but it didn’t stop them. I think it was just the blow to my
self-esteem. Byron with Germaine; Anthony with Kerry. The whole world seemed to be pairing off into happy couples while I was left out in the cold because I couldn’t make up my stupid mind at
the right time.
    In despair – or perhaps because I felt I had nothing to lose – I called Anthony.
    ‘Hello?’
    A female voice.
Kerry.
    I was about to put the phone down when I heard a noise in the background.
    ‘Um – hi, is Anthony there?’ Trying to disguise my voice.
    ‘Who is this?’ Territorial now.
    ‘It’s Lucy,’ I admitted, swallowing my tears quickly.
    ‘Oh, Lucy!
Lucy!
Great to hear from you!’ As though we were the best of friends. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, but Anthony’s not here right now.’
    ‘Oh. Will he be in later tonight?’ I was desperate, close to begging. ‘I could try his mobile.’
    ‘Please don’t. He’s got it switched off. He’s got this crucial power meeting which isn’t going to finish until really late.