James Bond: A Spy At Home

James Bond, but realistic on a civil servant’s budget

James smirked at the blushing brunette, watching her hide a ladder in her stockings behind anxious finger tips. Despite her better judgement, she’d come up to room 410 with him, a suave stranger, a suited mystery among the quotidian masses of Peterborough.

“Let me get you a drink,” he murmured, picking up the phone and dialling for reception. It was unpleasantly sticky. “Hello? A negroni, easy on the Campari. And a Vesper Martini.” The brunette stared up at him, wondering how he knew. “Shaken not stirred.”

“We only have the house wine, sir,” said a nasal voice down the line. “Or pink mini prosecco, lager, Tropicana, Diet Coke, or bottled mineral water.”

James paused. “The vin de la maison, then, madame.”

“The what?”

James lowered his voice to an embarrassed hiss. “The house wine, then.”

“I hope you haven’t got anyone up there with you sir. You’re booked in as one guest.” The nasal voice jarred against the slurping chew of gum down the line.

“No, just me. Thanks.” He hurriedly replaced the receiver and turned back to his innocent conquest. She wouldn’t be a virgin for long. “What’s your name, my fen goddess?”