In Bed With Lord Byron

bringing a partner to the wedding?’ Mr Prendeghast suddenly addressed me.
    I looked at him nervously, noting the faint touch of acid in his voice.
    ‘I was hoping Lucy and Morrison might have gone together,’ said Kerry gaily, ‘but now I’m not so sure they’re suited. I mean, Morrison generally has gone for some
very classy girls . . .’
    I knew she had every right to insult me after my behaviour, but I couldn’t help feeling stung.
    ‘As a matter of fact,’ I said, ‘trying to matchmake me was a complete waste of time, though I appreciate the gesture. I’m bringing a partner.’
    ‘You are?’ Kerry asked.
    Anthony looked up with a frown. Mr Prendeghast raised a dubious eyebrow. Mrs Prendeghast clapped her hands together.
    ‘Well that’s fabulous, Lucy. And who is the lucky man? You know, I thought Kerry told me you were single? Or have you managed to woo a man in the last twenty-four hours, you busy
bee, hmm?’
    ‘He . . . he . . .’ I broke off, aware that if I didn’t improvise fast it was going to come across as a totally made-up story. ‘He’s quite famous, actually, so I
can’t name him right now, in case the press get wind of his coming.’
    ‘Well!’
    ‘Wow!’
    ‘I’m sure he’s a very lucky man,’ said Grandma Rose, smiling at me gently. ‘I have a feeling that whoever grabs Lucy will have to be very special.’
    Everyone laughed, and I blushed.
    ‘You can say that again,’ said Kerry in a low voice. But I hadn’t been offended by Grandma Rose’s remark somehow; there was love in her words, and insight.
    Anthony didn’t look at me once for the rest of the meal. We all had coffee and then said our goodbyes. Mrs Prendeghast said, ‘It was so lovely to meet you,’ though I knew it
hadn’t been really; she hadn’t taken in an atom of my personality; she was too wrapped up in the World of Mrs Prendeghast. But thank goodness for it, I thought, or she might have seen
the threat I posed to her daughter’s happiness and locked me away until the wedding was over.
    Outside, I found myself alone for a moment with Anthony, while Kerry was still saying goodbye to her parents in the restaurant.
    Anthony turned on me at once.
    ‘I’m sorry—’ I began.
    ‘Oh,
sorry,
are you? What the hell were you doing in there?’ he hissed. I flinched at the fury in his voice. ‘God, Lucy, we paid for you to come all the way over here
and you could at least be happy for us, even if you don’t want to be friends . . .’
    And then Kerry came sweeping out, and to our joint horror, insisted on forcing us on to a nightclub. She didn’t seem at all bothered by my rudeness over dinner; perhaps because she
realised I’d done myself far more damage than her.
    The club was an absolute nightmare. It was about the trendiest place I’d ever been to. In fact, it was so trendy it was ridiculous. It didn’t have a proper name, or a proper
entrance; just a door, cut into its silver paintwork, which we had to knock on. Kerry, depressingly, clearly knew all the right people, for when a cool black bouncer opened the door, she only had
to flutter her lashes and he let her in at once.
    Inside, the menus were silvery swans that glided over the marble bar top. They listed all sorts of cocktails, all named after famous writers. An Ernest Hemingway, for example, was a mixture of
mint, rum and sugar; whilst a Jack Kerouac was vodka, orange and cranberry juice. I had the feeling nobody in this place had read a single page of either author.
    ‘Er, I’ll have a Lord Byron,’ I said.
    ‘Actually you might prefer the Jane Austen,’ said Anthony eagerly. ‘It’s even got chocolate in, you might like that.’ Then he broke off, frowning, checking himself
as though he hadn’t meant to be nice or friendly.
    ‘I think I’ll stick with Byron,’ I said miserably, thinking, Oh God, he’s never going to forgive me.
    As we sat sipping from our literary gems, Kerry kept chatting away endlessly about the wedding. Thankfully, the conversation began to falter, and we took to staring at the dance floor. Nobody
was moving with much energy. Perhaps they were all too terrified of sweating. All they did was sort of bend their bodies, clicking their nails and swinging their streaky hair.
    Only one person was really dancing with any flare: a black guy in a red rollneck, who was swirling about with some snazzy moves.
    ‘Oh my God!’ Kerry squealed, slamming down her George Eliot. ‘That’s Drew! Can you