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Even Sex Symbols Need a Break

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"Vodka martini, shaken, not stirred… Can I get you one?"

"Ale, landlord." Dark straggling curls, tanned skin, piercing eyes, he proffered his hand. "Heathcliffe."

"Bond… James Bond."

A third man swept in, designer jacket slung casually over his shoulder.

"Christian, a drink?"

"Bombay sapphire and lime. And a break from 'crazy woman'. From exploding cores and dancing inner godesses."

"My sympathies. I find myself as incapable of leaving mine as a cat is of leaving a half eaten mouse."

"And you, James?"

“After Pussy Galore, one tends to become jaded." Bond sipped his martini.

“Bloody hell, women, what's the point?”

"Christian, if you could do anything rather than anyone, what would it be?"

Grey gave a sigh of the sort which made Ana's sex dance the lambada. "An afternoon at Crewe station, collecting class 47 heavy goods locomotives… And you, Heathcliffe?"

"Haunting the second hand booksellers of Hay-on-Wye, searching for collections of sermons. I have a first edition of Mr. Collins' musings on affability and condescension. How I would like to add those of the Reverend Obadiah Slope. Mr. Bond?"

"A nice cup of tea and some re-runs of The Great British Bake-off. And a platonic chat with Sue Perkins."