In Bed With Lord Byron

I had no idea what I wanted to do. And besides, every time I skimmed the ads, I found my eyes sliding over the time machine in the corner of the room. I had covered it with an
Indian throw, but still it beckoned me, a temple of delights promising love, adventure, beauty, danger. I found myself surfing the internet, looking up articles on time travel, biting back smiles
when I read treatises by professors who claimed it was impossible.
    There were times, too, when I found myself simply bursting to call Anthony and blurt it all out. Or my mother. Or my sister. I even thought about going to see a counsellor, just so that I could
tell
someone
. But I knew that the moment I said a word, they’d be sending the men in white coats over to put me in a straitjacket.
    I thought about inviting Anthony to have a go in the machine himself. It could be our secret. We could go back to Roman times, I thought with excitement, and visit Cleopatra – Anthony had
always had rather a yen for her. But I felt protective of him; he was in a delicate state as it was, and Cleo might just about finish him off.
    A week passed and my memories of 1813 began to blur and become smoky, until I wondered if it had ever really happened, if it had just been a dream.
    As my money dwindled, I signed up with an employment agency.
    You might be wondering, at this point in my story, why I didn’t just get into the machine, whiz forward a week or so and check out some lottery numbers. And before all this happened, if
anyone had asked me what I would have done with a time machine, a little lottery cheating would definitely have been high on my list.
    But in reality, I felt frightened by the idea. I could change my entire life, yet I found myself clinging to the safety of the present. In the end, I told myself that I would only use the
lottery thing if I really really needed it – if my bank account hit its limit, every credit card was full, and nobody would ever employ me.
    And just when it was beginning to look as though that might be the case, the agency told me an interview had come up.
    The first thing I did was get myself another mobile. As I played about with my new toy, a thought suddenly struck me.
    Byron still had my old mobile.
    So . . . ?
    On a whim, my heart fluttering with excitement, I decided to text him:
    Hi, Lucy here. How is life in 1813? By the way, I think you are a total cad. Back in England, I seduced Keats. What do you think of that?
    Not entirely true, but never mind.
    Later that evening, as I was watching
EastEnders,
my mobile vibrated.
    Hello, Byron here – finally got this damned thing to work. How are you? More importantly, how was Keats?
    Hmm. So no apology then for his behaviour. No ‘How is your broken heart?’ But a touch of jealousy – well, good.
    I texted back:
    Keats was great. More than great. We’re in love.
    A few moments later there was another beep. Despite myself, my heart fluttered. Perhaps he really was jealous. He might declare he had always loved me and dedicate a poem to me
and I’d make the history books after all!
    How big was Keats? I want to know the truth, dammit.
    Huh. Bloody unbelievable. So all Lord B. cared about was his pathetic masculine pride. With shaky hands and a spurt of triumph, I texted back:
    A good eleven inches. Oh, that must be ten more than you, right?
    After that, he didn’t text me back again.

Chapter Three
    Leonardo da Vinci
    The art of procreation and the members employed therein are so repulsive, that if it were not for the beauty of faces and the adornments of the actors and the pent-up
     impulses, nature would lose the human species.
    L EONARDO DA V INCI

i) Spring cleaning
    ‘D’you like this picture, Adam?’ I asked my nephew.
    Adam looked up at Leonardo’s famous painting of
The Virgin of the Rocks.
His face screwed up into a serious expression; it was just like the one Anthony used to make when he was
taking the piss out of New York critics.
    Then he shook his head solemnly and said, ‘I think it’s crap.’
    ‘
Adam!
’ My sister gave him a gentle slap on the back of the head. ‘
Language!
’
    I tried not to laugh, though I saw Sally’s lips twitching too.
    ‘Well, my lunch break is nearly up. I suppose I ought to get Adam back to school.’ She sighed. ‘How are you enjoying the job? I wouldn’t have thought that working behind
the till at the National Gallery selling postcards was your cup of tea, Lucy.’
    Neither would I, but it was all the