In Bed With Lord Byron

drew me into the bar next door. He still seemed completely unfazed by his new surroundings, though I saw his eyes darting all
over the place, his pupils dilating with each new surprise, and I sensed he was just putting on a good act.
    ‘So what would you like to drink?’ he asked, touching the small of my back.
    ‘Er . . .’ I glanced around, aware of people giving Casanova’s clothes odd looks. ‘I’ll just have a Coke,’ I said quickly.
    ‘She’ll have a rum,’ said Casanova. ‘And I’ll have one too.’ Ah. He patted his white shirt.
    ‘Don’t worry, I’ll pay,’ I said, grinning weakly and handing him a twenty-dollar bill.
    Casanova led me into a quiet corner. I took a sip of my drink. I’d never been a fan of rum. I felt taut, coiled up like a spring. Casanova kept making charming remarks; I replied with
distracted
hmms.
All I could think about was how dreadful Kerry was, and yet Anthony was
still
marrying her. This time tomorrow the wedding would be over, and then what? Back to
England, where I had no job, no flat. I found myself beginning to slide into a dark depression.
    Casanova looked at me. ‘Did you hear what I just said?’
    ‘Er, no,’ I admitted.
    ‘I said you had better drink up or I’ll have to kiss you,’ he teased. ‘And after all, you’re desperate not to be seduced by me, aren’t you?’
    I quivered with alarm. I didn’t want to be kissed by anyone except Anthony. I quickly downed half of my rum, then broke off and gave him a sidelong glance, realising how insulting I was
being. Casanova, however, merely smiled a half-smile, as though quietly confident that my resolve wouldn’t last.
    I put my glass down on the table, chewing my lip. Casanova contemplated me.
    ‘I think you should have another drink,’ he said. ‘Come on, Lucy, just the one?’
    ‘Well . . .’ Oh God, he was so charming, it was impossible to say no. ‘OK. Just
one
more. And that’s the very last one.’
    Casanova went up to the bar. I couldn’t help noticing that everyone was looking at him. At first I thought it was his crazy costume. Then I realised that it was the
women
in the bar
who were watching him. A group of middle-aged women sitting in a corner were exchanging carnivorous glances and whispering, while a gaggle of teenage girls, who looked suspiciously underage, were
giggling and shoving each other and saying, ‘No,
you
go and ask him’ – ‘No,
you
!’ The barmaid who had taken over behind the bar managed to lean forward
when passing over his change so that he had the finest possible view of her cleavage. I couldn’t help sitting upright with indignation. OK, so I didn’t fancy him, I felt like saying,
but he is here in this bar with
me
.
    Casanova, who seemed relaxed at all the attention, returned to our table with the drinks. He smiled his goose-bumping smile again, a smile that whispered both reassurance and mischief. That
said:
I’m going to make everything all right
. And:
I think you deserve to have a little fun
.
    As he chinked his glass against mine, I felt my depression lifting.
    ‘To a wonderful night!’ he said. And downed his drink.
    He thumped his glass down on the table, glanced around the bar, and allowed a momentary panic to pass across his face. He looked so confused, so vulnerable, that I touched his cheek.
    ‘You’re coping very well,’ I said. ‘I mean, it must be hard suddenly going two hundred and fifty years into the future.’
    He smiled and nodded. ‘I’m used to adventures far stranger than this. Drink your drink.’
    I downed it. And suddenly the world seemed a much more rosy place. The alcohol began to drown my pain, liquefy it into something vague and distant. And when Casanova suggested we get another
round in – well, it wouldn’t hurt, would it?
    ‘A toast – to the wonders of rum!’ he said.
    ‘To the wonders of rum!’ I agreed.
    ‘So,’ Casanova said, looking at me over the rim of his glass, ‘would you care to tell me what’s troubling you?’
    ‘I’m not troubled,’ I said jumpily, crossing my arms. Then I looked down, laughed sheepishly and uncrossed them. ‘Actually . . . actually . . .’ I swallowed.
‘I’d prefer it if we could talk about you. I just want to forget, you know, all the stuff that’s happening to me right now . . . Tell me what it’s like being the
world’s most famous womaniser. Because I can tell you, you’re still famous now.’
    ‘I’m not a womaniser!’ Casanova objected.