In Bed With Lord Byron

I’d flung on this ballgown, but it was obviously several decades out of date. It was a lovely ivory colour, but it had a tight waist and a full
skirt. The other women’s dresses were all lovely flowing things made from silk and muslin, with high waists, low square necks and gossamer shawls. Their hair was pinned up, with little curls
teased over their foreheads; a few wore hats with feathers poking out. Whereas my hair – I fingered it self-consciously – was seriously matted and wind-blown. Basically, it was like
turning up to a party in 2005 wearing seventies gear, only since retro obviously hadn’t been invented in the nineteenth century, I couldn’t even pretend to be ironic. I just looked
naff.
    ‘Take no notice of them,’ a voice behind me said. ‘I think you look as beautiful as a nightingale.’
    I jumped and turned to see Keats standing behind me, smiling shyly. We stumbled through conversation for a few minutes. I got the feeling he was probably the type who didn’t really like
parties and ended up talking to the pot plant in the corner.
    ‘Is, um, Byron going to be here?’ I broke a long, awkward silence.
    ‘Yes,’ said Keats, looking rather sullen. ‘I was planning to leave before he arrived.’
    I barely registered the barb. I was much too excited by the thought that yes, I was actually going to meet him, one of the most famous men of all time! What would he be like? My mind tumbled
joyfully over the possibilities. I couldn’t help picturing him as being just like Childe Harold, the brooding, melancholic, world-weary hero of his great poem, though I realised that there
was probably a wide gap between Byron and his poetry. For it is the mark of a good author that they write with so much charisma that at the end of the book the reader longs to meet them. Who could
tell which of Byron’s façades, the various costumes he put on, was real? Tonight, I was determined to try and find out.
    ii) Byron
    Suddenly there was the sound of breaking glass. The room fell silent. I stood on tiptoe and glimpsed across the sea of heads a boyish-looking woman with a puce, tear-streaked
face. She was shrieking, ‘I know he’s coming tonight and I
insist
on seeing him. I know he wants to see me too!’ Still screaming, she was led from the room by two
grim-faced footman.
    ‘What’s going on?’ I whispered to Keats.
    ‘That’s Lady Caroline Lamb,’ said Keats with a frown. ‘Byron’s latest. He told Hobhouse not to allow her in.’
    ‘Oh. Oh. Right.’
    ‘He has grown bored with her after only a few months. Mind you, for Byron that is rather a long time.’
    Was I picking up just a few bad vibes here? I vaguely remembered reading somewhere that Byron and Keats were never the best of friends. Byron had been rude about Keats, I was sure – but
then he was rude about everyone.
    But any interest I had in Keats disappeared at that moment, for I realised that Lord Byron was here. I wasn’t the only one who sensed his arrival. The chatter hushed and a feeling of
anticipation filled the room, like those first ripples of electricity that gently snake through the air before a storm. Women preened themselves and pursed their lips; men puffed themselves up,
steeling themselves for the competition.
    And then he entered.
    The man himself. Mr Mad, Bad and Dangerous to know.
    Oh, I thought. He’s not
that
amazing. I came back one hundred and ninety-two years for this? He wasn’t nearly as tall as I’d imagined. And he definitely had a limp.
    He turned to face me, and paused for a moment, drinking in the air as though he could taste it: the sweetness of adoration, the sting of bitter envy. Then, like an actor surveying his audience,
his eyes swept over the room. And in that moment, it happened. The magical flash. I felt my knees go weak. I found myself willing him to pin those eyes on me; I came close to behaving like a kid at
the back of the class, putting up my hand and shouting, ‘Me, me,
ME!
’
    He looked away. Then they surged forward: people offering him drinks, handshakes, cheeks to be kissed.
    Within a minute he was entirely mobbed by women.
    Now I know what my mum meant when she told me how it felt to see the Beatles,
I mused.
    How the hell was I going to compete against all of them?
    Oh dear. I hadn’t thought about that. In my idle fantasies I’d envisaged myself just turning up, curling Byron around my little finger, having some fun and then bouncing back to the
present day. I