Solo

proper start. He had told his secretary he wouldn’t be coming in – part of his present to himself. It would be as impossible to face his forty-fifth birthday with the routine prospect of work as it would without a decent breakfast. He ordered another pot of coffee – the hot liquid was easing his throat. Strange that the woman should be in the lift like that, he thought, and stranger still for her to guess it had been his birthday . . . Funny coincidence. He recalled one of the first rules of his profession: if it looks like a coincidence then it probably isn’t. Still – life
was
full of genuine coincidences, he reasoned, you couldn’t deny that. Very attractive woman, also. He liked the way she wore her hair. Groomed yet natural-looking—
    The maître d’ offered Bond a copy of
The Times
to read. Bond glanced at the headline – ‘Viet Cong Offensive Checked With Many Casualties’ – and waved it away. Not today, thank you. That zip on the front of her outfit – her catsuit – was like a provocation, a challenge, crying out to be pulled down. Bond smiled to himself as he imagined doing precisely that and drank more coffee – there was life in the old dog yet.
     
    Bond returned to his room and packed up his dinner suit, shirt and underwear from the night before. He threw his toilet bag into his grip and checked that he’d left nothing behind. He needed a couple of aspirin for his throat, he thought: the coffee had soothed it momentarily but now it was feeling thick and lumpy, swallowing was uncomfortable. Flu? A cold, probably – he had no temperature, thank God. However, the day was his to do with as he pleased – he had a few necessary chores, but there were plenty of birthday treats that he had promised himself along the way.
    At the checkout desk it seemed that a group of a dozen Japanese tourists were collectively querying their bill. Bond took out his cigarette case and, as he selected a cigarette and put it in his mouth, noted with mild concern that he must have smoked over thirty cigarettes the previous night. He’d filled the case before he’d gone to the casino. But this was not the day to entertain thoughts of discipline and cutting down, he told himself, no, no – today was a day for judicious self-indulgence – then, as he fished in his pocket for his lighter, he smelled Guerlain’s ‘Shalimar’ once more and heard the woman’s voice again.
    ‘May I trouble you for a light?’
    As Bond lit her cigarette she steadied his hand with two fingers on his knuckles. She had a small cream-leather travelling bag at her feet. She was checking out also – coincidence . . . ? Bond lit his cigarette and looked squarely at her. She plumed smoke sideways and returned his gaze, unperturbed.
    ‘Are you following me, or am I following you?’ she said.
    ‘We are seeing rather a lot of each other, you’re right,’ Bond said. He offered his hand. ‘My name’s Bond, James Bond.’
    ‘Bryce Fitzjohn,’ she said. They shook hands. Bond noticed her fingernails were cut short, unvarnished – he liked that – and her grip was firm. ‘Do you always celebrate your birthday alone?’ she asked.
    ‘Not always,’ Bond said. ‘I just didn’t feel like company this year.’
    She glanced up as the phalanx of tourists began to move away.
    ‘At bloody last,’ she said. There was the hint of an accent, Bond thought. Bryce Fitzjohn – Irish?
    ‘After you,’ Bond said.
    She opened her handbag and took out a card, offering it to him.
    ‘I end my divorce celebrations with a cocktail party. It’s at my house, this evening. A few amusing and interesting people. You’re most welcome to come. We start at six o’clock and see how it rolls along from there.’
    Bond took the card – a small alarm bell ringing in his head, now. The invitation was overt; the blue eyes were candid. I’d like to see you again, was the message – and there might be some sexual fun to be had, was the subtext.
    Bond smiled, apologetically, pocketing the card anyway. ‘I’m afraid my day is spoken for,’ he said. ‘Alas.’
    ‘Never mind,’ she said, breezily. ‘Maybe I’ll see you here next year. Goodbye, Mr Bond.’
    She sauntered to the checkout desk, Bond noting the lean perfection of her figure, rear view. It had been the correct thing to do, in terms of proper procedure, but all the same he wondered if perhaps he’d been a bit hasty saying no quite so unequivocally . . .
     
    Bond took a taxi