January dawned grey and damp as December had been. Shaking off its post New Year hangover, London was ready to return to normality. It seemed that every restaurant, bar and club in the city was thriving with a new found energy, filled to the brim with eager locals, despite the fact it was an extremely wet Wednesday evening.
The restaurant Bond had chosen was no exception. Just off the West End of the city, it was discreet, simple, elegant, and a well kept secret among its patrons. However, it was as overcrowded as any other restaurant that night, and Bond found himself waiting for his dining companion surrounded by eating out couples, friends catching up after the long Christmas period, and the odd business meeting taking place over good food. He had just poured himself a glass of crisp white wine, and resigned himself to waiting when there was the hubbub of activity near the front of the restaurant.
Her hair was dripping wet with rain, her skin flushed from the cold wind outside, but despite this, Bond admitted to himself, Ashleigh looked good.
'Sorry,' she apologised as a waiter took her jacket for her, while another held her chair out, 'Traffic, inept taxi drivers, the weather, anything that could go wrong tonight, did.'
'You're here now,' James poured her a large glass of wine. As she sipped, he took the opportunity to study her, she was relaxed and smiling, the dark circles that had appeared under her eyes in Russia had been smoothed out, the tension had left her body, she seemed back to the Ashleigh he had known before. Before...
'What?' she asked curiously.
'Nothing,' he shook his head. 'You're looking well.'
'A compliment? What are you up to?'
'Do I have to be up to something?'
'James, with you, there's always something,' she gently teased him. 'How come you're in London anyway? I thought M had always had work for you.'
'Just returned. Official business of course, very politically sensitive.'
She stared at him, noticing the warm colour of his skin. 'Please don't tell me you got to spend Christmas on a top secret, highly dangerous mission somewhere very hot and glamorous?'
James smirked.
'With an equally glamorous blonde called Henrietta?'
'Georgina actually.'
'Damn you, James,' she laughed.
'And you? How was your Christmas?'
The smile dropped slightly. Reaching out, she fumbled with her wineglass. Christmas was always a painful time for her, and this year had been no exception. Feeling rather despondent, and unwillingly to intrude upon her friends despite their kind invitations, she had found herself throwing a bag into her car on Christmas Eve and driving to the country.
Picking up the menu, Ashleigh seemed to take a great deal of interest in the overblown description of a Caesar salad, before casually remarking, 'Oh, not much really. I spent it with my grandmother.'
It was the truth. Her grandmother had been more than happy, if a little surprised, to see her. But in all honesty, it hadn't been the success, or the distraction she had hoped for. Her grandmother, Catherine Montrose, had quickly sensed that something was troubling her granddaughter, and had made it her own personal mission to discover what exactly it was.
Catherine was in her mid seventies, although with her long red hair only just touched by grey, looked much younger. A self-sufficient artist, who specialised in sculpting, she always painted her nails so that any clay wouldn't show up beneath them. She also believed that no problem couldn't be solved by a long talk, and a bottle of red wine or two. Ashleigh, who found Christmas a painful experience, was even more reluctant to talk than usual, had retreated into her shell, something that had always infuriated Catherine. If only she had been more like her mother, than her father, Catherine had always thought.
