In Bed With Lord Byron

employment agency had been able to come up with, since I had managed to fail their typing test; my last few years of laziness had slowed my speed down to 45
words per minute, which I had been informed, was just ‘not up to scratch’. And I had to get a job doing
something
. I felt a duty now to make sure I paid Anthony every penny of my
rent on time, to prove I wasn’t taking advantage of our friendship.
    ‘Well, I’m really enjoying it,’ I lied stubbornly. ‘I think it’s educational, I’m learning a lot about art.’ I didn’t add that I was so bored I
had already begun to hate the pictures. It’s all very well coming to the National Gallery and staring at
The Virgin of the Rocks
for five awed minutes. But when you’ve been
staring at it for five days in a row it starts to niggle; the serene beauty of the Virgin’s face becomes bland.
    I could hear a group of schoolchildren screaming like Adam does when he’s throwing a tantrum, and as yet another flurry of Japanese tourists began to harangue me, my sister drew Adam
away.
    ‘Well, it was nice seeing you, Luce. I’ll leave you to it.’
    ‘Yeah – thanks for dropping by,’ I called out.
    I turned back to the Japanese and explained that they weren’t allowed to take photos. They were, after all, meant to be forking out for the postcards in the shop.
    ‘But if we all stood in front of the picture, then nobody could see it in the photo!’ the man beamed with a brainwave.
    ‘Er, okay. Sod it, go on then,’ I said. ‘But be quick, or I’ll lose my job.’ I wandered back off to the foyer.
    The afternoon dragged by. I found a new term to define my boredom –
boremoreboredom
– the boredom of leaving one boring job for another one equally boring.
    It was amazing how soon my initial euphoria about my trip back to 1813 had faded, how quickly I had fallen back into the same rhythm. It’s just like when you go on holiday and return
feeling all fresh with new ambition, and then, in a few days’ time find yourself stuck in the same old rut; life is the same as ever. I was beginning to realise that the only reason I’d
survived my old office job for so long was because Anthony had always been a backdrop to the day, someone to call or email or merely fantasise over.
    Still, we were beginning to adjust to our friendship, wearing it in like a new pair of shoes, and now it felt more softened and creased and comfy. In fact, all morning Anthony had been sending
me entertaining texts about the first girl he’d discovered on his dating site jaunt. Her name was Matilda, and he was seeing her tonight.
    Back home that evening, I felt slightly at a loss. It was a Thursday night. Traditionally, Thursday nights had always been video nights. Anthony and I had completely different
tastes in films. He was very much a fan of the Hollywood blockbuster, whereas I preferred art films. In truth, I didn’t mind the odd romantic comedy or weepy or thriller, but I exaggerated my
snobbery for the sake of argument. Soon we became quite competitive in our attempts to wind each other up, Anthony choosing the cheesiest films he could think of, while I would hunt down the
weirdest ones I could find. Each week we made scathingly sarcastic remarks about each other’s choices. It meant we saw a wonderful range of films. It was great fun. How I would miss those
days.
    But,
I reminded myself,
you’re young, free and single now, Lucy! You can pick any video you like
. I decided to choose one after I’d cooked supper. Or, rather, found
something tasty in a tin. You see, I wasn’t exactly the best cook in the world.
    The first time I’d tried to cook a romantic meal for Anthony, the entire block of flats had to be evacuated due to the smoke alarms screaming. Anthony felt that was the more positive part
of the evening: ‘It was the throwing-up-all-night bit I had the real problem with,’ he declared. The next time he came over, he politely suggested I try something simple, assuring me
that he loved cheese on toast. Every time he took a bite, I asked anxiously, ‘Are you
sure
it’s OK?’ and he said, ‘Yes,’ and I said, ‘Really, you
don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to,’ and he said, ‘Lucy, I want to eat it, it’s wonderful,’ and I said, ‘What does it taste of then?’ and he
said, ‘To be honest, it tastes like old socks on toast.’ I wept for a while and he comforted me. ‘Come on, Lucy,’ he said, ‘you can’t be good