Marta Hallard waited wearily for Alan to negotiate with the maitre’d. “Two for Grant?” she heard him say, and knew that he was proffering his warrant card by the way that the jumped-up waiter began to genuflect, calling him “Inspector.” Grant was useful that way -- especially when Marta was beginning to feel like she’d earned the gray hair she’d found lurking this morning.
“How do you manage it?” she asked Alan, when he came to collect her elbow. “You haven’t aged a day since I met you!”
“Clean living?” he offered, steering her to their table.
“Or relations in Transylvania!”