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She’s leaning over the railing, her long, thin arms bathed in dim gold. When she catches him looking, she doesn’t even try to hide that she’s watching him. She stands up straighter. There is no flicker of recognition on her face when their eyes meet.
After being given the money he walks away. She follows, making no effort to be discrete. The dress she wears is what he’d usually call slinky, with its plunging neckline and its form-hugging fit clinging to her body. It looks like it’s falling off her in waves, but as she moves there is no distinction between her and it, herself and how she uses her body. She is no longer the stupid young woman who wears her identity like an ill-fitting mask. Now she walks in step with it.
He sees her bodyguards leave before she approaches him; they’re only just that touch more subtle than she is. Somehow, he has no doubts that she could vanish just as quickly as they could. He disables his earpiece before she arrives. Whatever transpires, Eve doesn’t need to know the details. When she walks up behind him he doesn’t turn to look. He sees her in his peripheral vision.
“You’re the last man I expected to see here tonight, James,” she says softly. “Unless you’re going by something else now.”
She searches her face with her still alarmingly wide green eyes. Her pale face is contoured, and she wears smoky grey eye-shadow that makes her eyes look greener. The piercing red lipstick is gone, replaced by something darker.
“It’s still Bond,” he says, and at the same time as her finishes: “James Bond.”
She smiles. He thinks it looks very cruel now, and wonders if it always was.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks.
“I would be honoured.”
She waits for him to offer his arm and then accepts it, allowing herself to be led away. When she’s comfortably sipping her Vesper martini, they talk business.
“I’m here on orders to kill whatever man cashes in the chip,” she says.
“How does a young accountant find herself responsible for life and death?”
Now she smiles the same thin smile she used to give him, in the hospital while they recovered together, and in Venice where they loved each other. It no longer looks so pained, or so he thinks; perhaps she’s learned to hide it. He thought her unreadable then, but in his memories she sits transparent.
“You killed Patrice,” she answers.
“Apologies.”
“I am not the one you should apologise to.”
“Then who?” he asks. “I’m just dying to meet him.”
“You might be in luck.”
“You should know better than anyone that it’s never that simple.”
She’s more confident now, with her shoulders rolled back and her hair pinned up over her head. The necklace she wears now fits her well. It’s barbed and wretched, and so unlike the smooth knot she wore around her neck and almost hung herself with. He wishes he bought her something, back in the days when he loved her.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
“Business,” he answers. “I’m looking for a man. Your employer, as a matter of fact.”
“My employer is a woman.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Really. Well, I’m pleased to hear there are equal opportunities when it comes to killing.”
“I know who you’re looking for,” she says, and her voice drops conspiratorially. She whispers, “I can bring you to him.”
“It would mean a lot,” he says, but can see now that she serious.
“My employer,” Vesper begins to say. “She... and the man you’re looking for…” she trails off, no longer trusting herself. For the first time he sees everything he fell in love with written across her face, and she looks like herself again: wide-eyed, desperate, afraid.
A little bit in love.
Bond smiles. The fear colouring Vesper’s face tells him all he needs to know about how he looks, and he’s pleased with it.
“Are you still the kind of woman who would die for love? Or have we outgrown that now?”
She glares at him, her green eyes hot and perhaps a little bit damp. She holds her lips tightly together; he wonders what horrible words she’s stopping herself from saying. There is nothing new about this looks. He thinks back to the day she took the money, how she committed herself to making yet another stupid sacrifice for love.
If all that was left of you was your smile and your little finger…
“I see we haven’t.” He leans in closer, so that only she can hear him. “What do you need?”
“If I take you to him, will you kill him?”
Her face is hard as she waits for his answer. He touches her arm.
“Well, I’m sure someone will die.”