Bond took her to her cabin and then went on to his and had a ‘Hot Salt’ bath followed by a ‘Cold Domestic’ shower. Then he lay on his bed and smiled to himself over some of the things she had said, and thought of her lying in her bath looking at the forest of bath-taps and thinking how crazy the English were.
There was a knock on the door and his steward came in with a small tray which he placed on the table.
‘What the hell’s that?’ said Bond.
‘Just come up from the chef, Sir,’ said the Steward and went out and closed the cabin door.
Bond slipped off the bed and went over and examined the contents of the tray. He smiled to himself. There was a quarter bottle of Bollinger, a chafing dish containing four small slivers of steak on toast canapés, and a small bowl of sauce. Beside this was a pencilled note which said ‘This Sauce Béarnaise has been created by Miss T. Case without my assistance.’ Signed ‘The Chef’.
Bond filled a glass with champagne and spread a lot of the Béarnaise on a piece of the steak and munched it carefully. Then he went to the telephone.
‘Tiffany?’
He heard the low delighted laugh at the other end.
‘Well, you can certainly make wonderful Sauce Béarnaise …’
He put the receiver back on its cradle.
23 | THE JOB COMES SECOND
It is an intoxicating moment in a love-affair when, for the first time, in a public place, in a restaurant or a theatre, the man puts his hand down and lays it on the thigh of the girl and when she slips her hand over his and presses the man’s hand against her. The two gestures say everything that can be said. All is agreed. All the pacts are signed. And there is a long minute of silence during which the blood sings.
It was eleven o’clock and there was only a scattering of people left in the corners of the Veranda Grill. There was a soft sighing from the moonlit sea outside as the great liner scythed the black meadow of the Atlantic and, in the stern, only the slightest lope in her stride indicated a long soft swell, the slow, twelve-a-minute heart-beat of a sleeping ocean, to the two people sitting close together behind the pink-shaded light.
The waiter came with the bill and their hands separated. But now there was all the time in the world and no need for reassurance from words or contact, and the girl laughed happily up into Bond’s face as the waiter drew out the table and they walked towards the door.
They got into the lift for the Promenade Deck. ‘And now what, James?’ said Tiffany. ‘I’d like some more coffee, and a Stinger made with white Crème de Menthe, while we listen to the Auction Pool. I’ve heard so much about it and we might make a fortune.’
‘All right,’ said Bond. ‘Anything you say.’ He held her arm close to him as they sauntered through the big lounge where Bingo was still being played and through the waiting ballroom where the musicians were trying out a few chords. ‘But don’t make me buy a number. It’s a pure gamble and five per cent goes to charity. Nearly as bad as Las Vegas odds. But it’s fun if there’s a good auctioneer, and they tell me there’s plenty of money on board this trip.’
The smoking-room was almost empty and they chose a small table away from the platform where the Chief Steward was laying out the auctioneer’s paraphernalia, the box for the numbered slips, the hammer, the carafe of water.
‘In the theatre this is what’s known as “dressing a thin house”,’ said Tiffany as they sat down amidst the forest of empty chairs and tables. But, as Bond gave his order to the steward, the doors leading to the cinema opened and soon there were nearly a hundred people in the Smoking Room.
The auctioneer, a paunchy, jovial Midlands businessman with a red carnation in the buttonhole of his dinner jacket, rapped on his table for silence and announced that the Captain’s estimate of the next day’s run lay between 720 and 739 miles, that any distance shorter than 720 was the Low Field and anything longer than 739 the High Field. ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, let’s see if we can’t break the record for this trip which stands at the impressive figure of £2400 in the Pool’ (applause).
A steward offered the box of folded numbers to the richest-looking woman in the room and then handed up the piece of paper she had drawn to the auctioneer.
