In Bed With Lord Byron

surprised and touched me with his emphasis on loyalty. ‘I might have
been a cad in the past, but I’m not now. I’d never,
ever
cheat on you,’ he’d reassure me, also warning me, with fierce passion, that if I ever strayed from him, he
would never speak to me again as long as he lived.
    And so, unlike some of my girlfriends, I’d never had to worry. When Anthony told me he was working late at the office, I knew he was working late. I never had to speculate about some
gorgeous blonde secretary, because he always hired old boots to avoid temptation.
    And yet. Before he had met me, he had been a cad. He had told me I had changed his ways – but what if he was sliding back to them? What if he had been kissing me and picturing some girl he
sat opposite on the Tube on the way to work?
    What awful thoughts.
    That was the trouble with infidelity – you became more suspicious. If you couldn’t even trust yourself, how could you trust anyone else?
    We took a taxi to The House and got caught in the rush-hour traffic. At least all the honking filled our long silences. We both yawned a lot, as though emphasising how tired we
were. When we got to the restaurant, we found they’d lost our booking.
    Anthony is naturally very good-natured and patient, but everyone has their flaws, their weak points. And if there is one thing that makes him mad, it’s bad restaurant behaviour. It seems
to act as some sort of trigger for a Jekyll to Hyde transformation which normally terrifies waiters into giving us the best table in the restaurant and a meal for free.
    But this waitress – a thin Taiwanese girl with a tired, unsmiling face – shrugged at Anthony’s ranting. She was a tough case; clearly underpaid and overworked, with an aura of
‘I don’t really give a fuck if the customer is right – I wish you’d just give me a big fat tip and go away.’
    ‘You can wait in the bar and we’ll have a table in an hour,’ she said.
    ‘We’ll want free drinks,’ Anthony said sharply.
    We got half-price drinks.
    We sat down on an uncomfortable piece of grey cushion and sipped green concoctions from cocktail glasses. It was so noisy we had to shout at each other to be heard, so we gave up and just
surveyed the room. I watched the couples and wondered idly if they were all as happy as they looked? Then I became aware of the girl at the bar surreptitiously eyeing up Anthony. It struck me that
two years ago I would have been both jealous and proud to be seen with him. Now I just thought it was vaguely amusing.
    Anthony wasn’t amused.
    After half an hour of waiting, he hauled me up and decided we ought to storm out. And then things went from bad to worse.
    During my Latin A level, I’d learnt about the Fates: Clotho, who wove life together, Lachesis, who measured it, and Atropos, who cut the thread, a trio who perpetually laughed at
humans’ feeble attempts to evade them. Well, it looked as though we had offended Clotho big-time, because after catching a sweaty Tube to Baker Street to try Odins, we found they were full
too. By now Anthony was spitting. I suggested Pizza Express and he refused; then I threw a strop and he retaliated, saying he’d wanted to take me somewhere nice and what was the point of
getting dressed up in suits and little black dresses if we were going to eat sophisticated cheese on toast, and I pointed out that the tartufo ice cream made it all worthwhile but he still
couldn’t be persuaded. Then we compromised and decided on the New Blues Jazz Café. We took the Tube to Chalk Farm, only to find a glass door looking into a room littered with junk and
paper. The nice man next door helpfully informed us that the owners owed some heavies a lot of money and had fled to Mexico, but a chippie was going to be opening soon.
    By now it was nearly 9.30. I’d barely eaten all day, saving myself for tonight, and my stomach was howling. A few spots of drizzle landed on my nose. I saw Anthony looking longingly across
the road and followed his gaze.
    ‘Oh sod it!’ I cried. ‘Let’s just go there!’
    ‘We can’t,’ he said despairingly. ‘I haven’t eaten there since I was twelve.’
    ‘The evening is doomed and I’m so hungry I’m going to start pulling things out of the litter bin. Please, Anthony,
please . . .’
    Anthony put on a brave face and steeled himself.
    And so we entered the bright, shiny yellow doors of Burger King, bypassing a table of twelve-year-olds having an ice-cream fight