In Bed With Lord Byron

spell; I watched him lift a spoon and close his eyes intently as he took a taste; I watched him wrinkle his nose ponderingly. I felt a flood of appreciation
and affection for him.
    There were times, you see, in our relationship, when Anthony had been cooking for me, or shopping for me, or massaging my tired feet, and a tiny voice in me had actually objected. It had looked
at Anthony and whispered,
All this new man stuff is very sweet – but is it really very sexy?
    Now I knew better. Ovid
had
ended up teaching me a valuable lesson, and it was simply this: that a man who is considerate and kind should be treasured. It was folly, I realised, to hanker
after men like Ovid who, for all their charisma and swank and manly arrogance would, inevitably, only end up treating me like shit. I frowned for a minute, wondering why I felt any attraction for
these types at all.
    Oh God,
I prayed, watching Anthony’s shoulder blades move beneath his shirt as he stirred and salted,
please can our friendship be properly repaired. Just seeing him now reminds
me of how much I’ve missed him. Please can it all work out.
    I swallowed and walked up to his side.
    ‘This smells
so
yummy,’ I cried, breathing in the succulent scent of warm chicken bubbling in oil, and the sweet red fragrance of carrots roasting. I rubbed his shoulder.
‘You deserve your own TV show.’
    He turned to face me, a lock of dark hair flopping over one eye, and grinned.
    ‘Well, you need some proper food. I mean, Lucy, I spotted a Pot Noodle in your cupboard. Beyond belief!’ He rapped my knuckles with a wooden spoon. ‘Obviously I threw it away.
Good Lord. You’re a disgrace.’
    We sat down to eat. We kept asking each other how our day had been, how we were. There was a sense of cheerful strain in the way the conversation ping-ponged back and forth, but it was a nice
strain. We were both eager to be ultra-considerate, to heal wounds.
    Then the issue of my sister came up. I confessed how worried she was; how she seemed tired of her husband and even of her son.
    ‘Well, kids do take up masses of energy,’ said Anthony, which I knew was a veiled apology for his comments in the park.
    And yet I couldn’t quite swallow it.
    ‘Well, I wouldn’t know much about that. I mean, I don’t have a maternal bone in my body.’ I’d meant to say it lightly, but I was aware of the barb, the hurt in my
voice, and I blushed, looking down at my napkin.
    Oh God. I shouldn’t have said that.
    ‘Hey, I was just kidding,’ said Anthony, pouring some wine. He bit his lip. ‘I’m sure you’d be a great mother, Lucy. Really.’
    I pulled a face: half gratified, half pretending to be revolted.
    ‘I just thought you didn’t really want to get into that commitment-marriage-kids thing.’
    ‘Oh, I don’t,’ I said quickly, taking a sip of wine. ‘But . . .’
    But what?
    ‘Well, what would you call kids if you had them?’
    ‘Anthony, don’t tease me. Really. I’m not broody.’ I just wanted to get off the subject; it hurt too much.
    But Anthony, of course, had no idea.
    ‘No, really,’ he insisted. ‘I’m not teasing you, I’m not bullying you.’ He waved his glass carelessly. ‘I’m talking about a purely theoretical
situation, OK? I’m just curious.’
    I paused. God, this was strange. We’d never had this conversation when we were going out. I don’t think we’d ever dared, for fear of where it might end.
    Then I looked up and saw Anthony looking at me with curiosity and tenderness. I felt moved. I felt soothed. I
could
talk about this with him; in fact, I wanted to. I couldn’t tell
him exactly what had happened to me with Ovid. But to talk just a little about the subject would help me feel better.
    ‘So,’ said Anthony again. ‘What would you call them?’
    ‘Well,’ I said, blushing slightly, ‘I think something unusual is good.’
    ‘Oh God.’ Anthony put down his knife and fork theatrically. ‘You’re going to name your child after a piece of fruit, aren’t you? You’re going to have a girl,
or worse – yes, worse – a boy, and call him Pineapple!’
    ‘You read my mind!’ I joked. ‘I was thinking about Pineapple for a girl and Passionfruit for a boy. No – seriously – I didn’t really mean
weirdo-celebrity-unusual. I meant something unusual like a Shakespearean name. Like Ophelia. Or Perdita. Or Lysander. Now I like that. Lysander Lyon.’
    ‘Of course, he’d have your husband’s surname.’
    ‘Oh,