He didn’t know if he would be accompanied to the Basquiat by his meal ticket, and yes, he was now clear and honest to himself about the use of Lomita, as that’s what she was. His ticket. And she knew. What a silly man, that was the right word, silly, a small and insignificant description of something, what a silly man to think that his whatever, his appeal, could cajole someone into doing what he wanted. What he wanted for his own ends without anything in it for her. Horrible arrogance. He felt a bad person, something he never considered himself to be. Driven by neurotic compulsions, yes, but not intentionally bad. But maybe he should come out of the insane closet and admit what his intentions really were.

Dammit, but he did like the woman and that in itself had a degree of abnormality about it. Did it, though?

I mean is that wrong?

Is it taking advantage?

Is it cruel?

*

At that moment, what Ever recognised as a Rolls-Royce Dawn Drophead coupé pulled up, with the top down.

A majestic swoosh of a car. In electric blue, not the colour he would have chosen, with a pale tan upholstery, but in whatever specification, it was a beautiful car. But shouldn’t the car be allowed to do the work, not the colour? You don’t need both, unless you do, and that in itself is worrying. A dream on four wheels, the maximum that can be achieved out of a 120-year-old concept: the motor car.

It was him. Short, well shortish, with dark, dyed hair and a suit and shirt in a more sombre tone of grey, at least not competing with the car, covered his fattening frame, as he valet-parked with an obsequiousness from the attendants giving away his importance.

He was walking into a building that bore his name.

What must that feel like, Ever wondered, to have that money, that power, that control over your life, with no one to tell you there was nothing you couldn’t do, and still get such a bad hair dye job?

It was all going to stop for Mr Lorken though. It gave Ever a feeling of power greater than Mr Lorken could ever feel, it disturbed him in a way that made him realise his wish was from a head space that had mixed itself into a distorted mode. He felt in the second, and it only lasted for that second, that he needed help, and then, worryingly, it was gone. Which is the true sign of madness, really being able to deny its existence and justifying the extremity of one’s actions without the concept or awareness of a conscience.