In Bed With Lord Byron

here!’ Byron called. ‘When I catch you, I shall . . .’
    As we ran, my absinthe-addled brain began to slur the scenery. The trees grew gnarled faces, some disapproving, some calling for the police with creaky voices, some serene, their leaves shushing
for me to come this way, this way, to keep me safe. Bushes rustled as frightened animals fled; a rabbit wearing a wedding dress and a veil dived into a hole; several birds with brilliant plumage
flew up into the trees. Finally I came to a clearing and skidded to a halt, panting. Byron was only seconds behind me. I opened my mouth to ask if we were safe, if anyone could see us; he put a
finger to my lips. We stood there, trembling, trying to still our breathing. My hearing seemed dulled one minute, sharp the next; the forest blurred into one vague crackly noise, like an untuned
radio, and then suddenly each sound separated and became distinct: birds, rustling, animals, water. A druggy paranoia gripped me.
    ‘I’m frightened,’ I whispered.
    ‘Don’t be frightened, I’m here,’ said Byron.
    Moonlight shone down through the trees, painting silvery-blue bars across his bare chest. I blinked and he became a tiger on two legs, covered with beautiful blue fur; the next minute he was
Byron again, gently pulling me down into the leaves with a wicked smile on his face; a moment later he was a dangerous nymph, with pointed ears and teeth, tiny red demons dancing in his eyes. I
wanted to say to him,
I can’t do this, I’m all freaked out, I need to sober up
, but he was leaning forward and then we were kissing.
Oh, this is so beautiful,
I sighed,
the most beautiful, beautiful kiss I’ve ever had. Mmm, it’s so perfect, oh God, I have to stay here for ever and drink absinthe every night and kiss Byron on and on and on
. .
.
    As he caressed me, I closed my eyes. My body seemed to dissolve into a flowing lake with peaks of lapping pleasure. Then a darkness filled my mind like ink and I was sliding away into some
shadowy place where sparks simmered and I felt so, so sleepy, and my body was as heavy as lead and . . .
    When I opened my eyes, it seemed as though hours might have passed. Suddenly I was flung back into reality: I was lying on a forest floor with twigs sticking into my back, and Byron was parting
my legs and slipping inside me, moaning. Panic erupted inside me. Just what the hell was I doing? The green fairy swirled around my mind, pulling me back into her dreamy ecstasy; I arched my body
up to Byron, smiling and aching and sighing his name.
    ‘Am I the best?’ he breathed, his eyes satanic. ‘Tell me I’m the best lover you’ve ever had.’
    ‘Oh Byron, you’re the best.’
    His face became Puckish; moonbeams shimmered around him in a hazy halo and then became fairies, dancing over his head, pulling his hair, winking at me and whooping. A nightingale swooped down,
flapping silvery wings. As my moans reached a climax, the bird took each sound and echoed it in a beautiful trill, each note plucking my body like a harp of ecstasy, and I cried and sighed,
oh
Byron oh Byron oh Byron
. . .
    I woke up the next morning with the
worst
hangover I’ve ever had in my entire life. An absinthe hangover, I discovered, was not like any normal hangover. My head
felt like an exquisite quartz watch that had been filled with sand; my thoughts could barely tick, just struggle thickly. My eyes ached and all noises seemed piercing and shrill.
    Mary was the only other one who showed up for breakfast. She seemed distant. She told me that she had barely slept all night, having dreamt of a scientist being chased by a terrible monster he
had created in one of his own laboratories. She was so inspired she kept scribbling notes on her hand and soon retreated to write.
    I took lunch at noon and Byron still didn’t show.
    Nor for afternoon tea.
    Or dinner.
    I felt a wave of uncertainty and loneliness. Finally I plucked up the courage to creep up to his bedroom and knock on the door. After a long pause, he told me to go away.
    My head, still weak with hangover, throbbed with hurt. So he was up and hadn’t bothered to come and see me. Well, he could damn well see me now. I burst into the room.
    Byron was sitting at his desk, writing. His quill hovered in mid-air, dropping splotches of ink on to the page like beauty spots. I saw him flick a glance at me out of the corner of his eye.
Then he carried on scribbling.
    ‘Are you well?’ I asked tentatively.
    No