In Bed With Lord Byron

when quantum physics comes along and tells us that there’s a unified field and we can defy time, then yes, it’s hard to swallow. But it doesn’t mean to
say it isn’t true.’
    ‘OK! Let’s try it then. If it really does work, we can go anywhere in time.’ He managed to keep a straight face – just.
    ‘Well, what period would you like to visit?’
    ‘Erm – the Crusades might be fun. All that blood and fighting – cool!’
    ‘Well, we don’t have the right costumes. I mean, we can’t just turn up in jeans when everyone else is in chainmail.’
    Anthony erupted into incredulous laughter.
    ‘Oh, you mean you don’t have a facility on your machine for automatically changing your outfit? God, I think you need a better model, Lucy.’
    ‘Well I’m hoping to bid for one on eBay,’ I quipped, though inwardly my heart was thudding. Oh my God, I kept thinking, how on earth is he going to react when . . . ‘I
know – hang on. We can use those clothes we got for . . .’ I ran off into the bedroom. After our shopping trip we had dumped the carriers for both our outfits in my wardrobe so we could
easily shove them in his boot when he picked me up. Then I stopped short.
Are you sure about this, Lucy?
I asked myself. I searched my heart and it kept circling back to the same answer:
yes. I realised that most of all I just wanted to share this experience with Anthony. It didn’t feel right to keep anything from him. Using the time machine myself had been fun, but I was
bored of silly love affairs. I wanted to share an adventure with my best friend.
    I ran back into the living room.
    ‘Come on then!’ I cried. ‘We can go into the nineteen twenties if we put these on!’
    ‘Hey – cool, we can meet Al Capone,’ said Anthony.
    ‘First things first,’ I said. ‘Before we go anywhere, we have to fix the machine.’
    It took us a good hour to put it all back together. At the end we found ourselves with a leftover part, an L-shaped piece of beige plastic, and couldn’t for the life of
us work out where the hell it ought to go.
    It was fun dressing up. We played about a bit with some make-up. I painted my lips into a scarlet rosebud and pencilled a silly moustache on Anthony’s upper lip. Finally we were ready.
    ‘Maybe we should get something to eat,’ Anthony said, suddenly nervous.
    ‘Oh come on, don’t tell me you’re going to chicken out!’ I cried.
    ‘No, no, I’m not saying that . . .’ Anthony puffed up with male bravado. ‘I just know it’s not going to work. Come on, I’ll bet you a hundred pounds it
doesn’t.’
    ‘OK, sure,’ I said.
    Now he really did look nervous. Especially when I forced him to take a speaking potion, which he declared tasted like cat’s piss.
    ‘Lucy, I think this potion thing is taking the joke too far. I mean, you
are
just bluffing me, aren’t you? OK, OK, let’s try it then. But you’re going to owe me a
hundred quid. OK, what buttons do we press? Right, I’ll let you do it . . . OK, then we press this green one, do we? Lucy, you are so going to owe me— Shit, Lucy, what’s
happening, what’s all this darkness and . . .
Lucyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy
. . .’
    iii) Coffee for two
    The time machine deposited us, rather unceremoniously, in the middle of a basement bar. Nor did it have the grace to land us neatly on some chairs; we found ourselves lying face
down on the floor. My nose wrinkled as I ingested a cocktail of debauched scents: woodgrain, alcohol, layer upon layer of cigarette smoke so thick it seemed to hover above the floor like a
miniature yellow smog.
    Anthony and I looked up, gazing around in shock. A man came out of the gents, did up his flies, and stepped over us to get to his seat, looking down at us with a snort. No doubt he thought we
were drunkards. Jazz music played in the background and people sat behind tables sipping from fat white coffee cups.
    ‘Lucy, where are we?’ Anthony hissed.
    I tried to get up – I felt we might be able to handle this better if we were upright – but like a frightened child clinging to his mother, Anthony grabbed my hand and pulled me back
down.
    ‘Lucy, Lucy,’ he whispered frantically. ‘It worked, didn’t it . . .’ He swallowed and whispered in shock, ‘I owe you a hundred pounds.’
    I clutched his hand, and stroked his hair, suddenly feeling very motherly and protective.
    ‘It’s OK, we’re safe,’ I said gently. I leaned over and gave him a light kiss on the cheek. ‘Trust