In Bed With Lord Byron

smarting at Anthony’s words. He had never once brought up the issue of kids when we were going out; there had been an
unspoken pact between us that we just weren’t ready.
    OK, so I
didn’t
have a maternal bone in my body. Or if I did, it was buried rather deep and might well require a huge spade to locate it. So I didn’t go all ga-ga over babies,
but who could blame me? I knew from Sally what hard work children were. Had the mother back there been sitting there with a bright smile on her face, enjoying the sun? No, she’d been
completely harassed. God, the way Anthony had said it, it was as though I was some dried-up, evil, boring career girl who didn’t care for children at all. Huh.
    ‘I just need to pop into Waterstone’s,’ he said as we headed out of the park.
    ‘Sure,’ I said, smoothing the sulky edge out of my voice and putting on a smile.
    The moment we entered the shop, however, I noticed something rather shifty about him. I could tell he had a book in mind that he wanted to buy. I let him wander off and then tiptoed up behind
him.
    Anthony jumped.
    And blushed.
    ‘Anthony, what is this?’ I cried, grabbing for the book. He scrabbled to yank it back, but I tickled him, provoking a hiss of fury; Anthony was the most ticklish person I knew, so it
wasn’t very fair play. Then I saw the cover. ‘Oh my God.’ Suddenly everything fell into place. ‘You’re not really going to spend your hard-earned cash on
Men Are
From Mars, Women Are from Venus
?’
    I was being mean, I knew, but I was still a little prickly from his earlier comment. Now I had a weapon to wield back at him.
    Anthony looked sheepish. Then defiant.
    ‘Well, I know you’ve always scoffed at this sort of thing, Lucy, but millions of people have been helped by it.’
    ‘You don’t need books, Anthony. Just be natural.’
    ‘Well, that’s all very well, but I think I do. All this stuff is complicated if you’re a bloke. We don’t know whether to be a new man and please you, or a real man and
act like a dick. The other day I opened a door for a woman and she shot me a furious glance as though I was being a total pig, when I was just trying to be polite. I mean, it was easier in the
past, when men were men and women were women. Yes, and before you have a go at me, Lucy, I know women weren’t happy back then. But they don’t seem that happy now either, and neither do
men, so we still haven’t got it right yet, you know. Dating guides are a twenty-first-century invention, the ultimate sign that we’ve made life too complicated.’
    ‘Rubbish,’ I said. ‘The sexes have always had a tough time, ever since we got booted out of Eden. There were always books about. Come on. I’ll show you.’
    He raised a suspicious eyebrow but let me lead him over to the poetry section. Here was the book I was looking for! I pulled it out and stared at the cover for a minute. Instantly, memories of
Latin classes flooded my mind: the smell of chalk dust, dog-eared textbooks, and the waspish voice of my terrifying teacher repeating: ‘
Amo, amare, ama
,’ in a voice that inspired
quite the opposite emotion.
    ‘
Ars Amatoria
,’ Anthony said, peering over my shoulder.
    ‘Ovid was a great Roman poet. He wrote this around one BC . . .’ I broke off, seeing Anthony give me a funny, affectionate look.
    ‘What?’
    ‘No. It’s just you’re such a know-it-all, Lucy. Trust you to know when the first ever dating guide was created. Anyway, what tips did Ovid give then?’
    ‘I can’t remember – I haven’t read it for a good ten years. I remember him saying something like “women are like fish who need to be caught in nets”. Oh, and
he had some useful tips for what to do if you’re at the chariot races and the women are wearing togas. He recommended that blokes should pretend to drop something so they could bend down and
get a good look at a woman’s ankles.’
    ‘Their
ankles
?’
    ‘Ankles were considered very erotic. I think togas had to come to the floor generally, so it was rather racy to show them off.’
    ‘Well, thanks for that, Luce. I’ll remember it when I go to the amphitheatre tonight. Ovid . . .’ Anthony savoured his name like a sweet. ‘It’s very sensual,
isn’t it? Ovid. Like ovulate . . .’
    ‘Hey, that’s interesting,’ I said, my imagination hooked. I smiled at him affectionately; I loved the way he had little insights about everything.
    ‘Anyway, Lucy, how about you get
Ars
and I