In Bed With Lord Byron

up, I saw my sister and mum looking at me accusingly. There was no point in lying; their feminine antennae had
been tweaked and they
knew
.
    ‘And you’ve only just got rid of Anthony twelve hours ago,’ said Mum, shaking her head. ‘Honestly, Lucy, I don’t know what’s got into you.’
    Neither did I.
    Not long after Nigel’s call, Anthony rang. In a shaky voice I told him the story about me being fired.
    ‘Well, you were much too intelligent for the job,’ he said in a cross voice. I fell silent; any compliments he gave me now made me feel strangely guilty. He offered to go and collect
my stuff from the office so I wouldn’t have to face Dr Merrick, and though I kept saying no, no, he really didn’t have to, not now we had . . .
    ‘OK, so we’ve broken up,’ he said, even more crossly, ‘but we
are
friends, right?’
    ‘Of course,’ I said, in relief.
    He was meant to come by at five-thirty, after work, but he sent me a text saying he had a work crisis and would be there at six. I had to get ready for the
Daily Telegraph
guy. I felt
excited as I shaved my legs and tweaked my eyebrows and splashed on make-up and scent. But I also felt uneasy. Anthony never minded if I hadn’t had time to wash my hair or if there was
stubble on my legs. Our relationship had nestled around me like a swaddling; now I felt naked and vulnerable.
    Six o’clock passed and I began to fret. I could see the scene: Anthony arriving just as Nigel turned up. Oh God. I’d wanted to lay the table with candles and fancy cutlery, but I
couldn’t now: I had to make do with setting it out in the kitchen.
    To my relief, Anthony turned up at six-thirty. He was struggling with an enormous box; he’d had to get Dave from upstairs to help him haul it into the lift.
    ‘The time machine,’ said Anthony breathlessly. ‘Your boss said you’d like it as a memento.’
    ‘The cheek of her! She said it was filling up her office and decided to dump it on me more like,’ I cried. ‘Anyway, it’s so kind of you to do this, Anthony . .
.’
    We stared at each other, our eyes bright with pain. Then Anthony dropped his gaze, sweeping it over me, assessing my make-up and sexy clothes. He opened his mouth to say something, and then
closed it.
    ‘No worries,’ he said. ‘I’ll just get the rest of the stuff. A cup of tea would be nice, Lucy.’
    ‘Of course.’
    He brought in the rest of my boxes and followed me into the kitchen. And then it happened. Disaster. There was all the cutlery for tonight; crystal glasses, candles, bottle of wine. Unmistakably
romantic.
    I followed Anthony’s gaze, opened my mouth to speak, but he got there first.
    ‘I see,’ he said, and walked out.
    ‘Anthony! Wait! Look, I do have a friend coming over tonight.’
    ‘Female or male?’
    ‘Male—’
    ‘I see.’ He opened the front door.
    ‘Look, I haven’t been having an affair, if that’s what you think. I’m just—’
    ‘Just?’
    ‘Moving on.’
    ‘We only broke up last night!’ He turned on his heel and stormed out, ignoring my pleas to talk.
    Oh God, I thought, now he’ll think I was having an affair all the way through our relationship. I watched him drive away angrily, and my heart felt as though it was a precious ornament I
had just dropped on the floor, smashing and tinkling into thousands of tiny pieces.
    I wanted to cancel the
Daily Telegraph
guy but I felt too shaken to even pick up the phone. I locked myself in the bathroom and watched myself crying in the mirror with a strange
detachment. Then I washed my face and gave myself a fierce pep talk. I told myself that I was going to enjoy the evening. I had, after all, broken up with Anthony for this: for fun, for freedom,
for danger, for adventure. I had an almost hysterical determination that the evening had to be brilliant to make the sacrifice feel worthwhile, to prove to myself that I had made the right
decision.
    The doorbell rang. It was him.
    ‘Hi,’ he grinned. He was looking utterly woof-woof in a casual, scruffy I’ve-just-got-out-of-bed way: jeans ripped at the knees, old scuffed boots, and a red Coca-Cola T-shirt.
And though he clearly hadn’t washed his clothes, he had washed his hair, which hung in a sexy fringe, brown and shiny as conkers.
    ‘How are you?’ he said.
    ‘Oh, fine. You?’ I gulped.
    ‘Very well, not so bad. I’ve bought some stuff,’ he said, coming into the hall swinging an Asda carrier bag.
    ‘Oh, wow, thanks,’ I exclaimed,