The Truth about Ruby Valentine

by Alison Bond

  Kelly had no idea where to begin looking for a cab. It was beginning to get dark and the area was becoming less exciting and more unsafe, though that was probably her imagination. Just because a car had neon under-lighting and a massive speaker fixed to the outside didn’t necessarily mean there were gang members driving it, but she’d played a bit of Grand Theft Auto, which was one of Jez’s favourites. She knew about drive-bys.

  What was she doing here? Not here on the street but here in this strange city? She was starting to get anxious. She hated the feeling she got when she was stressed, the familiar tight band that constricted her chest, the surge of acid in her stomach and a mind that threatened to seize up under the weight of dread and couldn’t grasp simple thoughts. It wasn’t worth feeling this way. Strong emotions always confused her; she didn’t like the way they could grab you and wrench you from a sure foundation of good sense.

  She could find out about any inheritance by making some phone calls; she could hire a lawyer and get them to do it for her. She was being dramatic. Caught up in the tragic romance of an estranged mother’s funeral. What did she think she was going to do? Kneel next to the coffin and offer forgiveness? Perhaps throw in a single white rose along with a handful of earth? This wasn’t a made-for-TV movie and she wasn’t Tori Spelling. She would never meet Ruby, and nobody would ever see her again. Ever.

  As she was thinking this, Kelly looked across the street and there she was. A poster, advertising Ruby’s TV series Next of Kin, with Ruby’s face the size of a monster truck.

  Kelly may not have believed in signs, but the image was so timely that she laughed. Then an LAPD police car came by, shortly followed by a yellow taxi cab.

  Back at the hotel the receptionist had changed. Richard Gere must have finished his shift because now Queen Latifah had taken over. Kelly had been out for several hours.

  ‘Miss Coltrane, you have a package,’ she said, when Kelly asked for her key. ‘Would you like me to have someone bring it up to your room?’

  ‘I can take it myself,’ said Kelly, triggering a look of astonishment from the receptionist and denying a bell boy his tip.

  A package? From whom? The large cardboard box gave no clues. It was heavy, but not hugely so. She didn’t want to rattle it in case it was breakable, or Queen Latifah thought she was nuts. She rode up in the plush elevator and looked at her name written in an unfamiliar script. There was no address on the package, which must have been delivered by hand.

  She was excited. Who didn’t like mystery packages? Maybe this would be the start of something good. As soon as she was in her room she grabbed the silver envelope opener she’d thought she’d never use and slashed her way into the box.

  It was exactly what she wanted but the last thing she expected. Every single film that Ruby Valentine had ever made, on a pristine collection of DVDs. She was accosted by different versions of the same face, Ruby’s face, on the cover of each one.

  There was a piece of shiny fax paper tucked in between Viva Romance and Until Heaven. She opened it.

  Kel,

  Ordered these from our LA supplier and asked him to drop them off with you.

  Go on, don’t be scared, I know you want to.

  Love, Jez xxx

  And he’d drawn a smiley face (which sort of irritated her). There was an invoice enclosed stating that the cost had been paid in full by Jez and Glynn’s video shop. She didn’t think about how thoughtful he was to organize this, how his Los Angeles connections could have saved her time today, how much trouble he’d gone to. All she felt was that the private wall she had built around this experience had been breached.

  What gave Jez the right to assume that she’d want to see these films? There was no way he could have known for sure. He didn’t know how she’d be feeling. For all he knew she could be caught: in a spiral of grief that might only be compounded by a dozen different versions of Ruby’s face. If you looked at the situation that way, then Jez was taking a big chance and risked upsetting her. He didn’t know her well enough to take that risk. He wasn’t taking her feelings into consideration. Why would he want to hurt her? Why didn’t he ever think?

  At the back of her mind she knew she was being irrational, picking a fight with Jez although he wasn’t even here so that she could avoid doing something she was unsure about. But she couldn’t help it. It was too easy. After all, it was what she had done every time Jez sounded as if he was about to ask her to move in with him. She’d had plenty of practice.

  She pushed the box into the corner of the room. It was too late; she didn’t want to watch them any more. But lying alone in her kingsize that night, she freaked herself out by imagining little voices inside the box speaking to one another. All the voices belonged to one woman. Her mother. She’d waited all her life to get to know her and now she was nervous of what she might find out. And she scared herself by thinking that perhaps Jez really did know her after all.

  11

  Kelly was determined not to be the last person to arrive at Ruby Valentine’s funeral – Who’s this? Oh, it’s the afterthought – so she left her hotel way too early and arrived with almost an hour to spare. There were a few members of the press gathered outside the wrought-iron gates of the cemetery but she slipped past them without attracting a second glance.

  An area had been sectioned off with thick coils of red velvet rope and it looked deserted. The perimeter was being stalked by a couple of tall young men who had the ubiquitous look of out-of-work actors. Great teeth, shiny hair and bodies that obviously went to the gym at least three times a week. She swerved away from them. She didn’t want to be the first person to turn up for this particular party She checked that she had her passport. Max’s office had called that morning expressly to remind her that without photo ID nobody would get into the inner sanctum.

  The cemetery was a picturesque place, but far removed from the quietly crumbling graveyards Kelly had grown up with. Instead of moss-covered stone the headstones tended towards highly polished granite and marble of every colour. Cherubs of glass and metal perched on top here and there, dotting the ordered rows and catching the late sun like flashing tiaras. She wandered through the headstones, killing time by trying to spot famous dead people, and told herself not to feel nervous. She tugged at the hem of her suitably cheerless grey dress and hoped that it was neither too short nor too casual. Suddenly it seemed very important to make a good impression.

  Her stomach flip-flopped. She was nervous. Ruby’s secret daughter was out of the bag and she had a lot to live up to. She couldn’t help thinking that people would judge her by impossible standards. She wasn’t beautiful or glamorous like her mother had been, she was just Kelly Coltrane, and this was all frightening and new.

  Her thoughts kept drifting to Ruby, imagining things that had never happened, moments that they might have shared if her mother had stayed. A memory of her first white Christmas was altered in her mind like a digitally manipulated photograph, to insert Ruby there, throwing snowballs at an excited five-year-old girl. It was disturbingly easy to create false memories.

  She stopped walking and impatiently wiped a tear from her eye. It didn’t mean anything. It was only understandable that she should be affected by this place where her mother would be buried. It was a beautiful setting but everything was coated in sorrow, the personal inscriptions on each headstone making it harder to be cynical about the sometimes ostentatious taste. She couldn’t possibly be crying over Ruby. How can you miss something you have never had? But she’d felt that hole inside for so long that it had become a part of her memories. Kelly grew up wishing that her dad would find a wife, one whom she loved as much as he did, and who would fill that shadowy gap in their lives. A woman to make up for the one who had left them.

  She remembered that once her junior school had held a summer fête. Kelly’s class had all been told to bring something for the cake stall. It was not a big class, so it was impossible for Kelly’s sorry packet of Jaffa cakes, cut into shapes that wer
e supposed to be flowers but were actually just shapes, to go unnoticed. It wasn’t as if her dad hadn’t tried. First they had burnt a tray of flapjacks and then they had obscured the bottom of the oven with oozing sponge cake mixture that swelled alarmingly before deflating into mush. They’d had fun baking badly, and when her dad raced off to the general store on his pushbike, his coat flapping like a cape, she’d still thought he was Superman.

  It was only when she felt the sorry stares of all the mothers and stepmothers and older sisters, stares that were keener and more painful than the scorching sun overhead, that it occurred to her to be ashamed. Her plated offering was moved to the back of the stall and the delicate butterfly cakes and rich chocolate brownies took centre stage. They whispered about her and her dad, and the single women among their number threw themselves at Sean for the rest of the afternoon. But he wasn’t interested.

  ‘I have you,’ he’d said. ‘I don’t need anyone else.’

  But she did. Not just someone to save face at school events but to balance her, to complement her dad’s best efforts. Someone to turn to as she grew older and tried to work out what it meant to be a girl, with all the complications that brings, Kelly was twenty-five years old and she was still trying to figure it out.

  The clock was easing round to a more respectable hour and Kelly reluctantly started to retrace her steps. The butterflies inside her had taken on the energy of angry wasps. She forced herself to take deep breaths and listen to an internal monologue running through her head that said, You’ll be fine, you’ll be fine.

  She could see the front gates in the distance, where the press presence had swelled. She thought about what it must have been like for Ruby to live her life under constant scrutiny. Death hadn’t changed that, she would continue to be written about and photographs of her would still appear, until every last drop of her had been plumbed. How must it feel to have to share the events and drama of your life with the whole world? To exchange privacy for fame?

  She was almost back where she started, where she should have been, when she heard voices close to her, and instinctively ducked off the path. She half-crouched by a chunk of glossy black granite that said ‘Sonny Cesare – The Greatest’. The greatest what? Father? hover? Mechanic? Then she recognized one of the men. It was Max Parker.

  The pair had stopped a few yards away from her. The other man looked vaguely familiar, but she didn’t know whether this was because she would know him, or because he too had that actor manner about him, only this time it was fading as fast as his hairline. At first she thought that if she kept them within her line of vision she could be sure to arrive at the funeral neither too late nor too early, but then she stopped kidding herself, admitted that she was eavesdropping and concentrated.

  Max looked tired and edgy. He didn’t want to be there. The other man’s eyes kept shooting past him back towards the gates where the cameras still lay idle. ‘Who are they waiting for?’ he asked. ‘I thought it was just family’

  ‘I’m not family. Maybe Octavia was using the broader definition of the term. I don’t think Sofia’s here yet. Maybe she’s not coming’

  The other guy snorted. He obviously didn’t think much of Sofia. ‘Are you sure they’ll cover it?’

  ‘The funeral? Of course they’ll cover it,’ said Max. ‘Ruby was a legend.’

  ‘Once maybe.’

  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘Do you think I look okay?’

  Max nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘If Sofia’s a no-show I might get the main picture, what do you think?’

  Max pulled at his necktie. This conversation was making him uncomfortable. ‘Maybe,’ he said.

  ‘Although I guess there’s a chance they might lead with a shot of the coffin.’

  Max shuddered. The other man didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Did you give any thought to what we talked about?’

  ‘Vincent, I don’t think this is the time.’

  Kelly froze. Vincent. Of course. That was her half-brother. He was an actor, not a very good one by the look of his credits on imdb.com, an eighteen-month stint on a lesser soap opera and a few substandard movies starring nobody she’d ever heard of. She studied him with increased interest, waiting for an explanation. This wasn’t the time for what?

  ‘Max,’ Vincent said. ‘We need to capitalize on this exposure. The press are all over the Valentine brand right now. Can’t you at least sell my exclusive somewhere?’

  ‘I’ll try’

  Vincent had the dark hair that Octavia had bleached away, and the thick eyebrows she had plucked into submission. It was only in the eyes that you could see the twins reflected in each other. Dark brown eyes that gave nothing away. He did not look like a man attending the funeral of his mother. His smile was effortless and it was easy to tell that he wasn’t thinking about her today, he was thinking about himself.

  ‘It’s not that I need the money,’ said Vincent. ‘But I’ve been feeling almost like my career was drying up, you know? This happened at just the right time.’

  Max’s voice was cold. ‘I’m sure Ruby would be pleased to hear that.’

  Vincent slapped his forehead, then put his hand out to touch Max’s arm. ‘Hey, I didn’t mean…’ He realized that he had spoken inappropriately and an awkward silence descended. Vincent took on the look of a scolded child and shuffled his feet on the path.

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Max, and Vincent relaxed, picking up his smile without further remorse.

  ‘You’re my agent, man,’ he said. ‘I can talk to you about this stuff.’

  Kelly looked at her half-brother and tried to imagine ever getting to know him, or letting him know her. They would have nothing in common. She would have to get used to the idea that neither of the Valentine children would be a kindred spirit.

  A woman with auburn hair was striding towards them and Kelly was glad of the distraction. As both men turned towards the newcomer, Kelly slipped slightly further away so that she could emerge casually as if she hadn’t been hanging on their every world. She could still hear them.

  ‘Who’s the redhead?’ asked Vincent.

  ‘Dolores Murillo, the funeral planner.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes, seriously,’ said Max. ‘There’s the tribute as well of course.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The tribute. Sort of like a memorial service but bigger.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Vincent. ‘Bigger is cool, man.’ He had the vocabulary of a skateboarder and the look of a salesman.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ The redhead managed to shout and be respectfully classy at the same time. She was dressed in a sharp charcoal suit and a jet-black shirt. Her stiletto heels mashed into the pebbled pathways, making crunching noises with every step. We’re about to begin.’

  They followed her and Kelly followed them.

  She overheard Vincent try his luck as she walked a few paces behind.

  ‘So you’re a funeral planner?’ he said to Dolores.

  ‘Why? Dying?’

  Kelly smirked. She found Vincent distasteful – wasn’t he married?

  After a brief scramble for her ID at the roped entrance, during which she was certain that she’d lost her passport, she found an empty seat and looked around. There were only a handful of people. Octavia had a prime seat in the front row, a lace handkerchief clutched in one hand and a rather dour-looking man clutched in the other. Her husband, Kelly guessed, although he was several years her senior and didn’t look very pleased to be by her side.

  Max was there, of course, and next to him sat Vincent, holding hands with a vacant-looking brunette next to three restless children.

  And behind them, right at the back, was the good-looking guy she’d seen at the airport, wearing the same charcoal suit and tapping into the same mobile phone. She’d only seen him for a second but since then she’d thought about him more than once. She was positive it was the same man.

  This tall handsome stranger was a Valentine of th
e Ruby Valentines. How? Was it possible that she had another half-brother she didn’t know about? He caught her staring at him and gave her an almost-smile. She thought that he was trying to work out if he was already supposed to know her. Reluctantly, she turned her back on him and faced forward. She imagined she could still feel his eyes burning into the back of her head. All her other senses were focused in his direction and she heard the snap of his phone being closed and the shuffle of his body against the chair as he got comfortable.

  She saw Octavia look at her watch, scowl, and then nod at the planner, who motioned for the service to begin. Kelly took a massive gulp of air and let it out as slowly as she could. Here we go.

  At the precise moment that the minister opened his mouth to speak there was a commotion at the main gates of the cemetery. The quiet calm which had fallen over their party was interrupted by a constant barrage of shouting and the sound of running feet and tyres on the gravel. After a few seconds it was possible to hear what they were shouting. Above the chaos one word rang out louder than all the others: ‘Sofia!’

  Kelly saw a midnight-blue limo escape from the surrounding press pack and drive a short distance towards them, cutting up the perfect grass with its tyres. The limo stopped and Sofia Valentine climbed out of the back seat, all long legs and silver-blonde highlights.

  Kelly knew everything about Sofia Valentine even though they’d never met. The outrageous young model was always in the magazines, going to this party or that premiere. She was inoffensively sexy and had outrageous dress sense. Kelly had always wondered if the dumb blonde act was something Sofia put on to avoid answering difficult questions, to lower people’s expectations. Nobody who worked the media as shamelessly as she did could possibly be as clueless as she seemed. Maybe Kelly would get a chance to find out. A one-to-one conversation with Sofia Valentine, how would that go? Sofia fitted the role of Hollywood princess perfectly: her grandmother was Hollywood royalty and she was blonde and skinny, with big breasts that she always insisted were natural. It was as if the family glamour gene had skipped the twins and landed on Sofia with the force of an asteroid, obliterating anything that stood in its way.