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
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Comments 13
Not too far away sits a young dark-haired woman nursing a glass of brandy and what appears to be a headache. Certainly the hand she is pressing against her forehead, and the way her head is leaning against her hand, suggests as much.
She isn't sure who's worse to deal with: that Goldfinger character, or Bond.
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When Vesper's martini (dry, gin) arrives, she can't help but glance at the girl with some composed interest over the top of her glass.
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"Hello," she says with a cool, composed voice. She's unmistakably from London.
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That...isn't something to be wary about, necessarily, but her guard is up, certainly. She's seen no-one recognizable since coming in here, and what with MI-6 calling for a report and Bond's damned recklessness, she feels justified in being a little more cautious than usual.
She doesn't offer her hand to shake...yet, instead, keeping it on the bar in plain view and within easy reach if the other woman would like to be acquainted. If not...then she'll return to her drink. She hasn't any pressing need to make friends tonight.
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