In Bed With Lord Byron

must say, she was incredibly warm and friendly to me.
    ‘Oh God, Lucy, it’s just so
fantastic
to see you!’ she cried, and then didn’t stop talking for about five minutes. ‘Manic preparations . . . dress taken up .
. . taken in . . . taken out . . . napkin rings . . . mother mad . . . vegetarian sausage rolls . . . ceremony . . . hen night . . . oh, and I’m going to have male strippers. Tons of
them.’
    ‘Animalistic ones?’ I said, and then mentally slapped myself: I’d only just got here and I was already being sulky.
    Kerry gave me a sidelong glance, and then suddenly laughed, tossing back her hair.
    ‘Maybe a few,’ she admitted. ‘After all, it’ll be my last chance to have a bit of fun before boring married life.’
    I felt shocked, and then told myself she couldn’t be serious. Could she?
    Kerry tried on her dress first. When she stepped out of the fitting room, I literally gasped. She looked amazing. Her dress was made of ivory silk, a soft sheath that clung to and caressed her
body like a devoted suitor, as though it knew just which curves to conceal or congratulate. Soft flower bracelets hung around her wrists and ankles; ivory rosebuds studded her hair like kisses. She
looked like a goddess of spring.
    ‘Here’s yours,’ Kerry said, bursting my bubble.
    ‘Oh. Oh wow,’ I said. I tried it on. It was worse than I’d thought.
    ‘Oh wow, you look
fabulous
,’ said Kerry.
    ‘It’s, um, very different from your dress,’ I said.
    ‘So it is. But I want all the bridesmaids in purple. There’ll also be my god-daughter, Jeannie, she’s only six, so she’ll look really cute . . .’
    Purple, I thought, was a very optimistic word. Plum, more like. I looked a big fat overripe frilly plum.
    I turned to Kerry and saw the glint in her eye. Well done, I thought. One up to you. A significant victory in the battle for Anthony Brown. Well, great. I
so
cannot wait to walk down the
aisle wearing this . . .
    I would have liked to have spent some time on my own, but Kerry insisted on pretending we were the best of friends, looping her arm through mine and dragging me round shop
after shop.
    Finally she dropped me off at the hotel with an hour to get ready for dinner, giving me the address of the restaurant so that I could take a taxi there.
    ‘Just put something casual on,’ she said airily before she left. After hours of trying on everything in my suitcase, of throwing inner tantrums –
why did I leave my best red
velvet top behind in Sally’s wardrobe?
– and so on, I had decided to dress up. Yes, Kerry had said to wear something casual, but I had a sneaking feeling I shouldn’t trust
her. I could just see myself in tatty jeans walking into a restaurant of people draped in Gucci and Dior. So out came my favourite little black dress.
    I kept getting serious attacks of butterflies. It wasn’t so much the thought of meeting Kerry’s family, but the fact that, after two whole weeks, I was going to see Anthony again.
Hear his voice. Breathe in his scent. Feel his smile on me.
Oh!
    The moment I entered the restaurant, I felt self-consciousness crawling over my skin like bugs. Anthony had told me that Kerry’s parents were well off, but this place was
seriously glitzy. The men all had power faces and suits, their sculptured dentures flashing as they sipped wine; the women were glossy and blonde, with perfect plasticine noses and breasts cupped
in dresses like ice cream scoops. The atmosphere was charged with glamour and money and competition. As the waiter showed me to the table, I pulled down the hem of my little black dress and thanked
God I had ignored Kerry’s advice. In a moment of paranoia I was convinced that everyone was looking at me, but then I realised they were too busy looking over their shoulders at neighbouring
tables, fearing other people might be having more interesting conversations than they were.
    The table was set for seven people. It was empty except for a young man with a brilliant tan and glossy hair who, despite the low lighting, was wearing shades. He smiled and stood up to shake my
hand.
    ‘I’m Morrison – and you must be Lucy.’
    ‘Um – yes.’ I paused, wondering if I was on the right table. ‘Nice to meet you.’
    ‘I’m Kerry’s ex.’ When I looked surprised, he frowned and added, ‘We’re still great buddies.’
    I smiled quickly, but inside I was quite shocked. What on earth was Kerry doing, inviting her ex to her special dinner?