In Bed With Lord Byron by Deborah Wright Read Free Book Online

machine in
the hope that she would be so impressed that she’d come back to him. He said that he’d been tempted to use the machine to go into the past and change their relationship so that
they’d end up married, but that he wanted it to be real, not the result of any manipulation, and he hoped his gift would be enough.’
    ‘I’m surprised at you, Lucy. I thought you told me you were a cynic.’
    ‘I am.’ But like all cynics, I was a romantic at heart; I thought he knew that by now. I frowned. We’d been together all this time, but perhaps we didn’t really know each
other at all.
    Anthony carried on eating, quiet again. There were dark circles under his eyes from all those long days in the office, and a raindrop was still quivering on one of his eyebrows. I felt a sudden
surge of emotion. It was perverse that that tenderness, that love, caused me to say what I said next.
    ‘I – I think we should, er, you know . . . maybe take a break from, well, us,’ I said quietly.
    Anthony paused in mid-bite, mayonnaise smeared across his lips.
    ‘Because I took you to Burger King?’
    ‘No . . . no. I . . .’ I started to laugh, and he laughed too, and there was a moment of slack relief which instantly tightened up again, taut and painful. ‘I just . . . I . .
. you know . . . it’s . . .’ I circled my finger on the table. ‘We’ve . . . you know . . . been together for a while and . . .’ The words seemed to be stuck in my
stomach, curdling along with my burger. Was this the hardest thing I had ever done? ‘I . . . you know . . . I do really, really love you, I want you to know that, and I’ll always love
you, but I just feel . . . we need a break . . . things are a bit flat and . . .’ I looked into his eyes, searching for emotion, but it was like looking into the eyes of a dead person. I saw
the mayonnaise still on his lips and I folded a napkin and tenderly wiped it off; he recoiled, pushing my hand away so violently I felt tears in my eyes.
    Silence. I picked off tiny flecks of sesame seed from my burger bun, dropping them into the polystyrene container.
    ‘I think it’s great,’ he said at last.
    ‘Huh?’ My head shot up.
    ‘Well . . . come on, we can still be friends.’
    ‘We can?’ I felt as though I had been clenching my heart tight, like a closed fist, and now I shakily uncurled it. ‘You won’t hate me for ever and make effigies of me and
do voodoo magic?’
    ‘No – I feel completely the same,’ he said in a high voice. ‘I mean, that was exactly what I’d been planning to say tonight too . . . and . . .’
    ‘Really?’ I gasped.
    ‘Well, I mean, it just seems like we’ve reached a natural conclusion. We always said it would just last one night, and our one night has lasted over two years and now it’s
over.’
    ‘Oh.’ I couldn’t help feeling indignant. Hang on, I kept thinking, I’m the one who is meant to be doing the dumping. Because if you’re dumping me, then this really
is it. I can’t wake up tomorrow and pretend it was exhaustion or PMT or work pressure and beg you to come back.
    ‘Hang on,’ I cried suspiciously. ‘So this was the surprise you mentioned in your text? You were going to take me to the most expensive restaurant in town and then
dump
me?’
    ‘Well,’ he smiled shakily, ‘I just thought it would be a nice way to do it . . . you know . . . a nice way to say goodbye. . .’
    I was so upset and outraged, I burst out laughing. He laughed too, and we sat there holding hands and laughing, tears burning our eyes.
    Back in my flat, I got ready for bed in a numb state of shock. My bedroom is normally a comfort zone, full of gorgeous pleasures to calm me down after a tough day at work;
after any emotional crisis I retreat into it like a cocoon. The bed is thick with big, fat, fluffy pillows, and on the bedside table there is a tea-making set with little Earl Grey tea bags and
honey, as well as a packet of chocolate digestives, a box of