In Bed With Lord Byron

at my faux pas.
    ‘I didn’t mean . . . I mean – really, being a prostitute is obviously a great job if that’s your calling in life. I’m sure it brings great job satisfaction and
real, um, prospects . . . ’ I trailed off and stared around at the circle of sullen faces. One of the women was about six foot tall and looked more man than woman. Except for her nails, which
she clattered ominously against the bars, as though sharpening them up for attack.
    ‘I – I . . . ’
    Anthony, this is all your fault
, I shouted at him inwardly.
You put me here, and now I’m about to get beaten up by a gang of ladies of the night.
    ‘Yes?’ the woman drawled, giving me one last chance at survival.
    ‘Actually, I’m here because I’m Al Capone’s girlfriend,’ I cried.
    I cringed, waiting for them all to scream and spit at me.
    But to my amazement, the atmosphere in the cell immediately changed . . .
    ‘So what’s he like in bed? I bet he’s a real tiger, isn’t he?’
    ‘Is it true he sleeps with a gun under his pillow?’
    ‘And it is true that it’s a really, really
big
gun?’ one of them asked, and the others burst into laughter, punching her on the shoulder.
    ‘Well, in terms of guns, I’d say it was a rifle,’ I said, chuckling. They looked faintly confused, so I said quickly, ‘I mean – it’s very long.’
    ‘Oh wow.’
    ‘Oo, what a man.’
    Several hours had passed and I was now the most popular girl in the cell. They wanted to know every single juicy detail of my relationship with Al. Of course, I’d had to set my imagination
to work and start sketching in my own details of our sex life. But they were all utterly riveted. I could hardly believe the kudos; it was the equivalent of being back in 2005 and announcing Brad
Pitt was my new man.
    ‘And does he—’
    She broke off as footsteps approached the cell. The officer was back and McClough was by his side. My heart leapt.
    ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, it appears there has been a mistake,’ the officer said, looking very hot under the collar.
    Oh, thank God.
    But now how the hell was I supposed to find Anthony?
    I realised that McClough was my best hope. I told him all about Dolores’ wedding to Ralph and how she suspected that Capone was going to smuggle drugs into the cake. McClough did a little
research and discovered that they were going to be married in St Christopher’s chapel the next morning at ten o’clock.
    McClough suggested I should turn up without him, declaring that his presence might make Capone suspicious. So I went back to the hotel for a few hours, though I was much too worried about
Anthony to sleep a wink. I lay in the cold bed, hugging the pillows that had divided us yesterday, watching the pale dawn light streak the room. What if Capone, having left me to get arrested, had
gone straight back and shot Anthony?
    But he wouldn’t do that, I kept telling myself. Anthony hasn’t caused him any trouble. He thinks Anthony wants to help him. He trusts us. Doesn’t he?
    The next morning, I pulled on my flapper dress with shaking hands. I noticed that, due to my various adventures, some of the beads had fallen off. I was swept with a deep
longing to be back home with Anthony, trying on our outfits and having a giggle, safe and domestic.
    I hailed a taxi to get to St Christopher’s. As we pulled up, I had a sneaky feeling that the place looked familiar. Then it clicked: it was right next to the very speakeasy we’d
arrived in.
    Suddenly I felt a wave of buoyancy. It was a good omen, I was sure. As soon as the wedding was over, I would insist that Anthony go back home with me.
    I joined the throng entering the church, spotting Anthony at once. He looked tired and pale and rather fraught, but when I slid into the pew next to him, his face lit up in relief.
    ‘What the hell were you doing getting me arrested? I can’t believe you let your jealousy interfere at a time like this,’ I hissed.
    I was rudely interrupted by the organ echoing tinnily in the high ceilings of the church. The doors swung open and Dolores entered, looking pretty in swirls of white lace and satin. Her father,
grey-haired and grim-faced, clutched on to her tightly, as though reluctant to let her go into the arms of such a big, bad man.
    ‘Anthony,’ I carried on whispering hotly, ‘we’re meant to be a team. We’re meant to be working together!’
    Several people in the pews in front frowned in annoyance. Anthony tried to shush me