Ian Fleming. The Spy Who Loved Me. James Bond #10

The small host of sneering, accusing eyes followed us. I took Derek’s arm (why didn’t he take mine?) and we went out under the hideous bright lights and turned by instinct to the right and down the hill so that we could walk faster. We didn’t stop until we got to a side street and we went in there and slowly started to work our way back to where the MG was parked up the hill from the cinema.

Derek didn’t say a word until we were getting close to the car. Then he said matter-of-factly, “Mustn’t let them get the number. I’ll go and get her and pick you up opposite Fullers’ on Windsor Hill. ‘Bout ten minutes.” Then he freed himself from my arm and went off up the street.

I stood and watched him go, the tall, elegant figure that was once more proud and upright, and then I turned and went back to where a lane led up parallel with Farquhar Street toward the Castle.

I found that I still had my pants crushed in my hand. I put them in my bag. The open bag made me think of my appearance. I stopped under a streetlight and took out my mirror. I looked dreadful. My face was so white it was almost green, and my eyes belonged to a hunted animal. My hair stuck up at the back where it had been rumpled by the floor, and my mouth was smeared by Derek’s kisses. I shuddered. “Filthy little swine!” How right! All of me felt unclean, degraded, sinful. What would happen to us? Would the man check on the addresses and put the police on us? Someone would certainly remember us from today or from other Saturdays. Someone would remember the number of Derek’s car, some little boy who collected car numbers. There was always some Nosy Parker at the scene of a crime. Crime? Yes, of course it was, one of the worst in puritan England—sex, nakedness, indecent exposure. I imagined what the manager must have seen when Derek got up from me. Ugh! I shivered with disgust. But now Derek would be waiting for me. My hands had automatically been tidying my face. I gave it a last look. It was the best I could do. I hurried on up the street and turned down Windsor Hill, hugging the wall, expecting people to turn and point. “There she goes!” “That’s her!” “Filthy little swine!”

Four: “Dear Viv”

THAT summer’s night hadn’t finished with me. Opposite Fullers’ a policeman was standing by Derek’s car, arguing with him. Derek turned and saw me. “Here she is, officer. I said she wouldn’t be a minute. Had to, er, powder her nose. Didn’t you, darling?”

More trouble! More lies! I said yes, breathlessly, and climbed into the seat beside Derek. The policeman grinned slyly at me and said to Derek, “All right, sir. But another time remember there’s no parking on the Hill. Even for an emergency like that.” He fingered his mustache. Derek put the car in gear, thanked the policeman and gave him the wink of a dirty joke shared, and we were off at last.

Derek said nothing until we had turned right at the lights at the bottom. I thought he was going to drop me at the station, but he continued on along the Datchet road. “Phew!” He let the air out of his lungs with relief. “That was a close shave! Thought we were for it. Nice thing for my parents to read in the paper tomorrow. And Oxford! I should have had it.”

“It was ghastly.”

There was so much feeling in my voice that he looked sideways at me. “Oh, well. The path of true love and all that.” His voice was light and easy. He had recovered. When would I? “Damned shame, really,” he went on casually. “Just when we’d got it all set up.” He put enthusiasm into his voice to carry me with him. “Tell you what. There’s an hour before the train. Why don’t we walk up along the river. It’s a well-known beat for Windsor couples. Absolutely private. Pity to waste everything, time and so on, now we’ve made up our minds.”

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