Xiomara sings as she unpacks, that broken song that arrives and departs in little waves of concentration and forgetfulness. It reminds me of Moneypenny’s first visit to Haedo, save that the protective feelings I had towards Moneypenny are replaced by a sense of anxiety in relation to Xiomara.
It is quite irrational, for being Q’s daughter she has provenance stamped all over her. Perhaps it is her dynamic, so different from Moneypenny’s vulnerability, projecting an aura of confident strength tethered to uncompromising will.
Within minutes she emerges and calls out to where I lounge on the patio, ‘Where’s the coffee, Mr Bond.’
‘If Rosa has been there should be some in the cupboard'.’
‘What’s this Kopi Luwak stuff?’ ‘Oh, is smells foul - it must have been here for years.’
‘Skip that’, I reply, ‘is there nothing else?’
‘Just some dregs - looks like Talisker or something’, she continues. ‘Yes, that’ll do’, I reply.
Three hours from touchdown we are sitting under a Buenos Aires sun drinking Scotch. The terrace overlooks Plaza General San Martin and on towards the Torre Monumental, formerly the Torre de los Ingleses, one of the many gifts from Great Britain to Argentina.
Another great gift between our nations was a ritual rather than a building; and it is not long before Xiomara, tiring of the afternoon heat, suggests that we adjourn for afternoon tea at Palacio Duhau.
‘What! You must be joking, M will have a fit if she sees the name ‘Los Salons de Piano Nobile’ on our expense sheet’, I exclaim. ‘She took weeks to get over Moneypenny and I dining at the Alvear.’
‘Don’t fret, Mr Bond, it won’t be on MI6 expenses - David told me to put it on his.’
From our first meeting in Whitehall I knew of Xiomara’s association with Lord Cameron, but hardly imagined that we might skip the Ministry’s meanness for the Foreign Office’s tab.
Xiomara has changed into a dress and I have donned a tie. We arrive a little after five o’clock. The pianist has started with an adventurous Astor Piazzolla for drama, but will eventually slip back to a soporific Stephen Sondheim for the tourists. Our sharp-suited waitress leads us to a table over by the terrace doors, selected by Xiomara so as to avoid both music and sun simultaneously.
‘Yes, the full works’, she orders, ‘And may we have the Champagne upgrade,’ she adds, whilst examining her manicured fingernails under the salon lights.
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