A Lemon Twist in Cannes
an excerpt

The rugged bloke came out in short order and set a pair of black Ray Ban sunglasses on his strong nose. The briefcase handle was tight in his fist. He glanced up and down the boulevard. An outwardly forlorn Maggie suffered at his feet

“Beg your pardon, sir?” she asked, quite pathetically.

The man looked down at her. His eyes were indecipherable behind the dark lenses. “What’s the trouble, my dear?”

Maggie squinted up at the handsome man. A fine British gentleman, after all. What sport. Had he noticed her in the restaurant? She didn’t think so. Her heart jumped when she realized that she might be in his hotel room with him before long.

“I’m sorry, Sir, to bother a gentleman, but have you a room here at this hotel? My passport and my traveler’s cheques were stolen a few days ago and I can’t get hold of my parents, who are on holiday in America. I’ve been unceremoniously locked out of my own hotel room, my luggage taken as guarantee of payment. I’ve been treated like a common criminal, shouted at in front of the other guests, and I need to take a bath and sleep if I may, Sir.”

Maggie noticed the man’s hand clench the handle of the briefcase. She sniffed. “If you could help a girl, I won’t be a bother. I promise. Simply put, Sir, may I take a bath and wash my underthings in your room? I don’t like to beg, but the consulate-general has been no help to me.”

Maggie began to weep. The man looked uncomfortable, but the glow of possible sex still hung on his skin. He walked toward Maggie, not knowing what to expect from the lean girl with shoulder length, copper-colored hair. She could tell that he was a bit disappointed with her, that she was clearly not up to his standards. She blushed, a thin twenty-nine year-old English girl who would turn thirty during the week and who could only be described as plain, but with nice legs and spidery hands. Maggie had very small breasts. That’s how most men saw her – she knew that. Nominal breast. Tiny ears. Long neck. Pale, uninteresting eyes. Thin, freckled nose. Slightly protruding eye-teeth in an otherwise acceptable mouth. Dainty chin. It was a catalog for what, she didn’t know, and she could tell by the man’s soon blank stare that the bloke hadn’t looked her way in the restaurant. Nor would he ever have. If he had, if he could ever look at a woman who was not beautiful – he might have remembered her. He might have saved the contents of his briefcase. And more.

The man sighed. “Young woman, I have an important engagement in ten minutes. I’m sorry that you’ve been put into a troubling spot. Have you talked to the local police?”

Maggie nodded. “They were no help to me. The town is full of pickpockets, it seems. If I could just take a bath, Sir. I don’t like to feel so dirty.”

The man looked up and down the street again. After a sigh, a glance at his watch, and after another sigh, he motioned for the girl to get up. Maggie obliged with a smile and a sniff.

“Thank-you, Sir.”

They didn’t speak on the elevator ride to the fifth floor of the Hotel Martinez. Maggie tripped along after the man, her bare feet relishing the elegant carpet. She stopped behind him as he unlocked a heavy door.

Brushing eagerly past him, Maggie took in the suite of rooms. The sitting room was golden yellow, with dark paintings and purple flowers. There was a bar, whiskey and brandy, scotch, soda, ice, a grand piano, a long sofa, a wide balcony, and the sea. The twin doors of the balcony opened inward and the translucent white curtains slowly undulated. The afternoon sun crawled into the room and the soft carpet would be warm to lie on.

The piano was a baby Steinway – East Indian rosewood, but not in the best of condition. Maggie went to touch the keys. She played a short run. It needed tuning. The man stood and watched her. Maggie could see the bedroom. The door was open. The bed was made. The man’s suitcase sat on the bed, closed.

“Do you play?” the rugged man asked her. Maggie nodded.

“Are you a professional?”

Maggie looked at him with a hint of confusion. “I have been paid to play. Yes. The piano, if that’s what you mean. I’m not a whore.”

“Certainly not. I didn’t mean to imply that at all.”

Maggie looked at the floor.

“Where is your husband at this time of crisis?”

Maggie twisted the ring on her left hand, which was held shyly behind her back. Bloody careless, she thought, with irritation. Cal was not even her husband. It was the ring Roger had given her the day they were married, almost two years ago. Poor Roger. “Do you always carry a gun?” she returned coyly.

The man smiled. “You’re very observant. And evasive.”

“A woman has to be.”

The man glanced at his watch. “Look, I’m due to meet a business associate in five minutes. It’s a very important meeting. I expect I’ll have to drive myself now.” He waved a hand toward the bedroom. “The bath is in there. Help yourself to a drink. Please do not hang your underthings on the balcony to dry. I’ll return in a few hours. If you’re here, I’ll take you to dinner. If not, please remember to lock the door on your way out. What size shoe do you wear?”

“Size 4. My feet are narrow.”

“I can see that. What’s your name?”

“I’m called Polly Jenkins. From Bournemouth. What do I call you?”

“The name’s Bond,” the man said.

He stopped at the door and turned after a dramatic pause. “James Bond.”

As the door swung closed with a loud clink of latch, Maggie covered her mouth with both hands – to smother a giggle.