In Bed With Lord Byron

Though I wouldn’t have cared if they had sacked me, to be honest. I was thoroughly fed up. I’d even
called up the publishers of
The Idiot’s Guide to da Vinci
and demanded to know why they’d failed to mention that Leo was gay. They pointed out that their guide was aimed at kids
and they felt sodomy was an unsuitable subject. I threatened to sue them. I think they thought I was insane, but then they hadn’t just wasted three weeks in 1482 without so much as a
snog.
    So all in all, I was glad to be going to the opera. After I’d returned from 1813, I’d found myself appreciating the little things in life. But coming back from the Renaissance to
2005 had left me shell-shocked. The quality of light in Italy had been dazzling, streaming pure and unpolluted from the clouds, caressing the ancient beauty of its buildings, dancing along bridges
and leaping over water. In London it seemed as though the sun was a ball of grey, its rays purposefully gloomy, highlighting ugliness everywhere: buildings caked with grime, smeary windows, streets
decorated with birdshit. I couldn’t enjoy
EastEnders
any more; I longed for the wit and grace of the Milanese court. And so, gradually over the last week, I’d found myself
sinking into a vague depression. I remember a friend of mine, who was a great fan of Austen, saying, ‘Lucy, I think I was born in the wrong century.’ I’d thought her mad at the
time, but now I understood. I felt I belonged in 1482.
    Most of all, I missed Leonardo. I wished I’d given him instead of bloody Byron my mobile. Every time I saw a replica of the
Mona Lisa
I’d smile a secret smile, and then my
heart would twist with longing for my dear friend.
    ‘So, I have to tell you about the girl from the dating site. Her name was Matilda, and she
said
she was thirty-two—’ Anthony was saying, but I cut him
off. For he’d just led me into an individual box overlooking the sweep of stage, with red velvet-cushioned seats.
    ‘We’re in
here
? Our own box?’
    ‘Yup.’
    ‘Oh, Anthony, this is gorgeous.’ I frowned and nudged him playfully. ‘When we were going out, you never took me anywhere so lavish.’
    ‘I certainly did! I took you to The House,’ he joked painfully, and we both winced. ‘Anyway – Matilda.’
    ‘OK, Matilda,’ I said. ‘Tell me everything.’
    ‘Well,’ said Anthony, ‘the first time we were supposed to meet, she cancelled at the last minute. Anyway, we rearranged and this time we did meet up, at the Häagen-Dazs
café in Leicester Square. The moment I saw her, I thought she was really pretty, though she was plastered with make-up.’
    ‘Really?’ I asked in a high voice.
    ‘But I thought to myself, she doesn’t look thirty-two – more like a twenty-year-old in college. So we go in and she gets me to order her a double choc-brownie sundae and she
sits there licking it off the spoon like some sort of Lolita, and then she lets slip that she’s in her second year of GCSEs.’
    ‘No!’
    ‘Yes! She was only fourteen! She burst into tears – it turned out she’d been boasting to all her schoolfriends about having an older man and for the first time she was thought
of as cool. Anyway, I made sure she got home safely and then made her promise never to visit a dating site again. I mean, imagine if some perve had replied to her.’
    ‘Anthony, you’re such a gentleman,’ I said, with affection. ‘But, you have to keep going. I mean, OK, you’ve had a disappointment, but there must be loads of other
women on the site.’
    Anthony snorted. I couldn’t help feeling secretly pleased, and then confused, and then selfish: I wanted to have Anthony to myself, and yet at the same time I didn’t want to commit
to him.
    Before I could puzzle any more, the lights dimmed and it was time for me to lose my opera virginity.
    It was amazing. I felt as though each voice poured into my heart and swelled it with emotion. Halfway through, I was struggling not to cry when I turned and saw a tear leaking out of
Anthony’s eye. He brushed it away fiercely, trying to look all manly, and I smiled and took his hand, and he squeezed back tightly. I looked down at the audience, and then at the stage, and
then at Anthony again, and suddenly I felt a sense of relief and belonging. I am glad to be here, in 2005, I thought. There is art and beauty, and although we might have to look a little harder for
it than people did in 1482, it is here.
    Afterwards, we went back to