In Bed With Lord Byron

‘I love women!’
    ‘Oh, sorry,’ I said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean . . . I just meant that you seem to have been quite successful with them, that’s all.’
    Soon Casanova was lost in amorous anecdotes that had me crying with laughter. But what was also fascinating was the sincerity of his passion. He certainly wasn’t an Ovid; women were not
boars to be caught in nets. He really did love the female sex; he was fascinated by our mysteries and contradictions and was determined to understand us fully. Then there were other stories:
stories of his writing, his life as a spy, his success in inventing the lottery, which had made him a millionaire.
    Suddenly I felt very drunk and very happy about it. Here I was, in a bar with a gorgeous, funny, sexy guy, and though I didn’t want to sleep with him, hell, it was a million times more fun
than Kerry’s stupid hen party.
    Once more we downed our drinks, eyes on each other, grinning.
    ‘The night is still young,’ said Casanova. ‘I think we need to find some new entertainment, Lucy. Are there any casinos around here?’
    ‘I don’t know. I think we really need to go to Las Vegas – there are
zillions
of casinos there. I guess we could always use the time machine. But then we don’t
have any money.’ I pursed my lips. ‘Mind you, I do have some credit cards on me. I could live dangerously . . .’
    ‘That sounds like another toast coming on!’ Casanova cried.
    Outside, I realised how very drunk I was. I couldn’t even walk in a straight line, so Casanova kindly offered to support me. We walked arm in arm, giggling. As we reached the queue for the
cash machines, several people gave us weird glances.
    I emptied my bank account, taking out the last few hundred in my account: my month’s rent and money for food and Lyra. Now I had a nice fat wad of notes to convert into chips. I hardly
cared if the night bankrupted me; in fact, in part I wanted it to. I was furious with myself for messing up, furious at fate for not intervening. Now I just wanted to stick two fingers up at
everyone, to give up, to tell the world where to go.
    Back in the hotel, we clambered into the time machine, giggling. It was in such a decrepit state that I had to punch the button three times before it finally heaved us, with a
great sense of weariness, over to the casino capital.
    In the casinos everything was a blur of light. White lights above; the electric rollercoaster lights of fruit machines; the red orbs of cigarettes, burning embers of pleasure and decadence.
People leant over tables, casual shoulders belying knotted stomachs. It was all so surreal, like being in a dream. We tried the fruit machines first, lost ten dollars and then won seven back on
some winning cherries. As the money poured out of the machine in a frothy clatter, we whooped and hugged each other.
    We stopped for more drinks at the bar. I was reaching the point where standing might soon become rather a challenge.
    ‘We’ll play poker next,’ said Casanova. His voice was completely steady; he had the demons of alcohol under control.
    ‘I don’t know how to play spoker,’ I said. ‘I mean, spooker. I mean . . .’
    Casanova smiled and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear.
    ‘You watch and see.’
    ‘I don’t think I’ve got a very good spoker face.’ I attempted to form one and ended up collapsing into giggles.
    ‘Tell me, Lucy, seriously,’ said Casanova, stroking my hair, ‘why don’t you want to be seduced? Why are you scared of love?’
    I lowered my eyes, feeling melancholic again.
    ‘It’s so painful,’ I said. ‘I like the ups, but I can’t survive the downs.’
    ‘But that’s love,’ said Casanova, taking my hands in his. ‘Yes, it can be painful, in the most pleasurable way. ‘
Even as love crowns you, so may he crucify
you
,’ he quoted. ‘For love’s task is to try to make our hearts completely pure, and make us better people. Love is . . . love is like a mother who scrapes the dirt from our
hearts, and in doing so causes us grief . . . but in the end also brings us the ultimate fulfilment. If love was easy and painless, my dear Lucy, it would be dull. Don’t you think?’
    I raised my eyes and looked into his warm gaze, and smiled uncertainly.
    After poker, we had a go at roulette. Our money was dwindling fast.
    ‘One last bet?’ said Casanova.
    ‘Yeah! One last bet!’
    Casanova tossed his chips on to number 24. Then he turned to me and cried impulsively,