In Bed With Lord Byron

was this: if it’s your time to die,
it’s your time. You might escape it once, but not for long . . .
    I closed my eyes, telling myself not to be silly. It was just a film. Besides, I had dragged Anthony back in time to a situation which had caused his death. In the present he was meant to live.
Right?
    An hour passed and I found myself still awake, thinking through possibilities, until I couldn’t bear it any longer. I grabbed the phone and called him.
    ‘Lucy, it’s one o’clock.’ His voice was thick with sleep.
    ‘I know, I know. I just wanted to check you were OK. Because, um, you left your green umbrella behind.’ Actually, he’d left it a few weeks ago, but I hung on to the excuse with
both hands.
    ‘Oh, well, gosh, I’m just lying here, rain
thundering
on to my bed, desperately wishing I had an umbrella. Are you
insane
? Lucy, I have to sleep, OK? Night.’
    ‘Hang on, hang on – before you go, have you locked your front door properly? Because London is full of weirdos, you know.’
    ‘Sure I have. Lucy, are you OK? D’you want me to come over?’
    My heart leapt. Oh yes, I want to handcuff myself to your side and walk about with you everywhere.
    ‘Because we have a long drive up to Suffolk tomorrow . . . ’
    I shook myself.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Go back to sleep. I’m fine. And please do lock the windows. And the door. Good night.’
    ‘Night, Lucy.’
    Oh God, please protect him, please look after him always
...
    vi) Suffolk
    All the way to Suffolk, I infuriated Anthony by telling him to slow down.
    ‘
Lucy
, I’m only doing forty miles an hour now. I’m the slowest person on the road. If I slow down any more, we won’t get there until some time next September. Now
just stop
fussing
, OK?’ He leaned over and ruffled my hair.
    I looked sheepish, biting my lip, trying to squeeze paranoid images of car crashes out of my brain.
    We arrived at Badingham just after lunch. It was a lovely Georgian house, set deep in the Suffolk countryside. As we entered the building, I insisted on grabbing Anthony’s arm – hard
– in case he tripped and dashed his head on the stone floor. He gave me a look that said he was nearing breaking point. Realising I was driving him insane, I hurried off to my room, where I
sat on the bed and said a quick thanks to God that we had arrived safely. Letting out a deep breath, I told myself to get a grip. It was going to be OK. It was going to be OK.
    My room was a lovely quaint affair. The sloping roof gave it a cottagey feel. There were sheepskin rugs on the bare boards, a sink with bent taps and a rather musty-smelling Narnian wardrobe. I
decided to take a bath.
    As I lay in the warm water, I listened to the sounds from the main entrance below: cars coming in, the crunch of gravel, people calling hellos. I pictured the evening ahead. I couldn’t
really get interested in Anthony’s father, or which guests might come. I just kept picturing myself sitting next to Anthony. Sharing jokes, pouring each other wine, getting drunk
together.
    Oh God, I was in love with him. Maybe I had never fallen out; maybe the love had always been there, wrapped in a chrysalis. And now something was emerging under the sunlight of our friendship,
fluttering its wings and breathing in the scents of . . .
    The only trouble was – did I love him because of what had happened back in 1925? What if in a few weeks’ time the illusion slipped away again? And besides, I thought miserably,
immersing myself under water, holding my breath, more to the point – does he care for me any more? Yes, he’d had feelings for me in Chicago. But time had twisted back now. Back to me
buying a dress and his only response being,
‘Very nice
.’
    I burst up out of the water, gulping in air.
Very nice.
Bloody hell! Right, I thought. I’ll show him. I’ll make him fancy me again.
    I spent the next two hours making a huge effort with my appearance. I shaved and brushed and blushered and lipsticked, and was just slipping on my white satin shoes when Anthony knocked and
burst in.
    He was wearing his gangster suit. An image of him bleeding in my arms left me jolted and breathless. Then I came back into the present and saw the anger on his face.
    ‘Anthony, what is it?’
    ‘Dad has invited Mum. He’s invited
Mum
. Can you believe it?’
    ‘Oh.’ I bit my lip as Anthony walked about in tight little circles, lightly kicking the bedpost.
    This was touchy indeed. Whilst Anthony