In Bed With Lord Byron

being with him, but I also love my newfound freedom. And Anthony’s behaviour in the street had reminded me
of just how possessive and clingy and jealous he could be. I needed some time out to retreat, to be in my own space.
    ii) Silent texting
    At nine the next morning, I sent Anthony a text:
    Hey, Valmont, how r u? Picked up any 14-yr-olds today?
    At ten, I tried a different tack:
    Work is dull. I think I may end it all by shoving a stapler up my nose.
    At eleven, I resorted to pleading:
    I miss you. Plse let’s talk. This is silly.
    At midday, I finally lashed out:
    OK, ignore me then. U’re obviously too busy with Lolita.
    Childish and petty, I know – but I felt mad.
    In the whole time that we’d been together, Anthony hadn’t ever ignored me.
    Until now.
    Bugger him, I thought.
    I sent him one more text apologising for the last one and there was still no reply. My heart erupted with anger. I felt as though I actually hated him.
    My lunch break came. I went and sat in the park, miserably munching on a limp tuna sandwich, on my own in a sea of happy summer couples. Up to now, I realised, Anthony and I hadn’t
properly broken up. Yes, we’d stopped sleeping together, but we’d carried on texting, talking and sharing. Our friendship had basically been a diluted form of our relationship, an
intimacy without sex.
    Now, for the first time since our break-up, I suffered the real pain of it: as though the arrow lodged in my heart that day we’d split up had been snapped off, embedding its tip deep in
the centre. For the first time in a long time, I suffered loneliness. Huge loneliness, arching over me like the sky above. I felt like a ghost, as though none of these people in the park could even
see me, I was so insubstantial.
    I checked my mobile for the fiftieth time and felt tears spring into my eyes.
    I just wanted to
speak
to him. I just wanted to be able to call him up and tell him all the little things on my mind.
    I was making a start on my packet of crisps when, typically, yesterday’s mother appeared again, complete with screaming kids.
    ‘Hester, could you please not fill Dylan’s nappy with grass—’ She broke off, noticing me with a flicker of apologetic recognition.
    OK, I thought, this is fine. I can sit here. I can handle this. I can cope with a bit of childish screaming.
    And then I felt angry with myself, for my thoughts were wheeling back to Anthony again, seeking his approval, pretending he was here with me.
    Sod him, I thought. I picked myself up and walked away, the screaming fading behind me.
    As I made my way back to the office, I wondered what he was doing right now.
    Probably back at his stupid dating agency, I decided. Looking for some girl who
loved
babies and wanted to have twenty million of them and drown in nappies for the rest of her life. Well,
I hoped they would be happy together.
    iii) The playboy of the Roman world
    I examined my reflection in the mirror and then consulted the book for the hundredth time . . .
    In Roman times, the typical dress of a fashionable woman would be a tunic made from linen dyed with madder roots and secured on to the shoulders with stitches and clasps.
     On top of this would be draped another cloth known as a
palla
.
    Well, I thought, even my local fancy dress shop hadn’t been able to come up with a decent Roman costume. In a sudden burst of inspiration, I had decided to opt for the sari I had bought
during my trip to India with Anthony. It was made of white cotton rather than linen, but using a good number of safety pins, I had converted it from an eastern to a Roman style.
    A Roman woman would cleanse herself at the baths. Then she would apply a moisturising cold cream before putting on her make-up.
    For foundation, a layer of white paste would be applied – made from lead, chalk or root. Then a layer of rouge, made from red ochre, would be added.
    Hmm. I frowned critically at my reflection. Before putting on my make-up, I had applied a fake tan, convinced my lily-white skin would draw suspicion amongst the Romans. Now my body was the
colour of a
Baywatch
actor, while my face looked like a clown’s. Still, at least my heavy kohl eye make-up looked good. And while I didn’t have any eyeshadow made from saffron,
my Rimmel offering wasn’t bad, and I had replaced ‘a lipsalve tinted with alkanet root and ochre’ with a pale Boots 17 lipstick, brushed over with a shiny layer of Vaseline.
    Lastly, a Roman woman’s hair would be