Remus placed his knife and fork on the empty plate and leaned back in his chair, carefully observing the other diners at the restaurant. "Someone was murdered here, you know," he announced. "And then they say that romance is dead." Deborah Quant had frozen over her steak. Remus was about to comment on the fact that he was dissecting it with the same care he showed when using his scalpel on a corpse. But then he remembered the murder and thought it was a better topic to break the ice. "Sorry," he apologized, taking a sip of his red wine. Beer was also served at the restaurant; Remus had seen the waiters bring beer to some tables, but he was trying to limit himself. A new beginning: that was also the reason they went out for dinner—they were celebrating a week without smoking. Seven whole days. One hundred sixty-eight hours. (She didn't need to know about the cigarette he begged from a smoker outside an office complex three days ago. It made him nauseous anyway.)
"You understand the taste of the food better now, don't you?" she asked him again, for the umpteenth time. "Yes, of course," he admitted, suppressing his cough. She seemed to have abandoned her steak, gently pressing her mouth with the napkin. They were at Galvin Deluxe Basserie, right next to the Caledonian Hotel—which was now called Waldorf Astoria Caledonian. But for those who grew up in Edinburgh, it was known as Caledonian or, alternatively, Cali. At the bar, before dinner, Remus had recounted a bunch of stories: about the train station that had existed here and was dismantled in the sixties; about the time Roy Rogers had ridden his horse, Trigger, up the corridor leading to the main staircase because a photographer had asked him to. Quant listened patiently to his stories before telling him he could unbutton the top button of his shirt. Remus kept running his finger through the collar, trying to loosen the tightness a bit.