In Bed With Lord Byron

does fate do this? I get sandwiched between the couple from hell when behind me the most gorgeous guy in the world is surrounded by empty seats. And now I have to spend the rest of the
flight – another five hours – stuck with Adonis behind me and Moronis beside me.
    But for once fate decided to be nice to me.
    I was just going back up the aisle to hear Dominic muttering, ‘That girl sure does have a weak bladder – I’m not sure if I could cope with that in the long term,’ when
the gorgeous guy looked up again.
    ‘Melanie!’ he exclaimed. To my surprise, his accent was not Mediterranean but Anglo-American.
    Melanie?
Was he mistaken? Then he winked at me and cocked his head at Dominic, and I twigged. I was being saved by a knight in cashmere, armed with a Toshiba. A true gentleman.
    ‘Oh God, Rufus – I haven’t seen you for ages!’ I cried.
    ‘How long’s it been? Six years since we . . .’
    ‘Met at the bowling rink,’ I concluded.
    He patted the seat next to him. In front of us Dominic huffed audibly. We giggled.
    ‘Thanks,’ I whispered.
    ‘No problem,’ he whispered back.
    Once our euphoria had faded, an awkward silence arose. It struck me that he might have saved me just to be nice but regarded conversation as a burden, an irritating distraction from his work. So
I opened up my
Marie Claire.
He flicked me a quick glance and reopened his laptop. It hummed elegantly. As he tapped, I noticed his long fingers. I’ve always had a thing for
violinist’s fingers. I began to fantasise that he was a world-famous musician.
    ‘Does that really work?’ he asked.
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘That.’ He nodded at my magazine. ‘Ten Ways To Get A Ring On His Finger.’
    Oh, why had I turned to that? Why not ‘My Sister Slept With My Boyfriend and His Dog’? Even ‘Do You Ever Feel Itchy Around Your Vagina?’ would have been less
blush-inducing. And I could hardly tell him that I hadn’t read a word of it because I’d been staring at his fingers.
    I went on the defensive. ‘As a matter of fact, I think it’s crap.’
    ‘Really?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘So men don’t interest you, then?’
    ‘Men do interest me, but not much.’ Did that sound bisexual? ‘What I mean is – I shall never, ever marry, for as long as I live. The thought terrifies me and I
don’t think I’m going to change as I get older. I mean, I am only twenty-seven, but still. And I don’t think I’m the only woman about who’s scared of marriage. Men are
the ones who want rings on fingers, not women. After all, you’re the ones who propose!’
    ‘So we are.’
    ‘I think there’s a conspiracy about, mostly perpetuated by Jane Austen, that any young, single woman must want to finish her story with a man ready to walk her down the aisle –
The End. But actually, I was reading a survey the other day, and do you know what it said?’
    ‘What
did
it say?’
    ‘It said that the happiest people in society are young, single women in their early twenties.
Single
women. I even think it may have said that young men in their early twenties are
the most unhappy. Men need us more than we need them.’ I broke off, realising that I sounded like Germaine Greer. ‘I do like men,’ I said, more softly. ‘I like them very
much. I just . . .’
    ‘You’re a fellow commitment-phobe?’
    ‘You’re a commitment-phobe?’ I asked excitedly.
    ‘Oh yes. When I was in New York, I dated about twenty women in the space of a year.’
    ‘That’s fabulous.’ I wanted to shake his hand. Then I became suspicious. ‘Why are you a commitment-phobe? Are you an evil womaniser?’
    ‘I’m a womaniser, maybe, but not an evil one. I don’t hate women, if that’s what you mean. I
love
women. I think they’re the superior sex. I just . . . just
find it hard to . . . I don’t know . . . tie myself down.’
    This was music to my ears.
    ‘Why are
you
a commitment-phobe?’ he asked.
    I set about trying to give him a brief history of my love life in ten and a half minutes. My first kiss, losing my virginity, Ralph, my string of boring relationships with nice men who wanted to
settle down with me.
    ‘You know, Lucy,’ he said, ‘there are plenty of bastards out there. My sister is forever calling me up and wailing about them. Maybe you’re lucky.’
    ‘I’m not, I’m not . . . OK, you’re right,’ I conceded. ‘But the problem is, men always seem to fall into two categories: bastards or nice guys. You either get