Friday night.
It's raining and I'm sheltering by the rear entrance of the opera house, smoking a clandestine cigarette before my meeting with Anthony. He's a journalist I've been cultivating in the hope of gaining some publicity for Etienne wines. I'm already late for my rendezvous, but isn't that the lady's prerogative anyway?
I stub out the end of my fag on the pavement and cross the street to the restaurant. Tony is waiting in the bar downstairs, bottle of wine already opened, reading the Telegraph. He looks up as I enter, gets up and takes my coat. A true gentleman.
Vesper, he says.
I beg your pardon?
Casino Royale. You look just like the girl, Vesper Lynd. Fabulous.
I see where he's coming from. My dress has a plunging neckline just like the one worn by Eva Green.
I sit down opposite tony and he pours me a glass.
Bet you didn't know Eva was also born in Paris, and only a few weeks before me.
Amazing. You could almost be her double.
Here's another fascinating thing. In September I stayed at a hotel just across the water from the Villa in the movie.
Uncanny, he says, smiling.
He's staring at my cleavage, of course.
You are a sumptuous feast for sore eyes, he says. If I weren't happily married....
Does that stop anyone these days?
It should, he says glancing to his left.
The waiter is hovering, so we follow him upstairs to the restaurant.
The menu looks expensive, but Tony isn’t bothered.
Have anything you like , he says, we’re not paying for it.
And I thought you were taking me out to dinner, I chide him.
If I were we wouldn’t be dining here, he replies.
We both order a rib eye steak, on Tony’s recommendation.
He leans back and drains his first glass of wine, grabs the bottle and pours out some more.
What a great job I've got, he says. I get to have dinner with a beautiful girl, and I don’t even have to pay.
I'm sure you say that to all the girls
No really, you do look fabulous Sandrine.
You have a quite a reputation with the ladies.
I lean my chin on my elbow and sip some wine. A nice Chablis, actually. So he knows his wine.
He smiles.
All in the past. Since I met Charlotte things have settled down. Course I still drink like a fish, but that’s all part of the job.
Anthony isn’t that good looking – balding, bespectacled, late thirties – but he makes up for it with wit and intelligence. Like many journalists he has plenty of contacts, but it helps having been educated at Eton and Cambridge.
Opens so many doors, he admits.
He’s a ferocious name dropper too, with stories about the mayor of London, and many MP's including Cameron.
The next PM, he says. Thank god, this country will be run by its natural leaders, the aristocracy.
I'm not so sure
Well, you’re French he says, no offence, but you’re a bolshy lot.
We laugh together at this.
I tell him that I’m half American, and he goes into detail about his time in New York working for one of the literary mags. He knows Brooklyn and Manhattan well, and is knowledgeable on the cultural scene over there. Tony also claims to have dated many attractive women, including the ex girlfriend of a famous English actor.
But not Eva Green, I say.
Sadly not, he smiles, but you’re not a bad double.
Are we going to talk about wine at all, I ask.
Well, I'm no expert, but I can certainly write an article on the merits of the Luberon wines, with special mention of your cousin's vineyards.
He suggests a visit might be necessary to see for himself.
I don’t see why not, I reply.
We drink to the entente cordiale.
After dinner we stand on the steps and tony hails a taxi.
The night is young, he says. How about coming to my club for a drink? This ones on me.
Well, in that case, I accept.
Except its not really a club – more like an illicit underground drinking den that stays open all night. Its in a dimly lit cellar somewhere near Lincoln’s inn.
Tony orders a bottle of champagne and we sit together in a dark corner.
He snakes an arm around my back and squeezes me. I sense that the drink is taking him over. We chat about Etienne’s business and my role as its London agent. At 3am he insists on walking me home and we head for my flat in Trafalgar.
I tell him I’m amazed that he hasn’t made a pass at me all night.
You’re a great girl, he says, but I couldn’t get it up if I tried. Not with all the booze I’ve had tonight. I thought you were a lesbian anyway
Not exclusively, I say.
He puts an arm round my shoulder and points to the square.
Great view isn’t it, he says, if it wasn’t for that Nelson fella we might be overrun by frogs
You’d hate that wouldn’t you.
I stare into his eyes for a long time and kiss him lightly on the lips. He plays with my hair as I lean against him.
Sandrine, Sandrine. you’re a lovely girl, but.....
I know. You’re married.
Just bad timing, I guess. He shrugs
I didn’t want an affair, I tell him. Just tonight.
Our bodies are touching and I feel his erection against my stomach.
Trouble is it wouldn’t end there. Before you know it there’d be more nights. And then.
Maybe some other time, I suggest
I don’t think so. Goodnight Sandrine.
I cant believe he’s walking away and we haven’t made love, hardly kissed. I must be losing my touch.
But the next day he leaves several messages on my phone asking me to contact him before I leave town.
I phone him after the third one.
I just need to check a few things for the article, he says.
I might have room to squeeze you in. what did you have in mind?
Can we chat at your place.
Chat. Yes, of course, two clock’s fine.
He’s hooked, I can tell. I check my hair in the mirror.
Sandrine, you’re a very bad girl. I giggle to myself.
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