In Bed With Lord Byron

cried. ‘I mean – you’re gorgeous, and great and . . .’
And we’ve only just
broken up
, I added silently, aware of my hypocrisy.
    Embarrassed by my hurt, I got up, brisk as Mary Poppins.
    ‘Come on then,’ I said, ‘let’s go online right away.’
    I switched on my computer, swishing the mouse, then turned and saw Anthony, still slumped on the sofa, staring at me with wounded eyes.
    ‘You want me to be with another girl,’ he said, a trace of bitterness in his voice.
    There was a brief, taut silence.
    Then he grinned quickly, putting down his mug and coming over to the computer. ‘That’s cool. Let’s get online and then I can start finding some weirdo women to torture
me.’
    We sat side by side and surfed. I soon realised that Anthony didn’t really want to sign up with a dating agency. He was playing a game, testing to see if I was jealous. And in turn I was
batting the ball back at him, determined not to show just how deep jealousy burned inside me.
    ‘Can’t I just sign up with one of those sites where women are looking for other women?’ Anthony gave me a teasing look.
    ‘No you can’t,’ I said primly. ‘Come on, leave Google alone and focus! We’re going to find you something utterly respectable.’ I yawned and stretched as a
sudden thought troubled me. ‘My favourite poem is
Ode to a Pigeon
.’
    ‘What?’ Anthony knocked me gently on the head with his knuckles. ‘You mean
Ode to a Nightingale.’
Suddenly he saw the funny side and burst into chuckles.
‘
Ode to a Pigeon
! I suppose he also wrote
Ode to a Woodlouse
.’
    I burst into relieved giggles. Then, glancing down at my hand, I noticed that the splinter cut, which had throbbed painfully ever since my night at Tom Moore’s, had healed up, the skin
smooth and unscarred. So I hadn’t changed the past. I might have temporarily bent events, but with its own divine order, the universe had sprung back into shape and history was as it had
always been.
    I was so relieved that I hadn’t ruined Keats’ finest poetic achievement for generations to come that I shrieked with laughter that rapidly became hysterical. Anthony gave me a weird
look.
    ‘Lucy, have you been taking drugs?’
    ‘Just a little absinthe.’
    ‘Ha ha. Come on, where’s this dating site then? I’m counting on you to sort this one out for me.’
    I did my best. We surfed for about an hour and in the end settled on a nice-looking site where you had to pay £20 a month and there were plenty of sane-sounding women. Anthony logged on
his details; now he just had to wait for messages to start popping into his box.
    ‘Well, I’m glad that’s sorted. So you’re not going away, then?’ Anthony asked, recalling the panicky text I had sent. ‘Lyra doesn’t need
feeding?’
    ‘Er, no – I was planning to, but now I’ve realised it’s not necessary. Come on, let’s have some soup – are you hungry?’
    We had supper together, then I began yawning again – I still hadn’t quite caught up on my sleep – so Anthony left early. When he went, he gave me a deep, tender hug and we both
found ourselves close to tears again. As he walked away, he kept looking back, as though aching for me to call to him and ask him to stay the night. And it took all of my willpower to let him go,
knowing it was the best thing for both of us.
    I was relieved that Anthony and I were friends, but even so, the next week or so felt strange. It felt odd sleeping in my own bed night after night instead of spending three
nights a week in his; my bed seemed huge and hollow without his warm presence. It felt odd sitting down in front of the TV and not fighting over the remote; odd not being woken in the mornings by
Anthony bringing me a cup of Earl Grey and a sleepy kiss. We still called each other at least once a day, and each call ended on a jerky, self-conscious note, aware that we were now ringing off
with ‘goodbye’ rather than ‘I love you’.
    I also felt strange because it took me much longer than I’d expected to recover from my time machine adventures. It was as though I’d spent a week partying without sleep. For three
nights I had to go to bed at eight thirty, and I kept having to knock back paracetamols to ease my thumping headaches. I found myself feeling ravenously hungry, as though my body needed fuel to
repair itself from the trauma, and I put on at least four pounds.
    I started applying for new jobs, but I found it hard to focus.
    For one thing,