Masseur

CHAPTER SIX

     Bond checked his appearance in the full length mirror. It was a ritual he always went through before setting out anywhere, a man still proud of his appearance and anxious to keep it up.
     Bond was that rare being, a lady’s man who was also a man’s man. There was scarcely a woman in the land who would not have fallen for his dark good looks and athletic physique, not a man who would not have been attracted by his élan and sense of adventure, save maybe for homosexuals of both sexes, and even a fair few of those might have been bewitched by his urbane charms given the opportunity. Bond, a homophobe long before that horrible euphemism for normal was first coined, was not likely to give them the opportunity.
     Bond hadn’t packed his dinner jacket so the dark blue mohair would have to suffice on this occasion, his red tie and crisp white shirt setting it off nicely, the ensemble, he noted as he made the slightest adjustment to his tie, giving him a distinctly patriotic look. And why not? Bond was nothing if not British to the core. He turned away from the mirror, fit and raring to go.
     When spending an evening at a casino Bond liked to feel as relaxed as possible as it helped his game, and whenever possible he always had a thorough body massage prior to hitting the tables. The previous night he had noticed a sign in the foyer indicating that the hotel had a health spa, and had earlier phoned Reception. “Can I get a massage?”
     “The chef’s only just got back from a funeral,” the receptionist reported.
     Chef? Bond thought she had misheard him. “I said a massage, not a sausage.”
     “The chef is a masseur.” She said this as though every chef in the world doubled as a masseur and that Bond must be a basket case not to know this. She went on. “Just a minute, he’s here now.” The line went quiet for a moment. “He says give him five minutes.”