He sat there, mesmerized by the nonlaminate menu, which promised crostini, and beet and goat cheese salad, and moules du jour, and red snapper fillet, and ginger-yogurt cheesecake. He ran his fingers over the paper as though checking the weave.

“Wow,” he said. And then, looking at the prices, “Wow,” he said again.

“It’s my treat,” said Veronica.

“On expenses, then?” said Israel.

“Still my treat,” she said, smiling.

He remembered the very first meal out he and Gloria had ever had. He could see it now, in his mind’s eye, as clear as-if not clearer than-he could see Veronica before him now, placing a finger on her lips and gazing at the menu. It was a Greek restaurant, somewhere around Palmers Green. There was ornamental trelliswork and a big amateur sky-blue mural, and the cutlery glistening, the plates white. They ate vegetable kebabs and drank retsina poured from big copper jugs and pulled faces at the taste, and they held hands. And all to the accompaniment of the theme tune to Zorba the Greek.

“What do you think?” said Veronica.

“It’s OK,” said Israel. “Did you ever see Zorba the Greek?”

“Is that a film?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

He and Veronica had never had that much in common.

“This used to be a wine bar,” Veronica was saying. “Back in the nineties.”

“Right.”

“But they’ve really transformed it, haven’t they. I like all these little accents.”

“Accents?” said Israel.

“The little Chinese-lacquer-red bowls and everything.”

“Right,” said Israel. “Yes. Nice.”

“The chef’s from here, but his wife’s Polish,” said Veronica.

“Really?”

“Cosmopolitan, you see. International. I like it because it reminds me of London.”

“Yeah,” said Israel. “Kind of.”

A waiter stood beside them. He was wearing a black silk shirt-always a bad sign in a waiter.

“Would you like some wine with your meal?”

“Why not?” said Israel.

“Red or white?” said Veronica.

“White,” said Israel.

“I thought you drank red?”

“It stains.”

“You’re meant to drink it, Israel, not spill it.”

“We’ll take a bottle of house white,” said Veronica, without consulting further.

“What is the house white?” said Israel.

“It’s a quirky New World wine,” said the waiter.

“What?”

“It’s a Riesling.”

“Hmm. A quirky New World Riesling?”

“Yes.”

“Really? OK. And what have you got that’s French?” asked Israel.

“Since when did you take an interest in wine?” said Veronica.

“I…just…You know. I find there’s a lack of character and vibrancy in a lot of the New Worlds, for my liking. I prefer something with more freshness.”

“OK,” said Veronica. “You’re going to be telling me you can cook and clean next, are you?”

“I like to think I can look after myself,” said Israel. Which was a lie.

“You want to snap him up before someone else does,” said the waiter.

“We’ll see,” said Veronica. “I need to road test him first.”

Israel blushed.

“So?” said the waiter.

Israel was still scanning the wine list.

“Actually, why don’t we go for a Riesling from its spiritual home?” he said.

“Right,” said Veronica. “Sounds fine.”

“We’ll go for the Markus Molitor, then, please.”

“At twenty-nine pounds ninety-five a bottle?” said Veronica, seizing a menu.

“I’m buying the wine,” said Israel.

“Oh, well, in that case.”

“Very good, sir. Madam,” said the waiter, smiling, unconvincingly-“Madam,” spoken with a Northern Irish accent sounding suspiciously like an insult-and walking away.

“I am impressed,” said Veronica. “So, what have you been doing in that coop of yours? Sitting around reading wine encyclopedias?”

“Not exactly. Pearce taught me, actually.”

“Pearce Pyper?”

“Yeah.”

“You have heard, have you?”

“Yes,” said Israel sadly. “I have.”

“I’m meant to be doing the obit later this week. I don’t know where to start.”

Israel laughed.

“What?”

“Where to start with Pearce, that’s a good question.”

“You knew him quite well, didn’t you?” said Veronica.

“Yes,” said Israel. “I do. I mean, I did.”

The waiter reappeared with the wine, Israel approved it-and they raised their glasses.

“Cheers,” said Veronica.

“L’chaim,” said Israel.

“Whatever. Are you ready to order?”

“I might just need a few more minutes,” said Israel.

“Of course,” said the waiter, raising his eyes to heaven and wandering off.

“Anyway,” said Veronica. “You’re looking well.”

“Right,” said Israel.

“Seriously, though,” said Veronica. “Have you been working out?”

“No!” said Israel. “Just-”

“You’re not on a diet, are you?”

“No, not really.”

“Have you been going to the gym?”

“Do I look like I’ve been going to the gym?”

“Yes, actually.”

“And the beard?”

“Yes,” said Israel. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure about the beard,” she said. “What’s that all about?”

“I’m…cultivating my mind,” said Israel.

“Well,” said Veronica, “that doesn’t necessarily mean you have to be cultivating your beard at the same time, does it?”

Israel took the opportunity to draw Veronica’s attention to the venerable history of learned beards, arguing that it was in fact only a recent twentieth-century phenomenon that sophistication should be associated with beardlessness: shaving, he argued, being merely a sign of a male vanity that is directly linked to the West’s military-industrial-puritan complex.

“My brother, Esau, is an hairy man, but I am a smooth man!” he said.

“Whatever,” said Veronica.

There was a silence as they looked at each other.

“This is where you’re supposed to compliment me on how I’m looking,” said Veronica.

“Gosh. Sorry,” said Israel. “I mean, of course you’re looking well.” Veronica looked more than well.

“Well, thank you. We do our best,” she said.

The reason Israel liked Veronica was because she was so candid. She was the sort of person who cut to the chase.

She cut to the chase.

“So do you want to talk business or pleasure first?”

“Erm,” said Israel. “Can we order first?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Silly me.”

“What are you going to have?”

“I can’t decide,” said Israel.

“I’m having the Caesar salad,” said Veronica.

“Oh,” said Israel, slightly disappointed.

“What?”

“Ladies always have Caesar salad.”

“We have to think of our figures.”

“Right.”

“Don’t let that stop you having something else. The steak’s good.”

“I’m vegetarian.”

“Oh, I forgot.” And then, without waiting further for Israel, she called over the waiter and ordered her Caesar salad. Israel, under pressure, went for what looked like the least-worst option-the vegetarian lasagna.

“So, shall we get down to business?” said Veronica.

“Here?” said Israel, who’d been rather buoyed by Veronica’s compliments about his newfound svelte figure. He decided he rather liked it here. He had an unusual sense of ease. Glass of wine in hand. Beautiful woman paying him compliments. He felt dangerously wonderful and alive.

“Not that sort of business, Armstrong,” said Veronica.

“Sorry,” he said.

“So?” she said.

“What?”

“Do you want to tell me all about it?”

“About what?”

“Israel! About the police investigation into the disappearance of Lyndsay Morris, of course!”

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t really know anything about it. I don’t have anything to do with it, obviously,” said Israel.

“Obviously!” said Veronica, in a way that suggested not so much Israel’s welcome innocence as that he was clearly destined to be only a bit-part player in the theater of life, and so was incapable of being responsible for any action, good or bad.

“Oh god, what’s this music?” Veronica said suddenly.