In Bed With Lord Byron

excitement and pain, or niceness and boredom. I admit I go for the nice guys because I have some self-respect and I like to treat people well myself. But I’m beginning to feel as though my
love life is the most boring ever. I mean, I’ve travelled the bloody world and I haven’t even had a one-night stand!’
    ‘Hang on, why not?’ he asked, with such interest and intensity that I blushed. ‘Did you go to Italy?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And you didn’t have a one-night stand with an Italian?’
    ‘I tried to.’
    ‘What d’you mean, you tried to?’ He smiled, raising an eyebrow.
    ‘I tried to, and then he kept coming back and asking to see me again.’
    ‘You’re hopeless,’ he sighed. ‘You obviously just drive men wild and they don’t want to leave you.’
    ‘Ha, ha,’ I said, sighing. ‘If only. I think it’s just human nature. I think we like to chase what we haven’t got. I think when we have something, maybe it’s
. . . maybe it’s too easy to stop appreciating it . . .’
    ‘But you’ve never had a one-night stand. A proper goodbye-never-see-you-again, one-night stand?’
    ‘No.’
    His eyes gleamed and held mine.
    ‘Well, you could always break the trend.’
    I was taken aback by his directness; my mouth formed an ‘O’.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quickly, flushing boyishly, and I felt a flood of desire and affection for him. ‘I didn’t mean—’
    ‘Oh, but I’d like—’
    ‘You . . .’ He trailed off.
    ‘I’d . . . yes, I mean.’ Our cheeks were both competing to burn the brightest. We looked at each other with hot eyes and then smiled nervously. As though taken aback by our own
brazenness, we quickly changed the subject, chatting about brothers and sisters, jobs and travels, aeroplane horror stories. But beneath the chit-chat, our eyes spoke so many more words, zinging
and sparkling with lustful anticipation.
    By the time the plane touched down in London, we had a pact. We got into a taxi and went to the Langham Hilton. We were as nervous and giggly as a pair of teenagers and thought
it might be amusing to check in as Mr and Mrs Smith, just like the movies. Then the girl behind the desk pointed out that she couldn’t accept his credit card as it didn’t have
Mr
Smith
on it and we sobered up.
    I deliberately didn’t check out his signature. I didn’t want to discover his real name, burst the fantasy bubble. I wanted him to remain Rufus, womaniser, modern-day Byron, greatest
violinist in the world.
    Upstairs in the hotel room, we pulled the cream curtains shut and then sat on the bed and rather shakily drew up the rules and conditions of our forthcoming union. Our verbal treaty stated that
we were to spend only one night together, and his weapons of mass destruction were only to be deployed on this one night, though he could deploy them as many times as he wanted. Though, in a moment
of weakness, we added an additional clause declaring that we were allowed to exchange mobile numbers and contact each other – but no sooner than one year’s time.
    And then we stopped talking and stared at our feet. Suddenly fantasy had become reality and I was swirling with doubts. What if he was an axe murderer? Did I really want to let this complete
stranger use and abuse me and then discard me?
    We were just about to kiss when he said, ‘D’you need to go to the toilet? After all,’ he imitated the dreadful Dominic, ‘you do have a weak bladder.’
    I laughed very loudly and so did he, and then I realised that he was just as petrified as I was and that his jokes were a frantic form of delaying. I relaxed and kissed him, very softly, on the
lips, to let him know it was safe. And he kissed me back just as carefully, playing the gentleman and letting me take the lead . . .
    Afterwards, we raided the mini-bar and fed each other Maltesers and swigs of vodka and laughed and kissed and burst a few bubbles.
    ‘I’m Anthony,’ he said.
    ‘I’m Lucy.’
    ‘I work in computing.’ Seeing my face, he added, ‘You look disappointed. Just as well this is only a one-night stand, hey?’
    ‘No – I didn’t mean . . . so tell me why you’re in England,’ I said hastily, kissing his shoulder. He smiled and stroked a strand of hair from my face.
    ‘I’m actually just moving back. I was born here, but I moved to America with my dad when I was about ten.’
    So that explained his accent, with its mix of New York and London.
    ‘Oh, oh, right. So where are you moving to?’