The 1953 Mark VI had an open touring body. It was battleship grey like the old 4 1/2 litre that had gone to its grave in a Maidstone garage, and the dark blue leather upholstery gave a luxurious hiss as he climbed awkwardly in beside the test driver.
Half an hour later the driver helped him out at the corner of Birdcage Walk and Queen Anne’s Gate. “We could get more speed out of her if you want it, sir,” he said. “If we could have her back for a fortnight we could tune her to do well over the hundred.”
“Later,” said Bond. “She’s sold. On one condition. That you get her over to the ferry terminal at Calais by tomorrow evening.”
The test driver grinned. “Roger,” he said. “I’ll take her over myself. See you on the pier, sir.”
“Fine,” said Bond. “Go easy on A20. The Dover road’s a dangerous place these days.”
“Don’t worry, sir,” said the driver, thinking that this man must be a bit of a cissy for all that he seemed to know plenty about motor-cars. “Piece of cake.”
“Not every day,” said Bond with a smile. “See you at Calais.”
Without waiting for a reply, he limped off with his stick through the dusty bars of evening sunlight that filtered down through the trees in the park.
Bond sat down on one of the seats opposite the island in the lake and took out his cigarette-case and lit a cigarette. He looked at his watch. Five minutes to six. He reminded himself that she was the sort of girl who would be punctual. He had reserved the corner table for dinner. And then? But first there would be the long luxurious planning. What would she like? Where would she like to go? Where had she ever been? Germany, of course. France? Miss out Paris. They could do that on their way back. Get as far as they could the first night, away from the Pas de Calais. There was that farmhouse with the wonderful food between Montreuil and Etaples. Then the fast sweep down to the Loire. The little places near the river for a few days. Not the chateau towns. Places like Beaugency, for instance. Then slowly south, always keeping to the western roads, avoiding the five-star life. Slowly exploring. Bond pulled himself up. Exploring what? Each other? Was he getting serious about this girl?
“James.”
It was a clear, high, rather nervous voice. Not the voice he had expected.
He looked up. She was standing a few feet away from him. He noticed that she was wearing a black beret at a rakish angle and that she looked exciting and mysterious like someone you see driving by abroad, alone in an open car, someone unattainable and more desirable than anyone you have ever known. Someone who is on her way to make love to somebody else. Someone who is not for you.
He got up and they took each other’s hands.
It was she who released herself. She didn’t sit down.
“I wish you were going to be there tomorrow, James.” Her eyes were soft as she looked at him. Soft, but, he thought, somehow evasive.
He smiled. “Tomorrow morning or tomorrow night?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she laughed, blushing. “I meant at the Palace.”
“What are you going to do afterwards?” asked Bond.
She looked at him carefully. What did the look remind him of? The Morphy look? The look he had given Drax on that last hand at Blades? No. Not quite. There was something else there. Tenderness? Regret?
She looked over his shoulder.
Bond turned round. A hundred yards away there was the tall figure of a young man with fair hair trimmed short. His
. back was towards them and he was idling along, killing time.
Bond turned back and Gala’s eyes met his squarely.
“I’m going to marry that man,” she said quietly. “Tomorrow afternoon.” And then, as if no other explanation was needed, “His name’s Detective-Inspector Vivian.”
“Oh,” said Bond. He smiled stiffly. “I see.”
There was a moment of silence during which their eyes slid away from each other.
And yet why should he have expected anything else? A kiss. The contact of two frightened bodies clinging together in the midst of danger. There had been nothing more. And there had been the engagement ring to tell him. Why had he automatically assumed that it had only been worn to keep Drax at bay? Why had he imagined that she shared his desires, his plans?