His accent was impeccably English. Lomita felt a bond with this fellow outsider.

‘I’m sure you’ll prove to be far more than adequate.’

She said regaining possession of her hand and smoothing the side of her dress. It was, she sensed, a nervous reaction.

Then there came Arnott and Abby Pascal; he was introduced as the CEO of a hedge fund that specialised in art acquisitions. ArtAQ. She of course, Abby, was introduced as, simply, his wife.

Lomita felt achievement of some sort after these introductions that she wasn’t presented as a wife to someone or other. She could see through to the dining room which revealed two sets of candles, three candles in each candelabra, on the table; she realised this would be a Shabbat dinner. Friday.

They were all escorted, without the offer of an arrival drink – the sun was going down – into the dinng room. Against the far wall were pinned two members of staff, not against their will, dressed in black with white linen napkins draped over their right arms; the placements dictated position. Lomita was opposite Daizō Mori, she was sitting on Mr Lorken’s right, who was at the head of the table; on her right was Arnott Pascal; Dinah Lorken was sitting at the other head; on her right sat Abby Pascal.

The challah was brought in, the braided bread: Lomita hoped the blessing would be brief, that not too much singing would take place. This was not by any means her first experience of what was usually a joyous occasion, as long as the prayers were kept to a minimum. Mr Lorken was very brief, blessing the bread, made by Dinah herself, Lomita somehow doubted this; the wine was also blessed along with the guests, then the gratitude at the delight of life and the ability that God had given them to enjoy that life. And that was that: clear, concise and most welcome, thought Lomita. The tough bit was having to eat a piece of the bread, she hated bread. There was an olive tapenade, fortunately, with which she could smother the bread.

*

Ever was outside playing minion.

And thought he should stand by the car and have a cigarette, like the other driver of a Cadillac Escalade, which was all black and cleaner than his teeth.

He so wanted to hear what was being said and paced, imagining. His frustration led him through the endless question of his life, the thing that went around. The stuck record.

Ever took a cigarette from the other driver, who was called Rigo. It turned out Rigo was a lot more than just a driver, he had been a Marine, then had left to go into private security and now worked full time for Arnott Pascal – Ever was guessing on a big wage increase from the military.