Vesper Lynd, Casino Royale, An Outpost Between 11 and 13
It was the dinner jacket. She'd spotted Bond removing it from his closet and hanging up on the washroom door, and had gone to investigate when he'd left to check over the car M had so thoughtfully left for him. She'd lifted up the light plastic and fingered heavy fabric with a frown, her eyes traveling over the cut of shoulder and waist. No, it wouldn't do at all. It was too light, too loose; it wouldn't fit over Bond's build the way a jacket made just for him would--and if he were to be believed sitting at that table, that's just the sort of jacket he would need.
It isn't hard to jot down measurements, or to take a glance out the window to remind herself of his frame, and when Bond comes back into his room, her door is closed and her room empty.
Still, arriving at the quiet retaurant, Vesper lowers her purse to a stool and sits, pushing her hair back from her face to more carefully flip through a brochure she'd picked up at the Hotel Splendide. There are some fine formal wear tailors in Montenegro, she's sure--and she has all the time in the world to look--which means she has all the time in world for a drink or two as well.
It isn't hard to jot down measurements, or to take a glance out the window to remind herself of his frame, and when Bond comes back into his room, her door is closed and her room empty.
Still, arriving at the quiet retaurant, Vesper lowers her purse to a stool and sits, pushing her hair back from her face to more carefully flip through a brochure she'd picked up at the Hotel Splendide. There are some fine formal wear tailors in Montenegro, she's sure--and she has all the time in the world to look--which means she has all the time in world for a drink or two as well.