Solo

He swallowed again – his throat
was
sore. He left his room, locking the door behind him, and wandered down the corridor, heading for the lift. He pressed the button to summon it, thinking, yes, scrambled eggs and bacon, many cups of coffee, a cigarette, that would set him on his feet again—
    The lift doors opened.
    ‘Good morning,’ a woman’s voice said from inside.
    ‘Morning,’ Bond replied automatically as he stepped into the lift. He recognised the unforgettable scent immediately – the vanilla and iris of Guerlain’s ‘Shalimar’ – unforgettable because it was the perfume his mother used to wear. It was like opening a door to his childhood – so much of his past crowding in on him today, Bond thought, looking over to meet the eyes of the woman leaning in the corner. She smiled at him, quizzically, an eyebrow raised.
    ‘Happy birthday?’ she asked.
    ‘How do you know it’s my birthday?’ Bond just managed to keep the surprise from his voice, he thought.
    ‘Just a good guess,’ she said. ‘I could tell you were celebrating something last night. So was I – you sense these things. We celebrants, celebrating.’
    Bond touched the knot of his tie and cleared his throat, recalling. The woman had been sitting in the dining room last night, a few tables away from him.
    ‘Yes,’ Bond said, somewhat ruefully. ‘It is indeed my birthday . . .’ He was buying a few seconds’ time, his mind beginning to work. He was definitely off colour this morning. The lift hummed down to the lobby.
    ‘So – what were
you
celebrating?’ he asked. He remembered now – they had both been drinking champagne and had simultaneously raised their glasses across the room to each other.
    ‘The fourth anniversary of my divorce,’ she said, drily. ‘It’s a tradition I keep. I treat myself to cocktails, dinner, vintage champagne and a night in a suite in the Dorchester – and then I send him the bill.’
    She was a tall rangy woman in her mid-thirties, Bond estimated, with a strong handsome face and thick honey-blonde hair brushed back from her forehead and falling in an outward curve to her shoulders. Blue eyes. Scandinavian? She was wearing a jersey all-in-one navy catsuit with an ostentatious gold zip that ran from just above her groin to her neck. The tightness of the close-fitting material revealed the full swell of her breasts. Bond allowed the nature of his carnal appraisal to register in his eyes for a split second and saw her own eyes flash back: message received.
    The lift doors slid open with a muffled ‘ping’ at the ground floor.
    ‘Enjoy the rest of your day,’ she said with a quick smile and strode out into the wide lobby.
     
    In the dining room, Bond ordered four eggs, scrambled, and half a dozen rashers of unsmoked back bacon, well done, on the side. He drank a long draught of strong black coffee and lit his first cigarette of the day as he waited for his breakfast to arrive.
    He had been given the same table that he’d occupied at dinner the night before. The woman had been sitting to his left, three tables away, and at an angle of the room so that if Bond turned his head slightly they had a good view of each other. Earlier in the evening, Bond had drunk two dry martinis in Fielding’s, the private casino where he’d managed to lose almost £100 at chemin de fer in about twenty minutes, but he wasn’t going to let that spoil his night. He had ordered a bottle of Taittinger Rosé 1960 to go with his first course of pan-fried Scottish scallops with a beurre blanc sauce and, as he had raised the glass to himself – silently wishing himself a happy forty-fifth birthday – he had spotted the woman lifting her glass of champagne in an identical self-reflecting gestural toast. Their eyes had met – Bond had shrugged, smiled and toasted her, amused. She toasted him back and he had not thought about it further. She had left as he was preoccupied with assessing the bottle of Chateau Batailley 1959 that he had ordered for his main course – fillet of beef, rare, with pommes dauphinoises – and consequently hadn’t really taken her in as she swept briskly past his table, registering only that she was tall, blonde, wearing a cream dress and that her shoes had small chunky gold heels that flashed in the glow of the table lights as she walked out of the dining room.
    He sprinkled some pepper on his scrambled eggs. A good breakfast was the first essential component to set any day off to a