In Bed With Lord Byron by Wright Deborah

Author:Wright, Deborah [Wright, Deborah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781909039971
Publisher: Legend Press
Published: 2012-08-13T22:00:00+00:00

An hour later, Anthony and I found ourselves in the Atlantic Hotel on Clark Street. Anthony had managed to persuade McClough to put us up for one night; in return we would meet him tomorrow evening with information on Capone.

Up in the hotel, Anthony and I gazed around the room in a state of disorientated awe. It was really rather plush and the view from the window was thrilling: a street filled with 1920s hooded cars, the sparkle of city lights. I made for the bathroom, but Anthony caught my wrist.

‘Lucy, you’re not going anywhere before you tell me everything. I mean – what the fuck happened back there?’ The shock, which he had managed to hold at bay during our time at the police station, now seemed to hit him in a tidal wave. ‘I mean, one minute we were in your living room – and then – and then – and now – and—’

‘I’ll tell you everything,’ I said, laughing a little. ‘But let’s get ready for bed first. I’m completely knackered. I find the time machine does that – it’s a sort of jet-lag thing.’

We took it in turns to use the bathroom, draping our clothes carefully over the sofa, since they were the only ones we had. We had no pyjamas, so we made do with fluffy dressing gowns, and our fingers had to serve as substitute toothbrushes.

‘I can sleep on the sofa,’ Anthony volunteered.

I was about to agree when I saw how exhausted he looked.

‘Well, we can put a bolster in the bed,’ I said, blushing. My voice took on the prim tightness of a Victorian governess. ‘We can use some pillows, and those cushions on the sofa.’

We made a squashy line down the centre of the bed and then got in and switched off the lamp. We lay for a while in the grainy darkness, listening to the traffic outside. Then Anthony rolled over to face me, nestling his face in the pillow.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘tell me everything.’

So I told him everything. I told him how upset I had felt when we’d broken up, and how I had gone to visit Byron. I told him how I had ended up in 1813.

‘Jesus!’ Anthony cried. ‘Shit – I mean – that’s just unbelievable. I mean – what was it like?’

‘Just like 1813,’ I said, laughing. ‘Ballgowns, carriages, that sort of thing. That’s why I’ve been using that costume shop, you see.’

‘Aha, now that makes sense. And you really seriously met Lord Byron.’

‘Yes . . .’

‘Lucy, you didn’t . . . ?’ Anthony asked.

I bit my lip, fretting he might be jealous, but he let out a whoop of laughter.

We both laughed then, but I stopped before him and began to pleat the covers nervously, watching him wipe hysterical tears from his eyes.

‘God – I want to go back and have love affairs with Cleopatra. And Marilyn Monroe. And Sylvia Plath.’

‘Sylvia Plath was mad,’ I pointed out.

‘I’d make her sane,’ Anthony said with a dash of irony, and we both giggled again.

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