In Bed With Lord Byron

my flat and Anthony told me the story behind
Madame Butterfly
– how it had evolved from a short story penned by a Victorian writer, John Luther Long, to
Puccini’s masterpiece, and on to our most modern interpretation,
Miss Saigon.
It was silly: just because he worked in computing, I kept forgetting that he did have an artistic side
too. As he spoke, the passionate excitement in his voice reminded me of Leonardo.
    We ended up talking all night, and drinking hot chocolate and putting the world to rights. It was three a.m. by the time we found ourselves yawning too much to speak, and Anthony retired to nap
on the sofa and I collapsed into bed. As I drifted off I felt a newfound happiness fluttering in my heart. I might have lost Leonardo, but I had a firm friend in Anthony.

Chapter Four
    Ovid
    Et mihi cedet amor
.
    (Love too shall yield to me.)
    O VID

i) On not wanting to have babies
    ‘Isn’t it a beautiful day?’ Anthony sighed.
    It was. Blue skies, the sun splashing about in a joyful fountain, shimmering off trees, sparkling on the water.
    My temporary post at the gallery had finished so I was now doing a temping job whilst I searched for a more meaningful occupation, and Anthony had offered to help assuage my boredom by
suggesting a picnic during my lunch hour.
    We sat down under the cool, spreading shade of an oak tree. We laid out a cloth and napkins and then spread out our feast. I had brought a tub of salad, mixed dips and Anthony’s favourite:
hummus. He had brought crusty French bread and Brie and – oh! – fresh strawberries with a pot of double cream for dunking! My favourite!
    ‘Anthony, you angel, you angel!’ I gave him a mini sideways hug. ‘That’s fabulous!’
    We piled into the food, munching and crunching and tasting and lip-licking with sighs of pleasure.
    ‘Sod it,’ said Anthony, patting the slight curve of his stomach. ‘Now we really will have to diet. It’ll be boot-camp time.’ He grinned at me mischievously and I
smiled back. Whenever we had decided to go on a diet, Anthony had always been the more enthusiastic. In fact, he had used it as an excuse to playfully torment me. I remembered ghastly mornings when
he had literally dragged me out of bed, kicking and screaming, and thrust me out on to the street for a jog. In revenge, I had promised to cook him a healthy meal and served him a plate with a
single pea on it. Funny, I thought with a smile, how when we were most in love we were most mean to each other. It was only when things started to go wrong between us that we started resorting to
romantic dinners. Candles and napkin rings were a sure sign of trouble.
    We finished off our picnic and, happily complaining that our stomachs were bursting, lay down in the grass. It was lovely and peaceful and sleepy lying there, feeling the sun dapple soft rays
through the trees, listening to the hum of bees and dragonflies and people laughing and talking and the childhood chime of an icecream van. And yet it felt strange too. In the past we had always
finished our picnics lying cuddled up. Often we would read a book or a magazine together, my head resting in the crook of his shoulder, sighing impatiently to tease him because I was a faster
reader than him. Being together now felt both very intimate and very distant. There was a joy in being together, and yet a sense of nakedness.
    ‘WAAAAHHHHHHHHH!’
    I sat bolt upright with a jolt.
    A mum had brought a gaggle of her kids over for a picnic under the tree next to us. Seeing my reaction, she sent me an apologetic glance and then turned back to her hysterical three-year-old:
‘Hester, will you give Dylan back his soldier!’
    ‘Let’s move,’ I said, hastily packing up the picnic basket.
    ‘Move? Do we have to? She’ll be offended,’ Anthony whispered, giving the mother a poignant glance.
    ‘Don’t be silly! She’ll be used to it with those . . . those monsters!’
    Anthony looked me and shook his head.
    ‘Monsters? You don’t have a maternal bone in your body, do you?’ he said, and though his tone was teasing, it was slightly chiding too.
    I glared at him and carried on packing up, feeling stung. As we turned to go, one of the kids decided to fling himself down in front of Anthony. Anthony chuckled.
    ‘Hi there, little fellow.’ He picked him up and set him back on his feet. While the mother thanked him profusely, I tried not to sulk.
    As we walked under the glare of the hot sun, I couldn’t help