In Bed With Lord Byron

having to tickle your feet in the mornings to get you out of bed for school. What about that
alarm clock I bought you for Christmas? Didn’t you use that?’
    The said alarm clock had been a garish Mickey Mouse design. I didn’t like to tell her I’d sold it on eBay for £3.50.
    When I told her about Anthony, however, she totally flipped.
    ‘What d’you mean, you’ve broken up with Anthony? Why? Why?’
    ‘Well, I was bored,’ I said in a small voice. I felt as though I was thirteen years old again and had just brought home a report card saying,
Lucy must stop day-dreaming and learn
to focus!
    She became so agitated that she couldn’t sit still. She had to get up and start tidying, banging pots and pans and slamming washed-up things into cupboards.
    ‘Honestly, Lucy, I thought you said he was the one . . . I thought you were going to marry him . . . You’re nearly thirty now. Now you know I’ve always said you needn’t
worry about marriage and it doesn’t always work out, but unlike your bloody father, Anthony was
nice.
He was good to you. I mean, in my day we weren’t so picky. By your age I was
married and pregnant with your sister. We didn’t expect things. How can you get better than Anthony? I mean, Lucy, you ought to hear about Mavis from next door, her man beats her up . . . And
what about your flat? What will you do if Anthony turfs you out? I’m sure he has every right to. If I was him, I certainly would.’
    ‘Mum, I can’t just date Anthony for the flat, that’s mean and mercenary!’ I cried. Though she did have a point. ‘Anyway, I didn’t just break up with him, he
broke up with me too – at the same time. He might even have another woman, he might want to give her the flat,’ I said painfully.
    ‘Well perhaps she’s a bit more grateful than you.’
    As she made another cup of tea with an awful lot of sugar, I sat and pondered. For the past twenty-four hours, my mind had been boomeranging back to the subject of a possible other woman. There
was something, some niggling little memory that kept pinching me, some hint of a suspicion I’d had a while back . . . but when I tried to focus on it, my memory was nothing but a blur.
    We were interrupted by the doorbell and the sound of muted cries. Mum opened the door and my six-year-old nephew entered the kitchen, tugging my sister behind him as though he was taking her for
a walk.
    ‘Oh God, it’s a nightmare, I’ve just had it up to here with everything,’ my sister was ranting. Then she saw me. ‘Oh, hi! Aren’t you supposed to be at
work?’
    ‘Hmmm,’ I said and pulled my nephew, Adam, on to my lap, kissing the top of his head and breathing in that milky, innocent scent that all children seem to possess. I let him play
with the beads on my bracelet and he calmed down for two minutes, which gave me a chance to observe my sister. I didn’t get to see Sally much these days, and when I did I was always struck by
how much she had changed.
    The old Sally, the Sally she’d been before getting married, had been utterly glamorous, with long blonde hair as straight as a ruler, and an endless string of boyfriends. She used to
coolly dispense advice to me on how to twist a man around my little finger.
    These days she looked ten years older than her thirty-five years, her fair hair stringy as dried beans, her face pinched with stress, all her poise blown away in the stress of juggling a
demanding job in marketing, a demanding kid with hyperactive problems, and a demanding husband who still thought housework was for women only.
    ‘If you think you have problems,’ my mum interrupted Sally’s moaning, ‘you ought to hear what Lucy’s been up to.’ She pointed her finger at me accusingly.
    I was saved by the shrill of my mobile. Adam bounced on my lap in excitement.
    ‘Hi,’ said a sexy, strangely familiar voice. At first I thought it was Anthony. Then I twigged.
    ‘Oh. Hi. It’s you.’
    The
Daily Telegraph
guy, aka Nigel.
    ‘I was wondering if you fancied going out for a drink tonight . . .’ he said.
    ‘Er . . . well . . . yes . . . only . . .’ I had visions of sitting in a pub and Anthony, by horrible coincidence, walking in and seeing us. ‘Why don’t you come over to
my place? Seven-ish. I’ll cook something.’ I gave him my address.
    ‘So what are we going to do at your place?’ he asked.
    ‘Um, play Scrabble?’
    He laughed, such a dirty laugh that a blush swept across my cheeks. When I hung