When he turned at the foot of the short stairs towards the bar he heard the lift-door open behind him and a cool voice call ‘Good evening’.
It was the girl. She stood and waited for him to come up to her.
He had remembered her beauty exactly. He was not surprised to be thrilled by it again.
Her dress was of black velvet, simple and yet with the touch of splendour that only half a dozen couturiers in the world can achieve. There was a thin necklace of diamonds at her throat and a diamond clip in the low vee which just exposed the jutting swell of her breasts. She carried a plain black evening bag, a flat object which she now held, her arm akimbo, at her waist. Her jet black hair hung straight and simple to the final inward curl below the chin.
She looked quite superb and Bond’s heart lifted.
‘You look absolutely lovely. Business must be good in the radio world!’
She put her arm through his. ‘Do you mind if we go straight into dinner?’ she asked. ‘I want to make a grand entrance and the truth is there’s a horrible secret about black velvet. It marks when you sit down. And, by the way, if you hear me scream tonight, I shall have sat on a cane chair.’
Bond laughed. ‘Of course, let’s go straight in. We’ll have a glass of vodka while we order our dinner.’
She gave him an amused glance and he corrected himself: ‘Or a cocktail, of course, if you prefer it. The food here’s the best in Royale.’
For an instant he felt nettled at the irony, the light shadow of a snub, with which she had met his decisiveness, and at the way he had risen to her quick glance.
But it was only an infinitesimal clink of foils and as the bowing maŒtre d’h“tel led them through the crowded room, it was forgotten as Bond in her wake watched the heads of the diners turn to look at her.
The fashionable part of the restaurant was beside the wide crescent of window built out like the broad stern of a ship over the hotel gardens, but Bond had chosen a table in one of the mirrored alcoves at the back of the great room. These had survived from the Edwardian days and they were secluded and gay in white and gilt, with the red silk-shaded table and wall lights of the late Empire.
As they deciphered the maze of purple ink which covered the double folio menu, Bond beckoned to the sommelier. He turned to his companion.
‘Have you decided?’
‘I would love a glass of vodka,’ she said simply, and went back to her study of the menu.
‘A small carafe of vodka, very cold,’ ordered Bond. He said to her abruptly: ‘I can’t drink the health of your new frock without knowing your Christian name.’
‘Vesper,’ she said. ‘Vesper Lynd.’
Bond gave her a look of inquiry.
‘It’s rather a bore always having to explain, but I was born in the evening, on a very stormy evening according to my parents. Apparently they wanted to remember it.’ She smiled. ‘Some people like it, others don’t. I’m just used to it.’
‘I think it’s a fine name,’ said Bond. An idea struck him. ‘Can I borrow it?’ He explained about the special martini he had invented and his search for a name for it. ‘The Vesper,’ he said. ‘It sounds perfect and it’s very appropriate to the violet hour when my cocktail will now be drunk all over the world. Can I have it?’
‘So long as I can try one first,’ she promised. ‘It sounds a drink to be proud of.’
‘We’ll have one together when all this is finished,’ said Bond. ‘Win or lose. And now have you decided what you would like to have for dinner? Please be expensive,’ he added as he sensed her hesitation, ‘or you’ll let down that beautiful frock.’
‘I’d made two choices,’ she laughed, ‘and either would have been delicious, but behaving like a millionaire occasionally is a wonderful treat and if you’re sure . . . well, I’d like to start with caviar and then have a plain grilled rognon de veau with pommes souffl‚s. And then I’d like to have fraises des bois with a lot of cream. Is it very shameless to be so certain and so expensive?’ She smiled at him inquiringly.