In Bed With Lord Byron

myself gulping and shoving my mobile back in my pocket. What if he texted me back saying
I’m in heaven
? How would I feel then?
    I didn’t feel hungry, so I skipped lunch and escaped the gallery for a little fresh air and a wander. At least I told myself it was only a wander, though I found myself searching down one
of the streets behind Leicester Square, looking for a shop I’d passed a few years back. I kept telling myself it had probably closed down and the whole idea was ludicrous, but to my amazement
I eventually found it, lodged between a ‘specialist’ bookshop with red light bulbs adorning its window, and an obscure, dusty art gallery. COSTUMES FOR ALL AGES.
    See,
a small voice told me,
it’s fate. It’s meant to be.
    Inside it was cool and shady. It smelt of mustiness, mothballs and cloth. Costume after costume was lined up on racks, bright as the plumage of a cage of tropical birds. As I ran my hand along
the length of one rack, my fingers brushed lace, cotton, linen, sequins. My imagination ignited.
    ‘Can I help you?’
    A kindly old man with an apple face and spectacles perched on the top of his beaky nose smiled at me.
    ‘I’m looking for a costume,’ I said. ‘Something sexy. Something a young artist’s apprentice would wear in Milan in 1482. Is that too hard?’
    ‘Not at all.’ He looked rather offended. ‘But if you’re going to be an apprentice, I take it you want to be a boy?’
    ‘Ah . . .’ Golly, I hadn’t thought of that. I guess women in the fifteenth century didn’t get to do much except get married and have babies. ‘Yes, yes, you’re
right,’ I said. Suddenly ideas exploded in my mind like a heavenly firework display. ‘By God, you are right! I have to go as a man! And that means – that means I can go as an
apprentice! And that’s the way I can hook him . . . and then later I can reveal myself, just like in
Twelfth Night
! Oh my God, you’re a genius!’ I flung my arms around
him.
    ‘Sorry.’ I stepped back, seeing his bemused expression. ‘I just got a bit excited there.’
    ‘S’allright,’ he said. ‘We get a lot of cross-dressers in here. I know how exciting those parties can be. Now, how about this tunic and hosiery? You’re going to
have to do something about your . . . of course . . .’
    ‘My . . . uh?’
    ‘Your . . .’ He blushed and cocked his head to one side.
    ‘Oh, right.’ I looked down at my chest and flushed and giggled. ‘Any ideas?’
    ‘Nothing that a few bandages and some safety pins can’t handle . . .’
    When I got back to the gallery, I was late and suffered a dressing-down from my supervisor. I hid my costume, tucking
The Idiot’s Guide to da Vinci
into the tunic.
If I was going to go anywhere, I was going to be better prepared this time. I checked my mobile for a text from Anthony, but there was none.
    ii) Meeting Leonardo
    I typed the date into the time machine –
19 September 1482
– then stared at it, my finger lingering on the green button. I can’t believe I’m doing
this again so soon, I thought. At this rate it’ll be an addiction, worse than my chocoholism.
    Then I thought: Sod it. I’ve been given a rare and crazy gift. God, most people would die to enjoy this. Stop feeling guilty and just bloody well enjoy it. After all, Anthony’s
enjoying himself with Matilda, isn’t he?
    A voice argued back:
But look, I didn’t really enjoy 1813 that much. Do I really want to do this again? What if Leonardo turns out to be horrible too and I get my heart broken for a
third time in as many weeks?
    I reassured myself. The problem with Byron was that he was only twenty-five, a mere boy. Now, in 1482, Leonardo will be thirty years old. Much more mature. Much more fun.
    Oh well, here goes.
    I downed a speaking potion, pressed the green button and prepared myself for blackout . . .
    I found myself lying on a stone floor in a room filled with sunlight. I sat up, smoothing down my clothes. This time the time machine had been a little kinder. After landing face down in a
cobbled street last time, I’d feared I might find myself sitting naked on a stool before a painter. To my relief, I found myself behind a large cream silk screen. It seemed to be doubling up
as a sort of artist’s cloth, for it was decorated with splotches of paint, random swirls and squiggles, and occasional sketches of beauty – an eye, a face, the outline of a bird.
    I listened carefully. I could hear the sounds of a city flowing