DI Poole took his tongue between his teeth, wrapped carefully, pulled down, jabbed his elbow against the wooden strut of the shower and doubled over. Why is it always on the funny bone?

After a few hard words against the bleedin' builder of this blasted beach hut, he shook out his arm, took a deep breath and began all over again, as the shirt button had come undone and the collar half-collapsed. He hated dress clothes.

He knew there would be some who would fall about laughing if he ever admitted that, because they considered everything he wore to be "dress clothes", but this was obviously different. It took him no time at all to don a regular necktie; that was a simple matter of cross, wrap, push through and tighten. This was torture. Why did those bloody millionaires have to come to Saint-Marie for their wretched events, and why did the Commissioner consider it compulsory for his tame Inspector to attend whatever ridiculous do they put on? He was a policeman, for goodness' sake!

Part of Poole's troubles had to be the mirror. It was much too small, but it was all he had. And the light was going, as well. He stood the collar up, slid the bow tie around it again, fastened the button and crossed the strap over it, centering the thing carefully and dodging here and there, correcting in the mirror to the angle he needed at any particular second. He had unraveled countless murder plots, foiled smugglers' plans, disrupted money-laundering schemes from here to Europe. He ought to be able to put on a flaming bow tie!

It's just a matter of logic and care, it must be. Easy does it. Breathe out. Concentrate. Other men do this every day. Wrap . . . fold down . . .

Being one of those other men; that might help. Straighten out the slack, carefully.

His mind went back to an old film he'd seen on telly the other night, where the impeccable Bing Crosby was dressing for a party, in front of a full mirror. Being Bing, he'd been crooning away to Louis Armstrong's lone trumpet solo played from somewhere nearby, and just flicked the slack end of the tie over his shoulder. Poole followed suit. Then double the bulgy bit around your finger, right in front of the button – still closed, thank the bow tie spirits, if there are any . . .

Poole began to hum unconsciously, his mind on getting it just right. The song was a nice, easy jazz number he'd always liked.

I love you, Samantha, and my love will never die.

Remember, Samantha, I'm a one-girl guy.

Bring down the slack bit, not twisting it. Smooth and easy. Button still closed . . .

Together, Samantha, we could ride a star and ride it high.

Remember, Samantha, I'm a one-girl guy.

Fold the ends forward, pull slack through. Easy now, only half-way. Drat that mirror! Not enough room to see if he'd gotten that finger right to pull the bulgy bit through straight. Poole craned his neck around, trying to check. It had to match up . . .

And if some distant day you decided to say

'Get along, go away, good bye,'

Remember, Samantha, . . .

Good grief, this is working. It looked even, and all he needed to do now was straighten it up. With one hand on the tie, Poole turned to hop into the main room of the bungalow to get his jacket.

"Gah!"

Camille was there, right in the doorway of his lavatory alcove, looking half-amused and half-affronted. Poole lurched back. "Don't keep doing that!"

She never listened, of course. Right now she seemed to be trying to decide what to say, as if there were too many comments to make at once, that goofy look on her face and with her eyes glowing. Poole tugged at the tie, nervously, felt it slip and lunged to the mirror, biting back harsh words. Curse it, he hadn't tightened it properly.

"Why are you in your shower, almost fully dressed?" he heard her asking.

"Because it's the only mirror I've got and just try to tie one of these without a mirror!" He was struggling to stay calm, gathering up ends to tug together, finding that wouldn't work and desperately tugging separately, at the same time smoothing out the satin to reduce the folds. Blimey bloomin' blistered – "Don't come loose, don't come loose –!" If it did he'd never be able to tie it again with Camille there, watching. Easy, easy it is, now . . .

Remember, Samantha, I'm a one-girl guy . . .

Crisis averted, fluffed, Poole let out his breath in relief, still peering into the shaving mirror, his back in the doorway. "Here, toss me that jacket, if you would," he asked, turning the collar down over the tie. "What?"

She was tugging at his shoulders from behind. "Your shirt seams are crooked."

Poole was bringing the ends of the tie forward in front of the shirt collar, straightening again. He let go a breath in a short sigh of what-if. "They always are. Let them be. He's a millionaire; he needs someone to show him some insubordination now and then . . . Camille?"

"Mmm?"

"What was that?"

"Nothing." But Poole had felt something; a light touch he couldn't account for on the back of his left shoulder, just on a seam.

He turned and stepped out of the shower, noticing for the first time what Camille was wearing. It was one of those strapless, floor-length wraparound bright red-to-gold-by-way-of-fuchsia Caribbean things, with gilded sandals and a huge pink flower in her hair. It would be stunning on anyone else, and it was breathtaking on her. She was radiantly beautiful, posed like a model with his jacket dangling from one hand, just before she tossed it lightly over his head.

Everyone's a comedian. "Thank you," Poole grumbled.

He pulled it off, dashed his hair back into its usual rumple and shouldered into the jacket, nervous again about the tie, about her, whether he should compliment her or tell her to put something on, for heaven's sake . . .

"Richard."

He had moved past her to the table, looking for a handkerchief. "Yes?"

"You're not straight."

"Am too."

He froze as Camille swooped forward and caught the tie, persuading the satin into perfection. "Who is Samantha?" She was focused on her task, thankfully, or she'd see him going red and trying not to puff with embarrassment at her touching even his recalcitrant bow tie.

"Samantha who? Ah, sorry, I meant, I don't know anyone named Samantha." He tried to edge back, and suddenly her hands were very vigorous in tightening. Poole almost choked. "Urgk . . . oh, was I . . . in the –? Uh, some friend of Cole Porter's, I suppose."

"And are you?"

Poole swallowed uneasily. Camille was adjusting the jacket now, glancing up at him, smiling softly. The exotic scent in her hair began coiling round him. "Am I –?"

"A one-girl guy. Are you?" Now she was smoothing the shirt front, and he shrunk back just a little. She followed of course, to place and fluff up the handkerchief in his breast pocket. Poole immediately began tamping it back down to regulation pocket-square size.

"Well, since – I've had enough of them tell me to 'get along' and 'go away', I – don't know, actually. I mean, you have to have one, first . . ." He was still trying to squirm away, uncomfortable with her being this close, especially with her dark eyes suddenly so fierce, fixed on that benighted tie.

"Hold still, Richard! You couldn't have chosen a ready-made, I suppose?"

"That remark is so disturbing I'll pretend you never said it, thanks," Poole hrumphed, suddenly very much steadied. A ready-made bow tie! What do I look like, a used car salesman? "Would you kindly not mess with it?" He tried dodging around her, meaning to go back to the shower, but she kept firm hold on the lapels, pulling him back toward her. "Now it is crooked again. Can't you just leave it?"

"No, Richard, I really can't." Her eyes were on the satin bow, but from the disorganized way she was tugging at it, Poole suspected she wasn't really paying attention.

"Here, let me." He tried taking the bow from her hands, but she wasn't letting go. "Give it . . . Camille!" He just refrained from swatting at her.

"Bing wouldn't behave like that!"

"Bing only had to deal with Grace Kelly!" Poole swung into the shower once more, straightening doggedly. There was hardly any light now, the evening almost drained away into night. ". . . You saw the film too, then."

"I always watch it." She sounded sulky, from just behind him in the shower doorway. And then in a flash of the famous Bordey temper, "I suppose you'd hold still for Samantha?"

"I don't know any Samantha, or Tracy or Griselda or whoever – there wasn't any, even in the . . ." although actually here had been, in a way. "Look, can we please just drop the subject?" Right, the tie was straight, if not perfectly tidy.

"Yes, you do. You must have known some girl in England . . ."

"Well, I didn't!" He shouldered past her back into the bungalow, gathering up keys and wallet, muttering, determined to get out the door this time and never attempt a bow tie again. He really didn't know any Samantha-esque girls at home. All it took to see to that was being told for a year or two in uni that you're not worth the trouble, and . . .

I haven't said that out loud, have I?

Poole turned off all the lights but one (safety feature), locked the doors and let Camille out through the kitchen. She was quiet again, moving in a whisper of whatever material the dress was made of, clouded with that unknown perfume. Poole headed off toward the Defender, but she slowed him up by tapping her fingertips to a spot on his left shoulder, then stepped up beside him and trailed her hand quickly down to fold around his arm.

"Well." They never apologized after a dust-up, and he wasn't going to now. "At least it's a nice evening for it."

"Well," Camille repeated, smiling. "At least I'll be able to tell maman I've heard you singing in the shower."

That remark started it all over again. "Look, I –!"

"You were."

...

Notes:

The song "I Love You, Samantha" is part of the score of the Hollywood film High Society and was written by Cole Porter. You can see and hear it performed on YouTube.

Some of you may remember Dr John H Watson, who kept his notes on the unwritten cases of his friend Mr Sherlock Holmes in an old tin box in his bank vault. My tin box of 2018 is somewhat smaller.