In Bed With Lord Byron

that had happened over the last few
weeks didn’t seem to matter any more. Anthony and I were going to have a wonderful time together and the whole situation might be utterly crazy, but somehow I had a feeling that everything
was going to work out.
    Back in the taxi, Anthony was waiting for me with such bright eyes that I found myself grinning; I nestled against him and he put his arm around me, stroking my hair gently as the car slowly
wove through traffic, and as we approached the airport the day began to die and bright lights of adventure tinkled across the night sky . . .
    vii) The honeymoon
    We spent the first day of Anthony’s honeymoon mostly sleeping. Jet-lag and shock hit us like a sleeping pill and we found ourselves dozing deliciously, intermittently
declaring that we would get up soon, and then soon became night and then morning again and we arose feeling fresh.
    On the second day we ventured out gingerly, like soldiers who had been severely wounded in some war of love. Paris was strangely quiet; quiet and beautiful. Wreaths of morning mist slunk through
the streets like grey cats, imbuing the shops and parks with a lovely mysteriousness.
    By the fifth day, we were at peace. The wedding disaster seemed to have faded, swallowed up by the mist. Our mobiles had stopped ringing with messages from people wanting to interfere with our
happiness. A bubble began to form around us; we wandered about dreamily, taking hours over lunch, sipping thick hot chocolates, talking things over. We laughed at how disastrous our weddings were;
we sighed at how ridiculously life could turn out. But we didn’t once mention the unspoken topic, growing bigger by the day, of us, and how our story might end.
    On the last day, I woke up feeling slightly insecure. Time to go home now, and face reality. A divorce, no flat, and no job. And what about Anthony? I’d been hoping he might bring up the
subject of us moving in together, but he hadn’t even hinted at it yet.
    We had lunch and then went for one last walk.
    ‘Hey, look,’ Anthony said suddenly. ‘It’s our shop. Patisserie Marie. The shop with the best chocolate in the world. Where I proposed to . . .’
    ‘. . . Kerry,’ I finished off. Suddenly I felt sulky with the memory. ‘I don’t really feel like going in.’
    But Anthony was suddenly full of animation. Ignoring my grumpy protests, he ushered me inside.
    The shop bell pinged as we entered. As we walked across the red and white tiles, dusty with spilt icing sugar, I forced back memories and bunched them tight in my heart. But smell is too great
an evoker of memory. The scents of vanilla and honey, burnt sugar and cocoa brought back such a rush of feelings, I had to pay very particular attention to a box of Turkish Delight to conceal my
face from him.
    My misery was beginning to return. Anthony had proposed to Kerry in Paris. Was I just a rebound choice, a consolation fling? Just what did Anthony feel for me?
    Why don’t you tell him how you feel?
a voice shouted. But I kept coming back to the same point:
But if he likes me, he should be the one to say. Why should I have to do the
running? If he cares for me, he’d tell me.
    ‘Lucy, are you OK?’ he called softly.
    I ignored him. Then I heard him asking for the assistant. If he buys me the most perfect chocolate in the world as some patronising attempt to cheer me up, I shall kill him, I thought
furiously.
    ‘Lucy – fancy a taste of the best chocolate in the world?’ he asked me.
    ‘I don’t want it,’ I said, feeling him come up behind me. But as he held out the little box, I had to admit my stomach stirred.
    ‘So,’ said Anthony, ‘if I proposed again, would you say yes?’
    ‘No,’ I said stoutly, staring down at the chocolate, glistening in tissue paper like a succulent jewel.
    ‘If we come back in one year’s time and I propose, would you say yes then?’
    ‘I doubt it,’ I said carelessly.
    He turned away and I looked at him sharply. I waited for him to ask me again, but he was now busy paying for the chocolate. I watched him collect the change from the assistant, wailing inwardly:
Is he going to give up so easily?
    He turned to me and held the chocolate out, a curious smile on his face. I smiled back, taking a bite. I closed my eyes and it was heaven; a kind of
petit mort
for my tastebuds. Then I
felt Anthony’s mouth brushing mine, dusting my lips like icing sugar. I opened my eyes and swallowed, the bubble of bliss