In Bed With Lord Byron

idolised his father, he had problems with his mum. She had left him when he was ten years old. Later, she’d tried to get in touch, and during his
teenage years they’d exchanged letters. But reaching his early twenties, Anthony had decided he couldn’t forgive her behaviour and decided to cut her off. Privately I sometimes felt he
ought to make amends and forgive her. After all, I loathed my father for what he had done to my family, but I still called him and sent him birthday presents and played the dutiful daughter. I
didn’t love him; I was angry with him; but family was family and blood ties ran deep. Then again, maybe it would have been different if my dad had walked out when I was ten rather than
twenty. I had to respect Anthony’s feelings.
    Anthony sat down on the bed. He looked utterly haggard.
    ‘Anyway,’ he said, pulling himself together, ‘can you tie my bow tie for me?’
    As I fiddled with it, my fingers went all buttery. I tried not to get distracted by Anthony’s cheek and lips so close to mine. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the bedpost behind me, a
faint blush on his cheeks.
    ‘It’s done,’ I said softly. His eyes flickered to mine and we gazed at each other. Then I stepped backwards and the moment passed.
    ‘How do I look?’ I couldn’t help asking. After all, two hours of intense effort ought to produce some sort of response.
    ‘Very nice,’ Anthony mumbled. ‘Now shall we go down?’
    Down below, the dining hall had come alive.
    There was a band at the front, all decked out in white suits, a guy crooning in a brilliant impersonation of Ray Charles, a saxophone duetting sexily with his melted-chocolate voice. The male
guests were all wearing suits and sharp hats; the women were glittering in flapper dresses. Outside, the rain hammered in fierce diagonals against the glass, making the candlelit room seem all the
more warm and cosy.
    ‘Dad!’ Anthony went over and gave him a jubilant hug. ‘Happy birthday!’
    ‘Anthony! And lovely Lucy!’ He gave me a kiss on each cheek. I smiled affectionately. Anthony’s father had obviously been wildly attractive during his youth, and he possessed
the confident, suave air of a man who was used to being a hit with the ladies.
    We took our places for dinner.
    Anthony looked murderous to discover he was seated next to his mother.
    I was next to a tedious man called Eliot French who delighted me with his tales of life as a derivatives lawyer. Thankfully, he preferred talking to listening so I didn’t have to do much
beyond nodding and feigning interest. Every so often a flash of lightning would interrupt us, illuminating the room with an eerie blue glow.
    After dinner, Anthony stood up and made a beautiful speech about his father. I found my heart bursting with pride at the depth of his love. At the same time I found my eyes flicking curiously to
his mother. She was listening intently; Anthony didn’t mention her once during his speech.
    I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. She looked haggard, much older than her fifty years. There was an air of brittle vulnerability about her, as though all she wanted to do was make
amends, give Anthony a big hug and weep on his shoulder, but was too proud to show it.
    Dinner over, the dancing began. I found myself searching for Anthony. And then I found that he was looking for me too.
    Suddenly it felt as though time had unwound, spun backwards. As though we were meeting for the first time, drinking each other in with thirsty curiosity.
    We stood opposite each other, swaying gently. Our pupils burned on each other. Anthony moved in and I thought he was going to pull me close, but then at the last minute he merely clasped his
hands around my shoulders, like a gauche teenager. I blushed in confusion: perhaps this electricity only existed in my imagination and he literally wanted to keep me at arm’s length.
    ‘D’you want to dance then?’ Anthony asked softly.
    I looked up into his eyes.
    ‘I don’t want to dance with any man except you,’ I blurted out in a whisper.
    Anthony froze; his hands tightened. A moment of raw agony. I wanted to pull my words back down my throat. Now he’d make an excuse about needing another drink and hurry off . . .
    Anthony whispered back, ‘The moment I saw you in that dress, I wanted to dance with you. Every man who’s talked to you tonight has made me feel jealous, I admit it.’
    ‘But you . . . ’ I trailed off. ‘In the shop, you said I