In Bed With Lord Byron

again. I suggested we stop for a break.
    And that was when the trouble started.
    We took a detour down an oh-so-familiar side street. Suddenly Anthony broke off in mid-conversation and cried, ‘Lucy, look! A costume hire shop.’
    ‘Oh – oh, no . . . I really really really have a deep urge for some Belgian chocolate,’ I gabbled, but Anthony ignored my protest and dragged me towards the shop.
    ‘Really, Anthony, I don’t want to hire something, I need to buy something.’
    ‘But we haven’t got much time; you’ll never get anything.’
    He pushed me, struggling, through the door.
    Into the very costume shop I had ventured into that time I’d hired a costume to visit Leonardo da Vinci.
    Oh well,
I prayed hopefully,
they must have many staff here. I mean, I’m sure it won’t be the same man who served me before, and besides, even if it is, he won’t
remember me
—
    ‘Lucy!’ he cried, pushing through the racks of clothes. ‘How lovely to see you again! How did your Milanese male-apprentice outfit go down? I’m sorry I missed you when
you brought it back, I was dealing with another customer. Do tell all, my dear!’
    Anthony shot me a look of pure amazement.
    ‘Oh – well, it was great . . . Now I need—’
    ‘Don’t tell me,’ the assistant cut in, raising a playful eyebrow. ‘More cross-dressing parties to attend?’
    ‘Uh . . .’ I blushed so brightly that the man suddenly realised his faux pas and muttered a quick apology. Anthony, meanwhile, looked rather stunned.
    ‘I want a twenties dress, something glamorous,’ I said.
    ‘Of course, of course,’ the assistant said hurriedly, keen to clear up his mistake. ‘I have just the thing. Why don’t you try it on here; with a dress like this,
you’ll want to be sure it fits.’
    Anthony, who had now recovered, nudged me and whispered into my ear, ‘I’ll have to hear about these parties later, Lucy – what have you been up to?’
    I dived into the changing room.
Shit, how the hell am I going to explain that to Anthony?
Then all my nerves were forgotten as I pulled on the dress and gaped at my reflection. It was a
classic 1920s flapper dress, the colour of a pale blue winter’s sky, covered in glittering teardrop beads. I actually looked . . . OK! In fact, I looked good. It was impossible
not
to
look good in a dress as shimmery and skin-kissing as this. I pulled on the accompanying feather boa and the whole thing looked just perfect.
    Out in the shop, I whirled around in excitement, waiting for Anthony to tell me I looked beautiful. After all, that was the whole point of taking a man shopping with you, wasn’t it?
    And Anthony was so good at making me feel good about myself. When we’d first started dating, I’d insisted we make love with all the lights off. I’d even make Anthony laugh by
twitching the curtains firmly shut so that a sliver of street-lamp couldn’t sidle in and pounce on my small breasts, or the cellulite on my thighs, or the funny knobbly shape of my feet. A
year later, I was happy to make love with all the lights blazing. Because Anthony had slowly given me confidence. He’d told me that I was perfect because I wasn’t perfect. Whenever
we’d gone shopping in the past, he would make me come and twirl in front of him and declare I looked wonderful, and then to prove he wasn’t just saying it, he’d come up with some
thoughtful detail, like ‘It shows off your legs’ or ‘It makes you look more curvy.’ In that respect, he had been a dream boyfriend.
    Now, however, he had taken a work call on his mobile. He swung round, looked me up and down, broke off and said vaguely, ‘Very nice . . .’
    ‘Oh, thanks,’ I said, but he had turned away.
    The shopkeeper said hastily, ‘You look absolutely terrific, my dear.’ I nodded and held my head high, but back in the changing room I couldn’t help smarting. Obviously Anthony
really didn’t fancy me any more. Maybe I was putting on weight. Maybe I was too
old.
But I didn’t really fancy Anthony either, so surely my hurt was just sheer vanity? I was
reminded of a quote from Coleridge:
The desire of a man is for a woman; a woman desires the desire of a man.
There was some truth in that, I thought, suddenly feeling horribly
egotistical.
    All the same.
Very nice.
That’s the sort of compliment your granny pays when you give her a tea-cosy.
Very nice,
indeed.
    As I paid for the outfit, I flirted outrageously with the shopkeeper, but Anthony barely