There was a long, long, gap of brain time thought and then,

‘It’s Ever.’

The word, his name in that context, stabbed him, like the cliché, straight through the heart. Not Dad.

‘What am I called now?’

The tequila said.

‘Oh God, I don’t know, babes.’

Oh, how he hated that word, ‘babes’.

‘Just let me see Jacob please, on the phone, please.’

A scuffle, off camera, and he was looking at his adorable, yes, he would still say it, with pride, son.

‘Hi, my darling.’

The words came out of Jacob’s mouth that produced a spontaneous inhaled grab from Ever.

‘Dada! Dada! Mama, Dada.’

‘How are you my baby?’

‘Dada… Billy and Pete where are they? Dada are they not good? Are they dead?’

He was puzzled at Jacob’s understanding of the word ‘dead’ and wondered in that moment if that’s what his mother had told Jacob about his own absence.

‘I love you so much, they are fine my darling, just on a little holiday with Mr Magee and Rosie, they’ll be back.’

He didn’t know when.

But then in typical child fashion, boredom came over Jacob and he started to mumble goodbyes, going now mama, why has the television, the word taking eight syllables, gone quiet and he was gone.

‘Thank you.’

Ever said.

‘That’s OK, next time just use the audio, I look like shit. It’s early.’

‘OK.’

‘Bye.’

And then another.

‘Bye.’

Spoken at the same time, they were gone and that was done.

He and the tequila had done it. Once again, the internal shower washed him clean. He wondered what was happening to his life.

What was he doing and going to do.

With all that to live for.

And Lomita Nairn.

Chapter Fourteen

‘Good morning.’

He said, still three feet away, approaching the solitary female.

‘I wanted to inquire about an artist whose work I couldn’t find on your website, and wondered if you knew of him, or had carried any of his work. Which I believe you did at one time.’

Ever was speaking, a bit ramblingly, to a rather exquisitely tasteful woman of about thirty-five, who was sitting behind a Calacatta marble desk with a backdrop of Carrara marble that covered an expanse of wall that must have emptied an Italian quarry. She removed the black frames with clear glass from the bridge of her nose, they could have been tortoiseshell, and asked, understandably, for the name and period of the artist. She was English but in her correct, aloof and professional manner made no comment on his compatriotism.

‘Contemporary?’

She posed as she posed.

‘His name is John Everett Millen.’

He said the three words with an obvious pride, and a sense of emotion in the back of his throat that thickened his saliva.

Ever felt he needed to up his game with this opponent.