In Bed With Lord Byron

Malleable. It wasn’t going to give me any easy answers; in fact, the only answer it seemed to be giving me was
that I had to make up my own mind.
    The trouble was, I still needed to get back home.
    I figured that if I walked into the kitchen and encountered my older self, I might give her a bit of a shock. At the same time, I was fizzing with curiosity. All my life, I had always wondered
about my future:
Where will I be in five years’ time? Ten years? Will I live long enough to grow old?
I wanted to know if I had kids; if I had found out what job suited me; and most
importantly, if I was happy.
    I waited for them to leave the kitchen and tried the back door. It was open. Yes! All clear. Time to escape.
    And yet.
    I found myself standing in the kitchen, taut with alertness. Where were they? I could hear muffled giggles, voices floating down the stairs. I found myself taking off my shoes and placing them
under the table. Tiptoeing down the hallway. I eyed the stairs, prayed they didn’t squeak, and bounded up them softly.
    In the hallway I stopped. I listened to the sounds and felt a blush burn across my face and singe the roots of my hair. As I edged towards the doorway, I wondered to myself if there was a name
for this type of perviness, a new species of eroticism. I peered round the edge of the door.
    Anthony and I were lying on the bed. We were naked, languidly entwined. Anthony was stroking me and staring deep into my eyes and whispering something. The sound of his voice said that this
wasn’t sex; this was lovemaking, lovemaking soaked in a decade of happy marriage, of coming to know every nook and cranny of each other’s bodies.
    Then he looked up and saw me and let out a cry.
    I screamed.
    And then I – the I on the bed – screamed again.
    I turned and ran down the stairs, grabbed my shoes and dived into the time machine, where I collapsed, laughing.
    Back in the hotel room, reality rushed back in all too quickly. My laughter faded. I was back to square one. Now what?
    Somehow I just wasn’t sure. Yes, I could go back and accept Anthony’s marriage proposal, but every day I would have to live with the knowledge that I had stolen his future, that I
had lied to him, tricked him, warped reality.
    A depression swam over me. Suddenly I felt utterly helpless. I was in possession of one of the most powerful tools in the universe, I could play God with time, but I couldn’t fix this.
Kerry and Anthony were getting married tomorrow, and that was reality.
    I went back to the time machine. I downed a speaking vial. I typed in a date. I just wanted to escape reality. I hit the button before I could change my mind.

Chapter Nine
    Casanova
    I don’t conquer, I submit.
    C ASANOVA

i) Venice, briefly
    The moment I climbed out of the time machine, I knew I’d done the wrong thing.
    I was in a bedroom. It was dawn. Sunlight trickled in caresses through the shutters, running along the floor and up the four-poster bed. The sheets on the bed were rumpled over a dark figure.
The figure rumbled with snores.
    I was drawn to the window. The view was breathtakingly beautiful. Venice was laid out before me, a beautiful collage of waterways and ancient buildings. The sky and sea, both a divine shade of
aquamarine, were like two brilliant mirrors reflecting each other’s perfection. Suddenly I understand how our ancestors had once believed that the sky was part of the sea.
    Normally when I landed in a new place my excitement was at its height, anticipation frothing inside me at the adventures yet to unfold. But now I just felt uneasy.
This isn’t going to
solve anything, Lucy
, I told myself. I felt sick inside, the same feeling I used to have when I swore not to touch chocolate and then shoved a bar into my mouth in a mad binge.
Get back into
the time machine.
    Unfortunately, before I had a chance to summon it, Casanova woke up. He let out an explosive snore and blinked awake, shaking himself and then gaping at me in amazement.
    ‘Have I died?’ he asked in a frightened voice. ‘Am I dying? Are you an angel?’
    ‘I’m not an angel,’ I said with a soft smile. ‘So I think you’re OK for now.’
    He gazed up at me, drinking me in. I studied him. So. Here he was. The world’s most famous lover.
    Was he handsome? Not really. He had a big nose and a chunky face. He also looked somewhat tormented, his chin rough with stubble, stress lines thick around his mouth, and there was a look in his
eyes that