In Bed With Lord Byron

‘If I win, you have to marry me!’
    ‘All right!’ In my drunken state, I felt high with the whimsicality of it all. ‘If number twenty-four wins, we shall be wed.’
    The dealer closed off the bets; the chips sat, pregnant with anticipation, around the wheel.
    I followed the path of the ball: in my inebriated state, colours swam and numbers doubled, tripled, quadrupled into figures vibrating and spangling with possibility. Then the ball began to slow
and slow and trickle as though weary with the weight of expectation . . . 18 . . . 21 . . . 23 . . . I felt Casanova’s excited grip tighten around my waist . . . 24 . . . I waited for a groan
of disappointment, but it never came. The ball stayed put.
    Number 24.
    A big grin spread across Casanova’s face. Several people cheered. Several muttered with jealousy.
    Casanova turned to me and took me in his arms.
    ‘So, my darling – will you marry me?’
    I stared up into his eyes and thought of Anthony’s face when he saw the ring flashing on my finger tomorrow at the service. I could outdo him. I could marry before him. I could damn well
show him that I didn’t care.
    Somewhere in the back of all this swimming darkness, a sensible voice was pointing out the insanity of it all. But that voice was too quiet, too drowned out by alcohol.
    ‘Yes!’ I cried, flinging my arms around him. ‘I will!’
    I let out a scream as Casanova suddenly swooped down on me and picked me up in his arms. The crowds around us burst into cheers; soon the whole casino was watching us. I let out a shrieky giggle
at the craziness of it all. For the first time since I’d come to the US, I really didn’t care about anything or anyone. I was getting married!
    He carried me to the cashier’s booth, where he collected his winnings.
    Then he scooped me up in his arms again and carried me out of the casino. Outside the night was black, the lights of the city sparkling like fireworks of celebration.
    Did I have any moments of sanity, of sobriety, before we found a chapel? Yes, perhaps. But I was caught in a current of recklessness like I’d never been before.
    As we walked up the aisle, a thousand thoughts jack-knifed through my mind. When you reach one of those moments that is life-changing, life-defining, it’s as though the past rushes up to
meet the present to explain it. I thought of Anthony and the very first time we’d met, on that plane, his smile and those dark circles under his eyes that I longed to gently stroke; I thought
about making love in that Parisian hotel room, the taste of his chocolate gift still under my tongue and my heart pounding with love for him; I thought of that moment when I had turned him down and
thrown away my future; I thought of what a failure my life was. After all, how do you measure success? By whether you’re happy. And I realised now, more acutely than ever, that I had failed
at that, that I was more miserable than I had ever been and after tomorrow I was probably going to spend the rest of my life being miserable. And that was why I was doing this: it was symbolic, the
opposite of every girl’s dream, to make a mockery of marriage, to treat it as a savage joke.
    For as I walked up the aisle to marry Casanova, I knew I was doing all this for Anthony. If I hadn’t been so desperately in love, I doubt I would have done something so ridiculously
perverse.
    As we came out of the church, the cold air hit me and I felt horribly sober. I suggested in a shaky voice that we should have a few more drinks to celebrate.
    Very, very drunk now. Taxi. Urgh, feel sick, get into the time machine. Ooh dear, it’s in a state. Back in hotel. Fuck, time machine’s collapsed into pieces.
Goodbye, time machine. In bathroom. Cool water on my face. Casanova behind me, stroking my hair. In my room. Look, that’s my bridesmaid’s dress, my horrible bridesmaid’s dress.
Casanova, with a glint in his eye, hands me a small knife. Go on, he says. I burst into a whoop. Slash, slash, slash. Oh dear oh dear. Goodbye, dress. My wonderful wicked wife, come here. Warm
arms, but not Anthony’s arms. Lying on the bed, kissing. Nice lips, but not Anthony’s lips. Feeling sad, drawn deep into a well of sadness. Anthony has filled my heart, no room for
anyone else. Room spinning. Everything going black. I’m married. Oh God. Blackness; sleep; yes, sleep, take me away from all this; good night, Casanova, good night . . .
    I expect I made history that night: the