With that the valet opened her door, there they were on their own red carpet walking up the entrance, the green and white striped awning running above them, into the Beverly Hills Hotel, past reception; granted a courteous nod from all three men behind the desk, but not the woman, who was buried in her computer, approaching the hostess on the right at her little, but all-important desk, to the entrance of the Polo Lounge.

Ever felt a sense of guilt going into this establishment, owned by the Sultan of Brunei, who, in his small, oil-rich kingdom, had imposed strict Sharia law, calling for the stoning of gays and lesbians, and understandably had received a boycott from the liberal Hollywood community.

Not that Ever was a member of the liberal Hollywood community, but he believed that anyone should be entitled to live how they want, hell, isn’t life hard enough?

Presumably the Sultan had deep enough pockets to withstand the boycott and probably couldn’t care less.

He hadn’t changed his laws anyway, in the end, but Ever’s concern at that moment was not for the Sultan, but Lomita, who he assumed was unaware of the situation.

There certainly was no need to have made a reservation and the first thing Lomita said was,

‘Why is it so empty?’

It seemed the explanation was going to be unavoidably forthcoming. The discussion of sexual behaviour seemed to close down her interest, her eyes no longer focused on his, and although he sensed a disapproval of the persecution of people with alternative sexual orientation, her concern wandered and she studied, with an over-forced intent, the cocktail menu. Something that a person familiar with the process of cocktail hour would not need to do.

It puzzled him, and he stored it, in some part of his brain, as to why this sophisticate would not wish to engage in one of the topics of the time. In response to his monologue she just said,

‘Let’s drink.’

The waiter arrived at the booth they had been escorted to, greeting them with the customary,

‘Welcome to the Beverly Hills Hotel.’

Although at that moment Ever questioned whether he wanted to be welcomed, felt that he was being congratulated on joining a union of fascists.

They both sat on the inside-iest bit of the booth, close to each other. Close so that he noticed the closeness. Lomita ordered first, with the command of a seasoned drinker.

‘Grey Goose martini, up with a twist. Dry.’

He ordered the same.

Her choice of a French vodka, with a comparatively recent commercial explosion onto the market, was the second noticeable and memory-banking thought for the evening. He would have expected the eighties favourite, Stoli.