James Bond: The Authorised Biography (34 page)

The Minister was staying at a villa near the sea, a long white house belonging to a Paris businessman of dubious repute. From the detective Bond obtained a copy of the guest-list – which he immediately checked over with Mathis at the Deuxime Bureau in Paris. That evening Mathis rang back to say that one of the names was known to the police. He was a man called Henri, part-time male model, mother Hungarian, father French. There was a record of petty convictions for theft and minor drug offences; the year before he had been on the fringe of a scandal which involved the death of an American Embassy official and a suspected leak of NATO information. Nothing conclusive had been proved against him, but Mathis said, ‘he's hardly the man I'd choose to be my brother's best friend.’

Bond alerted the detective who replied that there wasn't much that he could do, but Bond was worried – especially when he learned that Henri and the Minister had been seen together at a restaurant in Cannes. It was a tricky situation. All of Bond's instincts were against this sort of squalid prying into private lives and he was inclined to agree with the detective.

But on the other hand he had a job to do: after Mathis's warning he could hardly leave things as they were. If anything went wrong, M. would be holding him responsible.

He thought of having a discreet word with the Minister, but dismissed the idea at once. He could just picture the man's fury, and the letter of complaint to M. that would follow. He also thought of trying to see Henri and warning him off; that would be even clumsier and riskier. In the end he telephoned his old friend, Reynard, at his house near Grasse. Reynard knew everyone and was very shrewd. Bond suddenly had an idea.

Next morning the telephone rang early in the villa by the sea. The manservant who answered it replied that he was sorry but Monsieur Henri was asleep and could not be disturbed. The voice on the telephone then gave a name that made the manservant suddenly respectful. Seconds later he was knocking urgently on Henri's bedroom door. When Henri mumbled that he wanted to be left in peace, the manservant whispered the name. Five minutes later Henri was on the telephone to Paris.

It was Reynard who arranged the chauffeur-driven Rolls that called at the villa twenty minutes later, and Bond, from a car parked opposite, was relieved to see the slim young man in the immaculate brown suit hurry from the villa and get in. The car purred off. No one else within the villa stirred.

But the name of the film producer which had so impressed the manservant had been genuine – Reynard had seen to that. So was the screen test which the young man took in Paris late that afternoon – so was the part they offered him. In years to come, Bond was to watch the young man's burgeoning career in films with interest and was always proud of what he called his ‘skill as talent-scout’. ‘The only pity,’ as he says, ‘is that I never asked for my percentage.’

The rest of the assignment passed off without incident. The detective told Bond that the Minister was put out at the way the young man left without so much as a goodbye. Bond said he sympathized. The detective said that he was most impressed.

‘How did you do it? Fear, I s'pose?’ he said.

‘No,’ said Bond as he sipped his first Martini of the day.

‘Vanity. It's stronger.’

During these days when Bond was in the South of France, Tiffany remained dutifully in the flat. By now she and May had reached a state of stabilized hostility, but life was tedious and she was lonely. There was not much to do with Bond away. She remembered one of Bond's earliest remarks about getting married, ‘Most marriages don't add two people together. They subtract one from the other.’ At the same time she hadn't understood him. Now she did.

Thanks to Bond she had been admitted to England without a passport. Immigration had told her to obtain one later from her embassy. With Bond away it seemed an opportunity to do so; she took a taxi off to Grosvenor Square.

It was the first time she had been inside an embassy but from the moment she entered she felt at home. Perhaps it was the smell, that curious American smell of mouthwash, air-conditioning and percolated coffee; perhaps it was the transatlantic tone of voice; perhaps it was the stars and stripes outside and the copies of the New York
Herald Tribune
. Whatever the cause, Tiffany was suddenly affected in a way she had not thought possible: she was homesick for New York.

There was a query on her passport; a good-looking young American major attached to the Embassy showed her to the office she required. He was from California and they chatted briefly about San Francisco. Suddenly she longed to talk about the places that she knew. And so it started. Five minutes later he was asking her to dinner. She refused, but was delighted to be asked. As she walked back across the square she was happier than she had been for weeks.

Good-looking majors working in embassies have ways of finding out the names of pretty girls who ask for passports. It is not legal but they do. This major also found her telephone number. This was not legal either: nor should he have rung Miss Case and told her that the passport office needed her next day at twelve. Just the same, she came, and when he asked her out to lunch, accepted.

This was the position, more or less, when Bond returned from France. He was at a strange disadvantage. Had it been anyone but Bond, he would have recognized the situation straight away. Tiffany had changed: she was alternately distant and over-loving, gentle yet rejecting, critical and then subservient. In short she was showing all the classic symptoms of a woman having an affair. But Bond, who had not been cuckolded since the age of twelve, was merely puzzled.

What was wrong with her? Was it her period? The condition seemed to last too long for that. Had he neglected her? He tried spoiling her – more scent, more underwear, another trip to France: but all too late. Never before had any woman treated him like this and all his wide experience of doting and adoring women had left him quite ignorant of the female heart. He made mistakes that no suburban husband would have made. Then, final degradation, he became jealous.

This unfamiliar emotion floored him completely, and he suffered like an adolescent youth. He tried to reason with himself. There were other women; no one was worth this sort of anguish – not even Tiffany. He suffered just the same.

It was a complete reversal of his character. Once away from her he tried to be sensible. It was no use. He was emotional by nature and had had no training with women he could not control. He tried to question her. Worse still, he threatened her. One night he hit her. He was very drunk. Next morning, sober, he was most repentant. She was icy. That evening, when he returned, the flat was empty.

At first he could not believe it, even when May announced, ‘She's gone. The body's gone. She's left you.’ But there was a letter on his desk.

Darling James
,

We have enjoyed ourselves, and I shall be always grateful. But the truth is that you don't need a wife but I need a husband. When we first met you told me that you were married to a man called M. I think I know now what you meant
.

Do understand, my darling, I'm not blaming you. But I have met this major at the Embassy. His name is Nick. You'd like him, and he wants to marry me. I've said I will
.

Do understand, dear James, that this is best for all of us. I know you love me, and that you will be hurt. But in time when the hurt is less you'll know that I am right
.

Tiffany

Bond took it very hard. He had left many women in his time, but he had not been left before; he felt lonely, and betrayed. His pride was hurt. He realized that he had truly loved her.

Soft, sentimental as he was, he thought that he might still succeed in settling down and marrying her. Somehow he found the hotel where she was staying. He sent her a letter. It was returned unopened.

Presumably his vanity was hurt. At first he couldn't quite believe that she was serious. No woman had done this to him before. But when he finally did reach her on the telephone she calmly told him she was leaving for the States next morning. She did agree to see him – briefly.

Bond drove round to see her. He was still certain he could persuade her to come back to him and he was convinced that he loved her. Then he saw her; and he knew at once that everything was over.

She was waiting with her new fianc, and introduced him straightaway as ‘Nick’. He seemed a pleasant fellow, ‘nothing extraordinary to look at and not over-bright, but clearly top-grade American husband material.’ And Tiffany had a certain look he'd never seen before, ‘the look of a woman who has got her man – and is all set to eat him.’

It was that look, says Bond, that cured him. Just a few hours before he had seriously thought of shooting the American. Now he was grateful for the chance to buy the man a drink.

It was all most civilized. They talked about New York and San Francisco. Bond promised to look them up next time he was in the States. He wished them both good luck, and then kissed Tiffany goodbye. As he drove back to Chelsea he thought of sending Tiffany some roses, but couldn't find a flower-shop.

‘Perhaps,’ as he says now, ‘it was as well.’

13

The Soft Life

H
ONEYCHILE SCHULTZ WAS winning, there was no doubt about it. Now Bond was in danger of becoming Mr Schultz the second. The story he had told of his affair with Tiffany merely underlined the fact. Until then I hadn't realized how weak he really was with women once they had got through his defences. I should have recognized the pattern earlier. Those one-night stands of his, the hit-and-run affairs, the rigidly controlled relationships with firmly married women were quite simply the manoeuvres of a man determined to keep womankind at bay.

Fleming had understood this perfectly when he said that Bond, like most hard men, was soft inside. Bond was essentially sentimental and at heart a vulnerable lover. And Honeychile, who was quite the opposite, must have appreciated this, especially after yesterday. The moral of the Tiffany affair was certainly not lost on her.

Bond, though, appeared oblivious of what was going on: he had other worries on his mind. After our day aboard the
Honeychile
I had been hoping to continue with the story of his life from 1955 – the year made memorable by the assignment Fleming has described in that most colourful of all his books,
From Russia With Love
. Bond had other ideas. I was sitting on the terrace after breakfast and wading through a day-old copy of the
New York Times
when he appeared. He was smartly dressed in regulation James Bond dark blue shirt and freshly laundered white duck trousers. He had, he said, to spend the day with Mrs Schultz, but was expecting a telephone call from London. Would I please be sure to take it for him when it came.

‘From whom?’ He paused.

‘From Universal Export. From M. to be precise. I've been attempting to get through to him all week. I can't imagine what he's up to. Moneypenny promised to make sure he rang.’

‘And if he does, what do I say?’

‘Just tell him that we've nearly finished and that I hope to see him soon. Tell him …’ At that moment there was a sharp blare from a car at the front of the hotel. Mrs Schultz was waving from her Rolls. Bond shrugged his shoulders. ‘Tell him I'd like to know what's going on.’

But M. didn't ring, and it was late that evening when Bond reappeared at the hotel. Honeychile was with him looking, as the gossip columnists say, ‘quite radiant’. There was a hint of power in her beauty now, a subtle gleam of triumph in those wide blue eyes. She did the talking, Bond, by and large, the drinking. They had been deep-sea fishing. Bond had apparently caught an eight-foot swordfish. The idea seemed out of character, but she made much of how he had played and handled it, ‘just like a real professional’.

‘I never knew you were a fisherman,’ I said.

‘I'm not. Fishing's for old men.’

‘Not our sort of fishing, darling,’ Honeychile insisted. ‘Ours is for rich men.’

Bond said nothing, but when she left asked, ‘Well, did he call?’

When I said no he shook his head and said, ‘Well, I suppose that settles it. This would have amused Ian. Didn't they try to make him take up fishing when he retired?’

‘Who's talking of retirement?’

‘I am. I've had enough of hanging on here, waiting while they decide whether to have me back or not. Thank God for the lamented Mr Schultz – and for his fortune, and his wife.’

‘Won't you be bored?’ I said.

‘Bored? Not as bored as I would be in London, waiting while they decide if I'm still fit for just one more assignment. I've had enough of it. It's always been the same.’

‘What has?’

‘The uncertainty and boredom – waiting and wondering whether you're still up to scratch, and all the time hanging on until M. is ready to employ you. Fleming knew how it felt – he described it when he wrote about the summer after Tiffany had gone. That was the first time in my life when I actually woke up in the morning feeling bored.’

This had been an ominous development for Bond, the first but not the last time in his life when he had found himself without his customary zest for living. Normally Bond lived at such a pitch of sheer activity that this stagnation was unbearable, and what Fleming called ‘the blubbery arms of the soft life’ soon had him round the neck. He started feeling suffocated.