In Bed With Lord Byron

handbag, yanking out my mobile. The ringtone had been muffled by the bag; sure enough, there were three missed calls from Kerry. I deleted them without listening to them.
    I can’t face it, I thought. I can’t face hearing her voice on the phone, screaming at me . . .
    Instead I sent her a text. I told her that I was terribly sick and that I hoped she enjoyed her wedding. I pressed SEND, then switched off my mobile.
    I pictured Anthony’s face when he saw that I hadn’t turned up, when he saw that his best friend had let him down. Then I climbed back under the covers and shut the world out.
    ii) Casanova’s words of wisdom
    A little while later, I was aware of pressure on the bed as someone sat down. Then the sheet drew back from my head. I looked at Casanova. To my tearful relief, his face was
full of compassion, not anger.
    ‘My dear Lucy,’ he said, cupping my face in his hands. ‘Tell me what the matter is.’
    ‘I’m in love with someone else,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘Who is he?’ Casanova demanded.
    ‘He’s Anthony,’ I said wearily. ‘And before you challenge him to a duel or anything like that, he’s actually getting married in –’ I glanced at the
clock ‘– twenty-five minutes.’ I stared up into Casanova’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you.’
    Casanova sighed. ‘The truth is, Lucy, I was a little drunk last night.’
    ‘So it was just a drunken mistake for you too!’ I cried indignantly.
    Then I burst into giggles of relief – at least I was off the marital hook. At the same time, I felt a stab of misery – so a man could only marry me if he was drunk; was that how
lovable I was?
    ‘Last night,’ Casanova reflected, ‘I really did love you, Lucy.’ His forehead folded into a frown. ‘People have accused me of using women, of seducing them for
sport, even of hating them. Nothing could be further from the truth. For this is my problem: when I meet a girl, I fall in love with her so passionately, so ardently, a flame flares up inside me
and utterly consumes me. Whoever the girl is, I feel I will die if I do not have her, that no other woman has ever meant as much to me, that she is the pinnacle of her sex. But then – how
fast it fades, how quickly it dies . . . the next morning, or a few days or weeks later, I look at her and see her crooked teeth, her crow’s feet, her nagging voice, her flaws, and I am left
with nothing but smoke inside and a congealed wick . . .’
    ‘Maybe the time will come when you will meet someone and it will last,’ I said. ‘Or perhaps it’s just not your path in life.’
    ‘Well,’ said Casanova, rather sadly, ‘that is my story. And what is the story of you and Anthony?’
    So I told him, the History of Lucy and Anthony. He interrupted me once or twice, curious to know whether Lord Byron was a better lover than him, and whether I considered Leonardo da Vinci to be
more handsome, but he also listened with sympathetic attentiveness. After I had finished, he pondered for a few minutes, and then gave his verdict.
    ‘It seems, Lucy, that your misery is a little false.’
    ‘What do you mean, false?’ I asked indignantly.
    ‘Well, you are living in a fantasy of self-indulgent misery. Let us face reality: how do you know that Anthony loves Kerry more? He was going to propose to you first. For all you know, he
may, at this very moment, be heading for the church wishing it was you who would be walking down the aisle. Why haven’t you at least spoken to him, told how you felt? It seems to me he has no
idea.’
    ‘I . . . I . . .’ I swallowed. ‘I just feel I’ve missed the boat. I felt so stupid for mucking him about for so long. I mean, even if he did . . . if he did love me
– well, I can’t mess up his wedding, can I?’
    ‘If you let him marry her, he may well mess up the rest of his life.’
    ‘But what can I say – well, hey, Anthony, you’re about to be married in fifteen minutes, and I’ve come to swear my undying love to you, and by the way, you might like to
know I’m married too, as I was very drunk last night. But let’s not worry about that minor detail.’
    ‘Exactly,’ said Casanova, ‘it’s a minor detail. We’ll be divorced by next week, and I shall have demanded all your savings and your best jewellery from
you.’
    I laughed and he touched my chin.
    ‘Come on, Lucy,’ he chided me. ‘You must speak to him, or you are going to spend the rest of your life in a knot of