In Bed With Lord Byron

only girl in the world who’d ever fallen asleep in the arms of Casanova as he attempted to make love to her.

Chapter Ten
    Casanova and Anthony Brown
    Real love is the love that sometimes arises after sensual pleasure. If it does, it is immortal; the other kind inevitably grows stable, for it lies in mere fantasy.
    C ASANOVA

i) The morning of the wedding
    I woke up, aware of a heavy pressure on my rib cage and a disgusting taste in my mouth, as though my tongue had been coated with green slime. As I opened my eyes, the light
pierced them like a dagger. I shifted the weight – which turned out to be an arm – and my brain, shocked at the slightest movement, seemed to stumble and crash about in my head like a
drunk attempting to walk in a straight line. A voice inside pleaded that it was best to disappear back under the covers and hide in the dark cocoon of sleep. Only the pulsing ache in my bladder
forced me to get up and negotiate the stretch of carpet from the bed to the bathroom. The time machine, sitting in the corner, was a black husk: burnt out and ruined.
    So was my reflection in the mirror. I looked ghastly.
    I went to the toilet in relief. As I washed my hands, I took care to keep my eyes fixed on them and not my face. Gradually I became aware of a few annoying little bits of green soap caught in my
ring . . .
    My ring.
    I let out a cry.
    I ran out of the bathroom, the water still gushing behind me, and jumped on to the bed, pulling back the bedclothes. Casanova’s face was slack and peaceful in sleep. I found a hand –
no, that was the wrong one. I searched for the other one, splayed across the pillow. There it was. On his third finger.
My
ring.
    Oh, dear God!
    Casanova blinked, stirring. He stared up at my horrified face and a smile stretched across his features.
    ‘Good morning,’ he said, ‘my darling, darling wife.’
    I burst into tears.
    Casanova, as considerate as ever, ordered me some tea from room service. He stroked my face gently with the tips of my fingers. It was such a sweetly consoling gesture, yet I still felt blank.
It was as though my body was a ragdoll and Anthony was a magician, the only man who could wave his wand and bring it alive, make it pulse with life and passion and lust and sparkle.
    ‘Lucy,’ Casanova coaxed me, ‘why so sad? I know our marriage was rather sudden . . .’
    I put down my tea, fragmenting my reflection and slopping some into the saucer. I knew what I had to say – and it had to be said as soon as possible.
    ‘Casanova – I’m sorry.’ I pulled the ring off my finger. Halfway, it caught on a knobble of bone and I had to wrench it. I flung it into the sea of bedclothes. ‘I
shouldn’t have married you,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. But I think we’re going to have to get a divorce.’
    Casanova’s hand slowly drooped away. He stood up. He walked into the bathroom. I heard the sound of running water.
    I fell under the covers, curling up in a ball. My head lurched with pain; I felt sick with hangover and self-loathing. Just how bad could things get? Not only had I screwed up my own life very
nicely, but now I’d screwed up Casanova’s as well. He was meant to be the world’s greatest lover and I’d probably turned him off women for good. For God’s sake –
what was I
thinking
of, dragging him forward to 2005 and
marrying
him? I had a feeling that in a year’s time I’d look back on this and giggle. But in the here and now I
had seen the hurt on his face, a hurt I recognised, a hurt Anthony had provoked in me . . .
    Anthony.
    And Kerry.
    ‘Oh my God!’ I cried. ‘I’m supposed to be at a wedding! I’m supposed to be a bridesmaid – right now!’
    What was the time? Half past nine. Not a total disaster. The ceremony wasn’t for an hour. If I just yanked on the dress and got into a taxi round to Kerry’s apartment . . .
    The dress. I whirled round, praying my memory was false. But there it was. On the floor in a crumpled heap, like a pool of pink blood. I lifted it up and the sunlight streamed in through the
slashes.
    It was unwearable.
    Tears filled my eyes again.
I can’t go
, I realised. It was too excruciating. To suffer the love of my life’s wedding with no dress, whilst my head was splitting and I was
trying to obtain a divorce after being married to Casanova for less than twelve hours – it was beyond the limits of human endurance. I’d rather scale Everest than deal with this.
    I went to my