Lomita For Ever

by Trevor Eve

  Here he could say sorry, sorry cunt face, and move on: but with a gun there was no need for the word. The word ‘sorry’ would be redundant. It was not changeable, he would have committed an irreversible act.

  All acts are irreversible. That’s the problem.

  Now thrown out and on the ground, he desperately tried to hold onto the thought of what it would be like after the shot.

  Would his father feel better?

  Would his work be better after the disposal of the man who got it wrong?

  Would Ever be better?

  Would Ever be forgiven?

  By whom and for what?

  Everyone would know. Everyone would know. Everyone would know.

  He rolled on the pavement, to get more comfortable, and was happy to stay rolling. There was a man asking him for money, with the flap of a piece of paper.

  The check. The twenty-five-dollar check.

  ‘Fuck you.’

  A kick.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Another kick.

  ‘Here’s forty.’

  ‘Fuck off, jerk.’

  The man said taking the dollars.

  Ever’s dad could never go there again.

  It was a shame; he enjoyed having a drink with his dad in Chez Jay’s. He started the walk to the pier, the Santa Monica Pier, not just any old pier, virtually opposite. The sun was down and at the end of the pier he looked at the water. The water, the ocean that contained his father’s ashes. He threw his bloodied tissue into the sea as a kind of communion with his father: pointless but with the right sentiment. Blood and burnt body mix.

  Alive and dead.

  Crumbling and crumbled.

  He could not let go of the handrail, was touching over and over again the metal rail that ran horizontally one below the other, bottom, second and top, bottom, second, third, top. He was on a roll, just a bad one. He was stuck. Stuck and truly fucked, but determined.

  It was his life he wanted over.

  His own. Life.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  He was about to ask when; when as had happened before between them – she just said.

  ‘Wednesday. I should, or we should, go on Wednesday.’

  ‘Fine. I will let them know.’

  There was no mention of his disappearance or the swelling around his right eye or the gash across the top of his nose.

  She was out of the picture, Lomita, she wanted no part; she thought he would change; she hadn’t realised the possibility of this persistence. Going to see the paintings would sort it out. Would it though, Lomita?

  The evening meal was a replica of the previous night.

  They were like the military: waiting for a mission to be called. There was an air of suspense; the night’s business took the same pattern. Two pills for him and a goodnight with no physical touch from her.

  *

  Friday brought a different Lomita.

  She woke with a determination. Manita was in preparation mode, he could hear the sound of a hair dryer, clothes were brought out and steamed in the laundry room. Lomita took all afternoon to get ready, metamorphosing at six o’clock.

  She looked to Ever the quintessence of perfection, the smell that qualified his appreciation wafted across as he was sitting at the piano, making no attempt at playing, he couldn’t – a tune anyway – she bravely walked with her sliver fist-handled cane to the door.

  ‘Bring the Suburban round.’

  She ordered, politely. Still having made no reference to his absence and his mess of a face. He had thought that she had given up. His time was up, come in. Time up. Roll back a few weeks. You’re on your own.

  Tolerance over.

  *

  Lomita Nairn arrived at North Crescent Drive with Ever driving the black Suburban.

  Ever helped her out of the car to the front door where a member of staff, outfitted in black, was already waiting, having buzzed them in at the gate. The two iron gates had moved with the majesty of a liner across the granite-paved driveway.

  Ever wanted so much to be present at the dinner, wanted to hear the conversation, grasp the attitude of this man, to be that fly. But Lomita in her role, playing it to perfection, instructed him, with a please, to stay with the car.

  ‘Do you see, then I won’t have to call when I am ready to leave.’

  And with the support of her stick taking over from Ever’s arm she walked with confidence across the hallway, following another member of staff, into the nothing-less-than-expected grandeur of the living room, where guests were already gathered.

  Versailles came to mind, Lomita thought to herself – why would a man who had hired Frank Gehry to build a gallery live in a house that was paying tribute to the past?

  It looked like a French chateau, not really a small version: it was an enormous property. Why the hell wouldn’t it be?

  The walk past the exquisite organisation of plants had been illuminated by soft and invisible light leading to the twenty-foot-high wrought iron and glass double doors.

  On entering, the first visual intake was the art. This presented an anomaly, a man known for his comprehensive collection of post-war contemporary art and all the art that she could see on the walls, appeared, as far as she could tell, to be old masters. Well, old anyway, the masters tag just seemed to trip into her thoughts as appropriate in this environment.

  Lomita always arrived ten minutes after the stated time on the invitation, she liked an entrance.

  She was making one.

  She was wearing the kingfisher blue Valentino, in silk, with chiffon sleeves cuffed at the wrist; a large bow was tied in the blue silk at her neck; the skirt was in soft pleats ending at mid-calf; with the bow occupying her neck, she wore a diamond bracelet that sat on top of the cuff and grasped her wrist with a tightness that allowed the minimum of movement, just the softness of an occasional flop, a little rattle and roll. Her soft greying hair was in a french pleat. A pin with a diamond, like a chopstick, was randomly but perfectly placed in her hair. Every inch was refinement and beauty: a beauty that might be fading but still had sufficient dazzle to wash over the guests as the introductions were taking place.

  She was nervous, this was not familiar territory for Lomita, not for many years, and she had the desire to pee, to use the bathroom, but thought how odd that would appear on arrival. How old and incontinent. Maybe she just wanted to pee and claim some territory. She was first greeted by Dinah Lorken, who introduced herself, understandably, as Ingmar Lorken’s wife; she walked Lomita across the marble floor, at a considerate pace, acknowledging the need for the use of the cane, to be introduced to a Japanese gentleman, elegantly dressed in all black Yohji Yamamoto.

  ‘Madam.’

  He bowed as he spoke and stopped his head inches from the back of Lomita’s hand, which he had taken in offer of a formal handshake.

  ‘Daizō Mori. I suppose I am acting as a kind of cultural attaché, on behalf of Japan, obviously.’

  This was followed by a smile, and in the style of an intimate confession, he leaned closer:

  ‘I think I am here as an extremely inadequate replacement, in the absence of Yusaku Maezawa.’

  This time the smile was accompanied by a laugh as he enjoyed his moment of self-deprecation.

  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 Shabb
at 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.

  Ever felt rather inadequate as stories of fitness and endurance and Rigo’s regular training regime were discussed; although enjoying the tobacco even without marijuana, he wanted the time on his own and brought the conversation to a polite conclusion at the first I’ve-listened-enough-this-is-a-polite-moment-to-leave moment. Which coincided with the finished cigarette going to ground to be crushed underfoot.

  Rigo looked at him, hard, he had most certainly broken a rule, and he bent down and picked up the butt just as one of the staff came forward with a dustpan and brush contraption, both with long handles that negated the need for bending; the remaining ash was swept up and the dustpan offered as a receptacle for Ever’s crunched cigarette. No class, thought Ever, he had no class. He wandered back to his own shiny black mass and transferred his guilt from father to wife. The tennis game of guilt.

  He sat in the car with the door open to receive the night air, he was sure running the engine would also be a rule broken, and plugged his ears to listen to Lana.

  If there was a person to go back into one’s life with a burden of doubt it was Lana Del Rey.

  He had graduated from Sussex University in economics; then did a year at law school in London; and was now working at a hedge fund company at their legal offices which were in Chandos Street, just by the Langham Hotel where he often went in for a cocktail after a day at work. Work that he was finding increasingly unrewarding. He had a good income and after two years had been able to purchase a mews house in Bayswater, London W2.

  Although politically opposed, the physical attraction was there and it was not long before items of Clarissa’s were spending more time in Ever’s mews house than they did in Oxford Gardens, which she was still sharing with Amy.

  Along with the chronic sleep disorder diagnosis, she had started to explore, much to his annoyance, the confusion of his body ownership, mainly because Ever had always put forward the alien theory: that he was an alien. She explored the possibility, he always assumed in a sense of joking, that if an anterior portion of his temporal lobes had been removed as a treatment for his early onset epilepsy, a petit mal, that had been associated with developing adolescence, this could then explain his mental state, his alien, outside feeling. His own personal depersonalisation-derealisation syndrome. But he hadn’t had the invasive procedure of a temporal lobectomy; at least he didn’t think he had; at least he hoped he hadn’t; but he supposed if he had then it was possible that the ownership and control of his body was not his own. That would have been a result.

  But he had no scar on his head, well, only the one he got playing rugby from a kick in the head that produced a concussion, and he couldn’t remember anything for a few days afterwards.

  Oh God no, come on. Ridiculous. Agency and ownership.

  Ever was not the best to contradict this argument as he never really thought he inhabited his own body and was not in control of it. An excuse, oh Ever, as ever.

  Ever had explored this phenomenon with the use of ketamine, for a short time: a drug that really induces the idea of one’s limbs not being one’s own. But that had never produced a surprise in Ever. He felt completely at home with that feeling, it wasn’t alien to him, just normal. Ketamine ultimately altered no state of his: it was a short-lived experiment.

  It was a pretty good reason for the mood swings, though, the chronic sleep thing and the question of ownership due to possible interference of the temporal lobes. But it was something he refused to consider; in the daylight hours anyway.

  The creeping obsessive compulsive disorder, however, he kept to himself, the whole time, no one has ever known; therapist; psychiatrist; any of the jumble. No one was any the wiser as to how many times he had to turn lights off or open and close doors or touch things to the count of whatever was comfortable, which would then would allow the release of the touch.

  Of course, there was no point, beyond earning money, in his world; maybe he just knew that and it was as simple as that. Maybe he had given up. She tried to educate him in sleep discipline, even sent him for three days to a sleep clinic, but he just kept taking the pills, to force himself through the night to enable getting up early to be at work by 7.30 – when the first deals that he would be overseeing would come through.

  Deals from the far east, Tokyo: he would always contact his father at this time, in Los Angeles, and they would chat or email, his father being a night owl, or just a non-sleeper. He always felt the need to communicate with him, every day. The closeness he felt towards his father was unlike anything else he felt, or anything he had felt with anyone else. As the time zone swept west and made the London hours appropriate, he dealt with Russia and Africa. Acquisitions that he had to go through in exhausting detail to make sure no illegalities were taking place. Ruthless business practice did not count as an illegality, and the job wore down even his limited social conscience.

  He had his first bout of serious depression and anxiety after they had been together for only six months, Clarissa was able to help him through that. They had been together for twelve months when they went to the registry office, with Amy as the witness, and got married, not bothering to tell his mother – she was living in her own oblivion in Birmingham – but telling his father, who was living in his own private hell in Los Angeles. A hell that at that time Ever was unaware of in its full context, thinking his father was painting and still able to live off the amount, he had understood to be substantial, which had been paid for his catalogue of work by the art collector Ingmar Lorken.

  But he had sensed a break in the man: broken by Lorken.

  Something that had gone from him; his need to tell Ever the details of his days had gone. The closeness was breaking apart. More crumbling.

  *

  Clarissa’s parents had come down from Liverpool for the wedding. They were as fun and charming and easy-going as always and they expected nothing from life. Ever was a little jealous of the bond that Clarissa had with her parents; the pride that they showed in her achievements. They seemed to be just happy, as everything that happened they took with gratitude, turned the bad around into good, one way or another.

  That was something else Ever envied; he f
elt a stranger wherever he was: home was a place he had never had the comfort of recognising.

  He reflected, looking along the perfect line of cypress trees, that it was because he never told anyone about his actions or his thoughts, mostly because he felt they were his business, but partly because he was genuinely ashamed. He felt that this contributed to the lack, of whatever it was in his relationship, but it was a lack, because he could never truly be known for who he really was. After all, he didn’t know who to present as himself.

  Who was he?

  In a way Clarissa really had married an ethereal alien being.

  That made him smile.

  He lived a series of secrets.

  He even lied to his therapist and found out early on that he could really say anything he wanted; the therapist, when he suggested to her that he could just talk rubbish, said that they were trained to see through that, but he knew she wasn’t. He could project a mood or a state that she would entirely believe, not that it was helping him, but he liked the idea of being able to manipulate people who thought they were manipulating him. Cleverer than him: like his wife.

  Ever was convinced he would be the one to struggle first in both his job and his marriage; his increasing bouts of depression made both become harder and he developed a disenchantment.

  But it was not him: it was Clarissa who became disillusioned. She started an open criticism of the ethics, the morality of his work, the social irresponsibility of it all, and spent time returning to see her parents in Liverpool, eventually leaving her job as an in-house counsellor and working as a freelance to individual private patients. But she found the work demoralising; her patients would fall off the wagon and return to their habit, or transfer to another addiction, sometimes after years of being clean.

  Ever was unaware initially that she had made contact with Adam again, the violinist, although she claimed when she went to see him, she was always open about it, that it was merely a friendship; they had history and they enjoyed the discussions of the past and of their failed dreams and ambitions: he felt there was something more. This and his work led to his major collapse – the Big One – when he ended up being institutionalised. By this point his relationship with Clarissa had moments of punishing cruelty. He witnessed in her a temper and an anger that he had never been aware of before.