In Bed With Lord Byron

crisis, because he was so kind and reliable. I could tell that he felt anxious
about me, and just the fact that someone cared – really cared – made me feel cocooned and cheered.
    It wasn’t too hard finding a snappy suit for Anthony. In the first shop we went into we found a gorgeous black gangster suit, as well as a pearl velour hat with a black
brim.
    ‘I hate dressing up. Will Al Capone be there?’ I grumbled as Anthony changed in the cubicle.
    ‘Well, I think we sent him an invite,’ Anthony called through the door, ‘but he might be a bit on the maggoty side, Luce. Anyway, I thought you were into Byron. Is Capone more
or less sexy than Byron, then?’
    ‘More,’ I asserted, for Byron was definitely no longer in my going-to-bed list; he wouldn’t even make the top one hundred.
    ‘Oh, more?’ Anthony popped his head over the door, looking surprised and impressed. ‘So what’s Capone got then?’
    ‘Well, I’m not wild about him – but he’s an icon, isn’t he?’
    ‘Go on. Tell me. I’m interested.’
    ‘Well, he’s dangerous. And exciting. I mean, he was a rogue but I guess the reason we like rogues is because they’re so unbounded. They don’t play by the rules of society
like the rest of us do; they have the will and the strength to do their own thing.’
    ‘Like torturing and shooting innocent people?’
    I grinned.
    ‘OK, OK. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s just that he’s so . . . I don’t know . . . so tough. He seems like a real man. Not a trace of boy in him, you
know.’
    ‘So?’ Anthony emerged from the cubicle and flipped his fingers into the lapels of his jacket. ‘Am I a match for Capone?’ He put on a deep, gravelly voice.
    I stared at him, about to jest back. But then I found myself absorbed in making a genuine comparison. The suit did make him look good. Taller, broader. Anthony had been a little on the skinny
side when we’d first met, and I liked to run my hands teasingly over his rib cage, but in the past two years he’d filled out, and regular trips to the gym had added to his beef. And
yes, he did look hot in the suit, hat cocked. But he was disappointingly unsexy. He just didn’t have that mean-guy attitude. I couldn’t get away from the reality: he was Anthony Brown,
head of a computer firm, who spent his days shuffling paper.
    Anthony frowned, sensing my doubt without being able to quite understand it.
    ‘You don’t think it looks any good, do you?’ he cried.
    ‘No, really, it’s fine. You look absolutely gorgeous and fantastic and all the girls will be all over you,’ I gabbled quickly.
    Anthony grinned, called me a flatterer and went back to change. I frowned, feeling confused.
    Finally, Anthony and I had got our friendship back on track. We’d had a frank discussion and laid down some ground rules, declaring that we weren’t allowed to
interfere in each other’s love lives. Now things had settled down again into something warm, comfortable and easy. We called each other a few times a day; we texted at least twenty. If
anything, we were getting on better now than we ever had as a couple. It was all rather ironic. Now that we expected less of each other, we seemed to give more; now that the pressure was off, we
seemed to enjoy deeper affections.
    And yet.
    It was still slightly messy separating the yolk of friendship from the white of a relationship. Sometimes I looked at him and some of the little things he did – the curve of his smile, a
protective arm on my waist – reminded me of just why I had fallen in love with him all those months ago and my heart tumbled as though ready to take the fall twice. And then other times I
looked at him and it was gone, my desire in ashes, burnt by my urge to find a man who was . . . who was . . . well, I wasn’t sure
quite
what, but something more, something special . .
.
something
. . .
    Still, at least he had stopped being jealous. These days I felt I could flirt with anyone right under his nose and he wouldn’t blink. In fact I was beginning to think that he had stopped
fancying me altogether.
    Which I guess made our friendship a whole lot simpler.
    The search for my outfit proved more complicated. We discovered many glorious dresses, but none of them were remotely 1920s. Nor could we give up and leave it for another day,
since we had left it right until the last minute as it was.
    I began to weary and lose concentration; black worries about Sally began to surface