In Bed With Lord Byron

and documentaries. We might grate against each other,’ I improvised, flustered, ‘and then, you know . . .’
    ‘Do I?’ Anthony sighed. ‘OK.’
    But I feared he was going to bring it up again. And I’d wake up in the middle of the night feeling as though I was screaming inside, as though I wanted to kick him out of bed and go rent a
cottage on some island and just be alone for a while. Or sometimes I would find myself looking in the mirror and, without thinking, adopting one of his facial expressions, or hear an Anglo-American
tinge slipping into my accent, as though our identities were seeping into each other, and I’d freak. People talk all the time about becoming one with somebody; I wanted to be in a
relationship, but still be a two, a separate Lucy and Anthony, not a LucyandAnthony or worse a Lucyanthony. The thought of losing my identity, my sense of me, my independence, terrified me.
    Which was why, from time to time, I found myself flirting with other people. It was only ever meant to be safe flirting, just a bit of banter to add some sparkle to life, to make me feel better.
At least that was what I told myself.
    iii) The Daily Telegraph guy
    At lunchtime I didn’t feel at all hungry, so I finished off a game of Solitaire on my computer, then almost rang Anthony but couldn’t quite summon the energy. Then
–
ding!
– a thought came to me. I would go to the newsagent’s and see my
Daily Telegraph
guy! There was nothing like a good flirt to brighten the day.
    Before leaving, I found myself putting on a bit of make-up.
    Outside, I felt cheered by the optimistic sky. The sun was pale but leaking gold through the clouds. I was enjoying the spring before the weather got too hot; in truth I’ve always
preferred winter to summer. Perhaps it was because with my pale skin the sun always scorched me and brain-baked me into severe headaches. I remember sketching pictures of winter and summer as a
kid. Summer was a hot fiery beast, winter a whiskered old man with a kindly face. Perhaps it was no wonder I was always getting told off for daydreaming and the phrase ‘Lucy, your head is in
the clouds!’ was bandied about a lot.
    As I reached the Tube station, butterflies began to stir in my stomach.
He probably won’t be there,
I told myself.
    But he was. He was, he was, he was.
    Unfortunately, it was very crowded, with people coming in to buy bottles of Volvic or quick lunchtime sandwiches. I went to the lottery ticket stand and chose my numbers, carefully not looking
at him once. Every so often I heard his cheery voice talking to a customer and felt myself burn.
    I picked up my
Daily Telegraph
and joined the queue.
    I stood on tiptoe and tried to peer over the top of the people in front of me, catching my first proper glimpse of him. Despite his cheery manner, he was looking tired, his eyes puffy, and I
fretted that perhaps he’d had a late night with another girl. Then he noticed me, and I saw emotions flit across his face in just the right order: recognition, surprise, pleasure,
delight.
    Then I was at the front of the queue, and it was as though an hourglass had been turned upside down and the sand was sliding through so quickly . . .
    ‘Hi, how are you?’ he said as I passed over my money. I’d given him a twenty-pound note, hoping it would delay things (rummaging around, having to open plastic bags of fresh
coins, etc.), but, sadly, his till was crammed full of change.
    ‘Well, thanks. You?’
    ‘Great. Nice to see you.’
    ‘So you’ve, erm, moved from the stall outside?’
    ‘Yep. I’m climbing the corporate ladder. Maybe eventually I’ll be put in charge of ordering the Marlboros.’ He laughed, and I laughed too.
    Behind us, the queue rippled with impatience. I bit my lip; I had to grab the moment, before the last few grains of sand sealed my fate.
    ‘Erm – I was wondering if I could, er, order a specialist magazine,’ I burst out. It was all I could think of on the spur of the moment.
    ‘Sure. Ron!’ he called out to the back. ‘I need to take an order, can you come and do some serving?’ He turned back to me. ‘What was it you wanted?’
    ‘Er . . .’ I needed to think up something really obscure, something they wouldn’t have readily available in the shop. ‘Er,
Knitting Monthly
.’
    ‘Uh, sure.’ To his credit, he didn’t blink. ‘I’ll just need to take your name.’
    ‘I’m Lucy,’ I said.
    ‘Hi, Lucy, I’m Nigel.’
    Nigel?
What sort of name