PROJECT: you were you 2/?
8.
The Aston will never be the same again.
The dog is a problem he hadn’t foreseen. But she’d insisted and he’d wanted her to get into the car and out of that house, so he’d allowed it. It’d be one thing if he’d liked dogs or, at the very least, the dog liked him, but Griffin refuses to acknowledge him except to growl any time he gets too close.
That goddamn dog. He wants to say, but can’t. He’s never had to deal with a dog before. What girl would pick a dog over a weekend with him? Leave it with a mate. But these two-they won’t be separated. Then again, this is no picnic in Cambridge, but Bond has picked up women in worse situations. She won’t unbend though; she’s said barely ten words to him the entire trip, wrapped up in herself. Vesper would never-he catches himself thinking before his jaw firms and he concentrates on the road ahead.
When they get to France, she lets the dog wiggle out of her arms into the tiny jumpseat where he unceremoniously vomits all over Bond’s attaché case.
"Pauvre bebe," she says to the dog. "Do you have any napkins?" she asks, reaching for the glove compartment. Bond makes a noise and her hands pause on the latch. Top of the line, kitted-out Aston with an on-board computer, several hidden handguns, medical supplies, what have you, and no bloody napkins. He pulls his handkerchief from his suit pocket, holds it out to her.
This is a drive he has made many times, a pilgrimage of sorts. His body knows the route by heart, his mind blankly assessing turns, twists, the other cars around them. It's a long drive. It's a silent drive. Eva hasn't said more than a few sentences since they left London except to the dog. Bond, never much of a conversationalist himself, finds her lack of chatter disconcerting.
When they stop at a small village to let the dog out, she hands him the leash, stuffing it unceremoniously into his hand even as she tries carefully not to touch his skin. She goes into the small, chain convenience store whose door opens with a tinkling of bells.
Bond stares down at the dog who studiously ignores him for a moment before it lifts his leg onto Bond's bespoke Saville Row Derbies.
"Dammit, those were expensive," he tells the dog irritably, yanking the leash, causing the little beast to bark sharply at him. He's shushing it as it dances at the end of its leash when she returns, hurrying quickly over to them, a plastic bottle clutched in one hand.
"What have you done to him?" she demands, crouching before him and gathering the little terror into her arms, petting it and cooing soothing words.
"What have I done?" he snaps. "Your dog just pissed on my shoes."
She stares for a moment at his feet, then raises her eyes to looking at him. She's pushed her sunglasses back onto the top of her head. Her eyes dance with laughter.
"Oh," she says, smothering a giggle. "I'm sure you deserved it."
"You're sure I--" he grinds out, staring down at her dark hair. "Are you ready?" he says finally.
She rises from her crouch gracefully, the dog tucked under her arm, into the curve of her waist. "Where are you taking me?" she asks low, quietly. Her eyes are solemn now. She bites her lower lip, stares intently at him.
"There's something I have to show you. Come."
He turns away and walks back towards the Aston. He wonders, for a moment, if she will remain frozen by indecision, but her dislike for him, and he will have to play his hand on this bet and leave her standing here, on the side of the road, in middle of nowhere France. She seems stubborn enough to watch him drive away, her little dog still clutched in her arms.
But after a moment he hears the gravel crunch behind him and she comes abreast of the car, opening the passenger door. She pauses for a moment, starting at him, while the breeze tugs gently on her hair, tossing a strand across her face. The dog wiggles and she releases him back into the car.
"I don't understand you. I'm not sure I want to," she says flatly before climbing into her seat and shutting the door.
Bond gets into the drivers seat, shuts the door, starts the car, and pulls away from the village, out onto the winding road.
When she sees the signs marking the entrance to the town of Royale, she wishes that she could be surprised. Although her stomach clenches, she also experiences a feeling of relief. Here is something familiar--allegedly familiar, for she has never actually been to Royale, just to a set in the Czech Republic--but it gives her a foreboding sense of déjà vu, and she can't shake the feeling that she's been here before.
He does not, as she expects, take her to that hotel or the casino or anywhere else she could have listed as potential destinations. He drives with a quiet, intense single-mindedness. He uses no map or GPS, and if she was asked, she'd have said she was sure he'd done this same drive many, many times before.
They drive through the town and into the outskirts where he turns off the main road suddenly and goes down a narrow lane that ends in a wide spot outside a small church. To one side sits a well-maintained looking graveyard. She guesses it's old, judging by the size of the trees. She wonders, for a moment, if this is to be her final resting place, but he seems curiously nonviolent towards her even as he violates her possessions and sanity.
He gets out of the car and Eva waits for a moment before she follows. "Stay here, be a good boy," she tells her dog before she climbs out and adjusts her clothing. They feel wrinkled and worn, even though she just put them on clean this morning. Or was it yesterday? She feels curiously out of step with time.
He says nothing to her, merely goes through the gates of the graveyard and makes his way down a row between headstones. Again he walks with a single-minded purpose, not pausing to look or to search, and she has the feeling once more that has been here before. She follows behind him, but slower, reading headstones with interest. She finds something fascinating about reading headstones, with their brief inscriptions, and wondering about the person who now lies beneath.
He stops finally in front of a headstone, but he's looking off into the horizon, hands stuffed into the pockets of his suit trousers. She makes her way over to him, noting the fresh flowers on the grave, which, while not old, has been in place for some number of years, as the sod has re-knit itself into the grass of the lawn and the headstone shows signs of weather. She studies his face for a moment before she looks down at the headstone: VESPER LYND.
"So now you know," he says quietly.
9.
The hotel is a quiet agreement. It’s necessary distraction, and it pulls her mind far, far away from the sudden admission that they left, back in that small graveyard. She is exhausted and he seems to understand.
He is at ease, checking them in, smooth, flirting with the desk agent with a charming smile. They know him. She remembers this, filing it away for latter as she stands there quietly, her hand tight around Griffin’s leash. The woman at the desk keeps sneaking looks at Eva and that seems to amuse him. It makes her angry though, furious even, something that goes back and forth between being misplaced and relevant.
“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Bond,” the agent says. She blushes prettily when he takes the keycard from her, and Eva shakes her head, offering a quiet smile to the woman nonetheless.
They walk to the elevator and Eva reaches down to pick up Griffin, pulling him into her arms. He is watching them; Griffin as he nuzzles her face, aware of her apparent discomfort. She knows exactly what she saw, she thinks. But even that seems daunting in itself.
“Here we are,” Bond says, and the elevator opens to their floor. They walk together to their room, passing a couple who smiles at them in turn. She wants to ask him about clothes and time, stupid, insignificant things that flash in her mind. Misplaced, she tells herself, misplaced.
His phone rings. When he opens the door to their room, she brushes by him without a second glance. She can’t.
Griffin tumbles down onto the floor, darting past them and under the bed. Eva drops her coat, grabbing her cigarettes and moving into the bathroom. Her hands are shaking and the man - Bond, she reminds herself again - is talking quietly on his phone. She manages to shut the door behind her.
Her eyes dart around. She tosses her cigarettes onto the sink, pulling one out and sliding into her mouth. There are matches hidden behind a sewing kit in the corner, tucked against a small bottle of shampoo and conditioner. She drops them twice.
"What are you doing?"
She doesn't answer. She manages to light her cigarette.
"You'll have to talk to me." He doesn't hide his amusement. "Eventually," he says dryly.
She exhales first. Her gaze lingers on the smoke that slides out of her mouth, circling the space in front of her. She moves to the tub then, a large basin resting next to a window. She hesitates for a moment.
"It's strange," he says softly, and he's watching her of course, carefully, his gaze heavy as she turns on the water. "I don't know how to look at you quite yet."
"Reassuring," she mutters. She slides her cigarette into her mouth.
He snorts. "She speaks."
"I don't know what you want me to say."
She looks at him, and then away, climbing into the tub and sinking against it. Her hair falls into her eyes and over her shoulders as she leans forward and turns the water on. It runs over her legs, into her jeans, and he chuckles. It only makes her angrier.
"You're terribly odd," he comments, and moves to sit on the edge of the tub. Her gaze stays leveled at the mirror in front of her. He turns the water off. "Are you like this with him too?"
She shoots him a dark look. The corners of his mouth tug. She pulls the cigarette from her mouth and leans back.
"You act like this is happening just to you," she says.
He chuckles. "And you don't?"
"You broke into my flat."
He smirks. "Did I?"
"Ass," she mutters. She’s cold and it happens fast. Her hand drops into the water, her fingers brushing lazily over her knee. She catches him watching. “Sorry about your car,” she offers, and she makes no attempt to conceal her amusement, watching as he narrows his eyes. “Griffin usually travels so well.”
Bond’s lip curls. His eyes flash. He leans over her too, dropping his hand against the edge of the tub. His fingers pull the cigarette from her mouth.
“It’s a terrible habit,” he says.
Her hand snaps forward and she catches his wrist, bringing his hand back to her. She leans in, her lips sliding around the cigarette in his fingers. He does not pull back from her.
Her gaze meets his. Her reply is sharp. “You broke into my flat.”
He wrinkles his nose. She cannot decide if she just lost her mind and that is why she’s just come to accept that whatever is happening is, in fact, happening. She does not want to be France. She is supposed to be in New York tomorrow and there are obligations and contracts to think about. She doesn’t know how to deal with that quite yet.
“I miss him,” she says suddenly, and it falls, just falls, in an odd sort of way. It’s harmless right now and she looks at him directly, her eyes bright. He sinks back, looking away. She can tell he’s uncomfortable. Good, she thinks. What did you expect? “You make me miss him,” she murmurs. “I suppose we’re even in someway.”
“Not by far,” he mutters.
She raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
He looks back at her, his eyes narrowing. She’s numb to feeling any sort of thing but anger and her ears have long stopped ringing.
“I’m not a mind-reader,” she adds quietly.
“I hate dogs,” he says.
She snorts, rolling her eyes. She turns away, sliding her cigarette back into her mouth. Exhaling, she watches the smoke slide in front of her. The water is starting to dull, not too hot, and not too cold. She shivers a little.
“You also hate the way I look at you,” she says suddenly. She does not look at him. Her fingers brush against the edge of the tub. “It goes deeper than that, I suppose. But you won’t let me see why.”
“Do you want to know why?”
“I suppose you’ll tell me.”
He leans forward. “Will you ask?”
She blinks. Now, they’re talking about her. She doesn’t understand, but she just knows. The thought frightens her. She swallows. “What?”
“Will you ask?” he repeats, and he is calm, almost patient - it’s patronizing. He is different and she doesn’t like it. “The question, of course,” he drawls then.
It amuses him, she decides, to counter her word for word. It’s a test of some sort and she has no idea what to make of it. She doesn’t move back either, she can’t, and lets her arm dangle off of the side, her fingers wiggling slightly. She doesn’t drop her cigarette. She’s careful with answering, and when she looks up again, he’s moved in, over her, and his fingers brush against her forehead. He pushes her hair away from her eyes. She’s struck by the gesture and her stomach starts to roll. She isn’t sure, god she isn’t sure.
“What are you doing?” she asks softly. He smirks. His fingers start to pull through her hair. She hears her barrette snap and his hand drags her hair in front of her, between them, and she cannot move.
He pushes himself away, standing. They’re quiet again.
Eva takes the bed. Griffin is sitting on the edge, staring at Bond when she comes out of the bathroom, and the man returns the look with a well-intentioned glare.
She snorts. Her fingers tighten the belt around her waist. “I am supposed to be in New York,” she tells him. “I have to make a call.”
He shrugs. “So make the call.”
She bites her tongue, moving to the bed. When she sits, Griffin jumps down and heads to the bathroom. Her clothes lie in a heap on the ground. She does not know where her phone is and Bond, still leaning against the dressers, is watching her, almost waiting for her to ask. She cannot remember if this is the second or third day.
“Are you going to make the call?” he asks, and she bites her tongue, shifting back to rest against the headboard. Her fingers brush over the keys and she’s trying to remember what to do. She tries to ignore, but he pushes himself away from the dressers and comes to sit on the bed.
“I’m going to make the call.”
He scoffs. “I am,” she insists, and she’s glaring at him, throat dry.
“Of course,” he says.
They stare at each other until Eva breaks the moment, until she has to break the moment; there’s something uncomfortable, uncanny, and exhausting. You look so much like him, she wants to say.
Instead she’s on the phone with just her assistant, her assistant who nearly has a meltdown at the strange, unfortunate scene Eva and Bond left behind at her flat. There’s inquires about contracts and schedules and she feigns partial illness, partial anxiety, something that she rarely uses. But Bond watching and Bond is careful with his watching. She can feel him pull her apart. She doesn’t like that at all.
When she hangs up, he shakes head. “Wow.”
“Don’t be patronizing,” she murmurs, and he snorts, amused. “I mean it,” she says. “I can’t exactly -”
“Can’t exactly what?” he asks. He leans back on the bed, resting his hands back onto the blanket. She swallows. He cocks his head to the side. “Oh,” he says. He seems disappointed. “You’re afraid of me still.”
She looks away.
“I’m tired,” she says to him, later. This is after the phone, well-meaning calls, of course, after he turns the television, but doesn’t really watch it. She’s already lost track of time. She manages to stay on the bed, Griffin curled in her lap.
Bond lingers in the frame of the bathroom door. His shirt is off, dropped into the pile of her clothes. She is trying not to stare; there are scars, lots of scars, long and thin and terribly faint - she only catches them because he leans too close, and the angle at the door is just that easy. Or maybe she’s just deciding that she needs to see them.
“You can sleep,” he says, and if he sees her watching, he lets her have that moment. He rolls his neck to the side. There’s a crack. “I’m going to shower. Then we’ll talk about dinner.”
“You’ll feed me?”
Her voice is dry. He chuckles, surprised. She manages a faint smile, shaking her head. Her hand brushes over her robe. It keeps rising away from her knee. This is not what she wants to talk about. But he’s holding her gaze, suddenly and too soon; the corners of her mouth stay framed into that smile, and there’s this taste in her mouth.
Bond clears his throat. “You’re still terribly odd.”
“I manage,” she shrugs.
She waits until he disappears again though, listening to the door as it shuts - not at all the way, she notices. She doesn’t care if he doesn’t trust her. It takes too much energy, far too much energy. It’s this feeling too, something that seems buried, waiting for her to react hard and fast. She can’t give that to him. It doesn’t belong to Bond at all.
But the sound of the shower hits too, muffled through the cracks of the door. Eva watches Griffin as he wiggles out of her lap, jumping to the floor to march over to the bathroom. He sits and she lets out a little laugh, sharp as she reaches to grab the phone. She pauses. This is not a good idea.
Griffin starts to growl. “Sweetheart,” she scolds.
Her fingers move over the keys and she’s hoping, hoping that she remembers her voicemail number because she’s sure there’s enough there to get her overwhelmed and anxious. She half-expects her mother, frantic and angry. There’s her agent, of course. A call she’s definitely avoiding.
Daniel’s voice fills the room.
“Green.”
Her eyes close. Her shoulders lock. “Green, I don’t know - fucking hell - I’m sorry, you know? I’m sorry. I don’t like fighting. I want to talk this out. I need to talk this out with you, you and me, Green. Is that what we always said?”
Eva’s hands press against her face, her fingers clutching her temples. She tries to swallow. Griffin starts to growl again.
“We’ve never fought like this.” Daniel pauses. There’s a murmur in the background; she cannot tell if it’s reassuring or not. “I don’t like this,” he repeats. He sounds tired. “I worry like hell about you too - listen, call me. Please? Just call me and let me know … I’ll - I even stick around a couple of extra days in New York, if that’s where you’re headed.” He chuckles. “I should remember, right? I can see you sitting there, hating me - it’s always been written on your face, you know?”
“I hate you,” she mutters, out loud. She laughs then. Her eyes start to burn and the sound seems so unexpected in the room.
She listens to Daniel sigh too. There’s a rustle. She hears a door shut, but she looks up and sees that the bathroom door is still closed. It isn’t Bond, but she doesn’t breathe.
“Please,” Daniel says. “Just - just call me, Green.”
The sound of him hanging up the phone is louder than she expects. Her hand is still hovering over the phone. She blinks. The bathroom door opens.
When she looks up, Bond has returned to stand against the doorway. Griffin doesn’t move, but his tail starts to wag. She watches as Bond’s mouth twitches. She doesn’t like the way he’s suddenly looking at her - that cold, almost too objective curiosity. He’s waiting for her, she thinks.
“So that was him,” Bond murmurs, and he nods towards the phone. He doesn’t even hide that he was listening. She shouldn’t be surprised. “Are you two together?” he asks.
“Don’t be stupid,” she snaps. He chuckles. “You know the answer to that. Probably better than I do.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Oh, come on.”
Bond shrugs. “You said it.”
He pulls a towel from behind him, rubbing it into his skin. When he steps into the room, she sees that his hair is wet. She wonders how much he’s actually heard. There is too much of her who doesn’t want to know. He comes to the bed though, sitting by her legs.
They haven’t talked about the room. They haven’t talked about the bed and suddenly, Eva is overwhelmed by her own need for space. She pulls her legs back, closer, and then reaches for one of the blankets to cover herself. Her hands smooth over her knees and Bond scoffs softly.
“Stop it,” he says.
“I am not afraid of you,” she counters.
“You’re tense.” He leans forward. She catches a scar on his hip. It’s light and it might be the angle. It might even be a mistake. But she doesn’t look at him. She focuses on the scar. “You’re tense,” he says again. “And that’s not going to work. I think you know that too.”
“I don’t,” she murmurs.
“You’re a terrible liar, Green.”
Her eyes widen. Her gaze snaps up and she stares at him. Her mouth opens. “Don’t - ” call me that, she doesn’t finish. She can’t. Her throat dries and it’s a strange pull to anxiety, her stomach churning, and the fact of the matter is no more than how easy it is for him to sound just like Daniel. It feels like some unwritten rule of intimacy has just been broken. What else, she wonders, is he going to take away from her.
But she just sits there too. There is no place to go. Her hands pull away from her knees and then she pushes herself to stand. She reaches for her cigarettes. Fumbling with the box, she manages to slide one into her mouth.
“You’re in love with him,” he guesses.
“Shut up,” she murmurs. It’s half-hearted. “Just -”
“Is that it?” he continues.
Her eyes close. She cannot remember where she put the matches.
The room is starting to feel small, entirely too small, and it’s hard not to remember that she was, only a few days ago, standing graveside with him, staring at a name that was supposed to be her. He is expecting a confession, but she does not know if she can give that to him.
But she’s talking then, and she turns back, watching him as he thrusts the matches into her hand. “We’ve been friends for years,” she says. “It’s only natural, I suppose. Or -” she pauses, laughing tiredly. “I don’t know. I don’t remember when I, it,” she corrects herself, “started. It just happened that I knew one day and that it was him, and that it was that I couldn’t have him beyond the way he was already in my life as.”
She moves back. She leans against the wall. The robe opens a little over her legs and her breasts. She slides an arm around her waist almost unconsciously, studying Griffin as he seems to be sleeping by the bathroom door. She shakes her head, rubbing her eyes.
“I’m not her.” She meets Bond’s gaze, lighting her cigarette. “And you’re not him. How entirely appropriate, I suppose.”
He snorts.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she adds.
He doesn’t laugh. She almost expects him. She corrects herself again and thinks he’s not him. She doesn’t know if it’s the right thing to say, nor does she care, and her lips are dry. She slides her tongue along the bottom, then her teeth slip against the skin. She tries to study the cigarette in her hands.
“Does it really bother you?” he asks, and she starts thinking about tones and weight, the way he talks to her and the sound of his voice. She tries to pick out a difference. “Me, watching you.”
“Do you really want to get into this?”
“You do.”
She rolls her eyes. “Stop being intentionally vague.”
“You could have anyone,” he offers, and when she scoffs, he studies her curiously. “You don’t think so?”
Her mouth curls a little. “You’re trying to figure me out,” she says.
“I’ve seen your films.”
Eva starts to laugh. She starts to really laugh, the sound causing Griffin to perk up from his place at the bathroom door. She pushes herself away from the wall and manages to go back to the bed.
She sits next to him and the sheets sink against her legs, just as she draws them onto the bed. They sit side by side and it’s rather odd, considering, but she ignores it and puts her cigarette out on the ashtray by the bed. Her hands smooth over her lap and she feels herself lean against him, only slightly. It’s easier when she doesn’t look at him.
“And I suppose,” she says, “that because you’ve seen my films, you’ve got it all down - in fact, I don’t really know if I should be frightened or cautiously flattered. Maybe it’s a little of both.”
He chuckles. “You enjoy yourself.”
She feels surprised when he says it. Her lips quirk.
“You do,” he says. There’s no insistence. “It’s obvious, given your … choices.”
She laughs again, the sound warmer. She turns to look at him without thinking. Her gaze brightens and she’s amused - he doesn’t like her films, she thinks. Somehow the idea completely delights her.
“You can tell me you don’t like them.”
“I don’t like them.”
She laughs harder. It’s been a series of things, really, of things that if she were to tell anyone, nobody would believe her. She doesn’t care either. It’s unimportant and so weird that suddenly they’re having this small moment and she knows nothing more about him other than he’s incredibly dangerous and he loved a dead woman who looks just like her.
When she looks up at him again, his gaze has softened. He looks a little lost, but then hides it, quickly, behind some kind of amusement.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
“For what?”
She doesn’t answer him. It might be the way he’s looking at her, accidentally or not; she can tell that he’s looking at her, and for whatever strange, strange reason it makes her lean forward. Her mouth brushes against his jaw.
It’s just a feeling, nothing overly romantic or heavy. Her mouth stays soft over his skin, her finger grazing over his hand next to her on the bed and she swears, swears he makes some kind of sound - it’s just not for her to tell. She does feel his hand press against her hip. He does not draw her close, but it signals something, something different. She says nothing when she pulls away and her head drops against his shoulder.
It’s brief. It doesn’t matter who draws back first.
They were almost different people.
11.
The phone rings in the middle of the night.
He answers it before she can even fully awaken, his voice just a low indistinct murmur. "Yes, tomorrow," is all she can remember hearing before she falls back asleep.
She walks the dog early each morning along the beach. He usually has left before she awakens, so it's a surprise when she groggily opens her eyes that day to see him sitting there, two paper cups of coffee in his hands. He holds one out silently to her, and she takes it, clutching the duvet to her chest as she sits up and sips it.
"I need to talk to you," he says and she nods. "Later, though. Not here." He looks suspiciously around the expensively wallpapered walls.
"I have to walk Griffin," she offers, setting her coffee down and sliding out the opposite side of the bed.
"Ten minutes," he says curtly and she raises her brows at his autocratic command, shaking her head as she goes into the bathroom.
They’re walking along the beach. She has that odious dog with her, though, to be fair, he’s somewhat grown accustomed to it, if not fond. They've come to some sort of truce, which seems to please her.
"I have to go away," he says to her as they walk along the promenade down towards the sand. "The office has recalled me."
"Oh, okay." She nods, takes a swallow from what now has to be lukewarm coffee.
"You don't have to stay here," he says, squinting at the morning sun as he stares down the beach.
It’s a beach he knows well. He avoids the girls along it pretending to throw themselves into the waves. He likes to think he’s less foolish, less noble, but next to him, her feet sinking into the sand, long hair whipping backwards, is a movie star he’s basically kidnapped. Bond’s mouth quirks up into a smirk and he looks down at her bowed head. She looks up, like she knows he’s looking at her.
It’s hard to describe the exact noise a camera shutter makes, especially from affair, the winds and the waves of the sea obscuring it, but Bond’s well trained ears know the sound and he looks up, head swiveling around to source the sound. He sees tourists, up early, pausing to gawk at the sea and sand and sky. There are other people, like them, alone or in pairs, walking dogs or just walking, heads slightly bowed. And then there is the fat man leaning against the side of the Citron with the professional looking camera and a telephoto lens.
His hand goes instantly inside his coat. "One moment," he says, allowing Eva to pass him before he draws his weapon. There's another click of the shutter and her steps hesitate.
"What are you--" she asks, looking up towards where he's veered away from her suddenly, moving back towards the promenade, his gun held close to the outside of his thigh. She follows the line of his sight and sees the fat man, swears. Her stomach clenches. This will be a disaster.
"Bond," she hisses harshly, hurrying after him, hoping no one hears what she is calling him, though in this town, he seems well-known if not renown. "James. James!" She reaches out, grabbing at him. She forgets about the gun.
He expected her to listen and when she touches him, swings around, the handgun ready. She stumbles back, falling into the sand. What happened next he blames entirely on the dog, who he, England's premiere spy, trips on, falling into the sand. It's a small blessing his gun doesn't discharge as he goes to his knees in the sand on top of her.
The dog is barking now, thinking this is all some clever game, prancing and bouncing about in the sand, dragging the leash Eva still holds around them in a tangle. Bond curses the dog. Eva is laughing now, trying to extract her wrist from the taunt lead.
"Of course," she says between bubbles of hysterical laughter. "Of course this would happen."
Bond struggles to his feet, beating sand off his clothes before he reaches a hand down to her. She pauses, staring up at him for a moment from where she lies prone in the sand before she takes his hand. He pulls her up harder than she expects and she bumps into him, her fingers grabbing at his biceps before she hurriedly lets go, takes a step back. He puts the gun back in his coat, whistles for the wayward dog who has gone to mark a clump of seagrass a few feet away.
"Thank you," she says as she brushes sand from her clothes.
"Mmm," he replies, looking sharply back at the promenade and the empty space where a man has just been.
"This could be a disaster," she tries to tell him, her voice urgent as they make their way back to the hotel.
He shakes his head, mind already on business. "I'll take care of it," he says. "It's what I do. I'll see you in a few days, if you're still here."
"The sea is nice," she allows. "But I won't wait for you."
He leaves her standing near the entrance to the hotel, watching him drive away.
The phone rings again late the next morning. She's up, but lounging on the bed in a robe, sipping coffee, flipping through Le Monde. It's the line to the room. It's unexpected.
"Bonjour?"
"Oh my God you tricky bitch. I thought you were taking a mental health spa break!"
"What?" It's her agent, excited on the line. "How did you get this number."
"Not easily," she laughs. "My assistant probably called every hotel in Royale before she got you. God, her French is awful. C'est la vie. Anyway, I cannot believe you didn't confide in me."
"Confide in you about what?" She has a sinking feeling in her stomach.
"No need to be so cagey. It's all over the gossip rags and the internet. Hello? Hello?"
She's dropped the handset of the phone onto the bed and is yanking a coat on over her robe. She stuffs her feet into the first shoes she sees and hurries out, leaving poor Griffin to whine softly at the door.
She pauses by the front desk, thankfully quiet. "Un kiosque à journaux, s'il vous plaît?" she asks in an agitated tone, following the directions out into the street and around the corner to the stand where the corners of the newspapers flutter softly in the breeze and glossy magazine covers scream headlines at her in orange, red, yellow, and pink.
"Have the English gossip magazines come in yet?" she asks the man sitting on a fold-up stool, smoking a cigarette. He squints at her, nods, waves the cigarette in a vague direction at the stand. She thanks him and begins her search. It doesn't take long. There it is, a picture of the two of them in the sand, on the cover of all the main gossip rags, admittedly only a small postage-stamp sized picture in the corner.
"Son of a bitch," she swears through her teeth. "Take care of it like hell. Merci, Monsieur."
“I’m afraid I’ve misplaced my key,” he tells the girl at the desk charmingly. She smiles back, a blush staining her cheeks as she magnetizes a new plastic card.
“There you are, Mister Bond,” she says softly.
“Cheers,” he replies with a nod, taking the key. As he turns away from the desk, the smile falls from his face.
He takes the elevator upstairs and slots the key into the right door. He looks around, surveying the room. He picks discarded clothing up off the floor, looking at the cosmetics in the bathroom, notes the way the two armchairs have been pulled closer to the sofa.
He’s sitting on the bed when she comes in. She gasps slightly.
“I though… I thought you’d gone out,” she says quietly. She’s drawn and pale. She doesn’t show her week at the seaside on her face.
The dog lunges forward on his leash and she unclips him absently, by habit. Griffin gallops up to him, pauses, then launches himself into an idiotic dance of joy, barking a cheerful greeting that is more talking dog on Youtube than bark before launching himself up onto the bed to roll around in the comforter. He reaches out, rubs the dog absently.
“Jesus, Daniel,” she says like he’s a lifesaver and she’s a drowning woman. He’s worried she might swoon, like some terrible film, but she just grabs the door, closing it softly behind herself before leaning back against it. On the bed, Griffin is still doing roadies in the duvet, ecstatic at his presence.
“Alright, Green?” he asks, forcing his mouth to smile.
"As well as could be expected. Did you--"
"Your mother has my phone number. Were you aware of this?"
"What? No. I'm sorry. Has she been calling you?"
"Ye-es," he says slowly, drawling the word with a laugh. "Many people have been calling me. For good reason."
"Oh. Oh." She presses a hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can explain."
He pats the bed beside himself. Griffin accepts the invitation, crawling closer on his stomach to nuzzle Daniel's hand. Eva nods, takes a deep, composing breath, before she crosses over to sit beside him, hugging her knees to her chest, her ballet flats falling from her feet to the floor.
She stares at him silently for a long time, searching his face, her cheek resting on her knees. She begins to laugh quietly, then louder and he turns towards her.
"Green?" he says as she lets go of her legs and tips over, face down, onto the mattress convulsing with hysterical laughter. "Are you alright?" He puts a hand on her shoulder, rubs her upper arm soothingly.
She shakes her head, her hair going everywhere.
"I--I don't even know where to begin."
PART THREE