by Heidi Rice
‘The residue of my estate, and most specifically The Royale Cinema, is to be shared equally between my dearest friend Ruby Elizabeth Graham of Flat 22c Carmel Estate, Maida Vale High Road, London W9 1DZ and the son of Rafael Falcone, Luke Marlon Devlin of Devlin Properties, 10 West 12th Street, New York, New York 10015.’
‘Matty left me half of The Royale?’ The girl had finally stopped choking. But instead of looking pissed – which Luke would have expected, seeing as she’d obviously gone above and beyond the call of duty to be entitled to a much bigger share of the guy’s realty – the girl simply sounded stunned.
Luke wondered what she was stunned about. That her sugar daddy had only left her half of the theatre, or that he’d left the other half to some guy he’d never met? Because he knew both of those things were stunning him. That and the weird decision in the will to only mention that Luke was Falcone’s son instead of the much more relevant fact that his mom was Matthew Devlin’s sister. Thanks to his own face, and his mother’s gossip-hogging decision never to confirm or deny publicly who Luke’s father was, his parentage was easily the worst-kept secret in Hollywood – but what the heck did Falcone being his old man have to do with his mom’s brother? He hated not having all the facts. And he hated unscripted surprises even more.
He’d only come today because he had time before his meeting in Canary Wharf and his mom had started mugging him with emojis as soon as he’d turned his cell back on this morning. He was supposed to be here as her representative, at the lawyer’s request. No way had he been prepared for this, though, and he didn’t like it. He’d spent the whole of his childhood dealing with the slings and arrows of his mom’s outrageous behaviour, now he was going to have to deal with his uncle’s freaky shit from beyond the grave – not to mention the lady in red who was now gaping at him with red-rimmed, luminous-green eyes which matched the colour of her hangover.
Luke shifted in his seat, feeling vaguely uncomfortable under that stunned gaze – which was also weird. He didn’t know this girl from Adam. He hadn’t asked for a part in this melodrama. And he was well used to people gaping at him, because they’d been doing it ever since he hit puberty and the striking resemblance to his father had made him the focus of a spotlight he’d never chosen and done every damn thing he could to avoid.
But there was something about the way she was gaping at him that felt different than all the other invasive stares he’d become immune to over the years. For once, the light flush on her apple cheeks, the brutal smudges under her eyes and the stunned distress making her expression even more transparent and vulnerable than it had been at the cemetery, seemed to be actually directed at him – instead of the phantom of a long-dead and wildly over-rated movie star.
‘Yes, he did, Ms Graham,’ the lawyer confirmed. ‘As I said, he also had several other bequests and stipulations. He would like to have his ashes scattered over the Serpentine in Hyde Park. And he wants you to have the exclusive use of the flat above the theatre.’ The lawyer shuffled through some more pages, and the girl’s gaze shifted away from Luke and towards Ryker.
A tiny drop of moisture slipped from the corner of her eye when she blinked. The lawyer continued to outline the myriad weird clauses in the will again, as the tear slid over her cheekbone and down the side of her face. Just as the drop curled under her chin, she brushed it away with the tissue screwed up in her fist.
Luke tore his gaze from her profile and evened out his breathing to release the tightness in his ribs, annoyed at becoming momentarily transfixed by the track of her tear. He wasn’t one of those guys who got freaked out by a woman’s tears – or anyone’s tears, for that matter – because he’d learned at an early age every possible way crying jags and assorted other histrionics could be used to manipulate your emotions. He considered his cynicism one of the upsides of having an award-winning actress for a mother who found it all but impossible to separate her real life from the roles she played. But there was something about that solitary drop and the indignant way it had been wiped away, that bugged him.
He shook off the observation, and the unfamiliar moment of empathy.
There was no point in contemplating the depth of Ruby Graham’s grief, because it would only make this situation more melodramatic – and they were already heading towards Argentine telenovela territory.
‘Let me get this straight,’ he said, interrupting the lawyer’s flow of bequests to what Luke guessed had to be the other employees at the movie theatre. ‘I’ve now got a half-share in this movie theatre in …’ He hesitated, trying to recall the address the lawyer had mentioned. ‘Where is this place, exactly?’
The lawyer opened his mouth, but the girl interrupted him.
‘The Royale is the premiere independent art-house cinema in Notting Hill,’ she said, her voice jagged with indignation. ‘Well, North North Notting Hill. It’s on Talbot Road opposite the Tesco Metro. We’re open seven days a week, for a mix of first showings on weekends and a collection of classic retrospectives during the week. We run screenings for homeless families and school kids in conjunction with the council, an apprenticeship programme for under-25s, and a matinee club for local pensioners. We’re an essential part of the community but we also host gala nights – our last one sold out in three hours.’ She gulped in a breath, before continuing. ‘In short, The Royale is a West London institution and has been ever since Matty bought the derelict Art Deco cinema in 1988 and stopped it from being flattened and turned into a petrol station.’
All he’d wanted was an address, but the fierce passion as she gave him the low-down on the movie house made it clear the place was a lot more than just an address to her, so he didn’t bother cutting her off. Once he’d heard the words Notting Hill, though, his mood had brightened. The fancy area of West London was one of the prime property locations in the realty capital of Europe. Owning a half-share of anything there would be worth a fair chunk of change – and a movie theatre would surely have a large footprint.
‘How many seats?’ he asked.
‘Excuse me?’ she said, blinking at him like a baby bear cub who had just come out of hibernation and wasn’t sure where she was. Obviously, her long-winded speech had taken it out of her.
‘How many seats have you got at West London’s premiere art-house institution?’ he asked again, attempting to get a handle on the building’s dimensions.
‘One hundred and twenty. We had to take out twenty-five seats five years ago to open up a bar at the back of the auditorium – which Matty installed to increase our revenue.’
She deflated then, the green tinge becoming more pronounced. He could see the headache in her eyes, but stifled the unwanted sting of sympathy. Her hangover was her business, but the movie theatre was now his, or fifty percent his. He didn’t like the apologetic look when she mentioned the words “increase our revenue”. He had a sixth sense for good business investments – and crummy ones – and he was already getting the impression The Royale was the latter.
‘How’s that going? The revenue?’
She straightened, re-inflating herself with an effort, but he caught the hesitation and the flicker of something – which had all of his crummy investment antennae going on to high alert.
‘It’s going very well, thank you,’ she said.
Yeah, right. He wasn’t buying it.
‘So you’re in profit? You’re not running at a loss?’
She nodded, but that luminous-green gaze slipped away from his as she did so.
‘What was your turnover last year?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know the figures.’ She propped her chin up and glared at him, but the bright flush highlighting the sprinkle of freckles over her nose didn’t make her look any more convincing. ‘Matty handled the books. But I’m sure Mr Ryker will let you know all the details of The Royale’s finances once the will has been finalised.’
He heard it then, the snap of resentment he’d been expecting earlier. She was pissed now. He ignored the pang of somethin
g resembling admiration at the show of indignation. It certainly was not his business she seemed to have a bigger attachment to a failing movie theatre than she did to the chance to cash in on what sounded like a lucrative property portfolio.
‘I guess so.’ He shrugged and switched his attention to the lawyer. ‘When do you think that will be?’ He was heading to Europe tomorrow for a series of meetings but he could swing back through London on his way home a week from Friday. He had no pressing business in Manhattan that couldn’t be postponed. And he had to admit he was intrigued now. Despite what the girl seemed to think, he wasn’t here to cash in on a legacy he hadn’t earned. If the business was making a profit and keeping her and her friends employed, he was more than happy to be a silent partner.
If, on the other hand, it was a failing business, which had debts he would have to finance as a part-owner, then he was not prepared to inherit fifty percent of that liability. The last remnants of being broad-sided by a two-by-four finally faded as the reason for Matthew Devlin’s batshit bequest became blindingly obvious, once again confirming Luke’s lack of faith in human nature – and surprise bequests from relatives you’d never met. That had to be why the old guy had left him a half-share of his estate – because he knew Luke was a successful businessman with a large pool of investment capital at his fingertips. Matthew Devlin was obviously as much of a mercenary romantic as his sister. The cunning bastard had probably figured if he named Luke in his will, he would be able to coerce him into stepping in and helping finance his vanity project and keeping his girlfriend solvent, based on some erroneous concept of kinship. That wasn’t gonna happen, because Matthew Devlin’s cunning will strategy had miscalculated by one important degree.
Luke did not do sentiment, in business or in his private life. And he had more than enough liabilities already when it came to family. Keeping tabs on his kid sister, bailing his reckless younger brother out of scraps and handling the fallout whenever their mother went rogue was all the bullshit responsibilities he needed in his life. He was not about to acquire any more – especially from people he didn’t even know, and wasn’t closely related to, no matter how luminous their eyes, or how genuine their tears.
‘I can email you all the financial projections for The Royale’s business later today,’ the lawyer said. ‘The accountancy firm are working on them now. Obviously, finalising the estate will take a little longer, as Matty’s was an unexpected death. As the executor, I can …’
‘Not a problem,’ Luke cut in, before the guy could launch into another long list of details. He now had less than an hour to get to Canary Wharf for the meeting he’d set up with some venture capitalists from Delhi to make this detour to London at his mother’s insistence worthwhile. ‘You can reach me at The Grant on Park Lane until tomorrow if you need to speak to me in person.’ Standing, he fished his wallet out of his jacket pocket and slapped his business card on the lawyer’s desk. ‘Otherwise, email over the financials when you have them. Are we done here?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ the lawyer said, looking flustered for the first time since Luke had walked into the room.
Leaning across the desk, Luke shook his hand. Then, as he turned to offer Ruby Graham his hand, she shot out of her seat, her freckles beaming out of her flush-like spotlights.
‘Wait a minute. That’s it? Where are you going?’ she demanded.
He shoved his now redundant proffered hand into his pocket. ‘I have a meeting in Canary Wharf in …’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Fifty-eight minutes.’
‘Can’t you cancel your meeting? Surely sorting out Matty’s final wishes is more important than any meeting?’
Not to me, he thought, but didn’t say. Her lip was trembling, and while he was totally, one hundred percent immune to women’s tears, he did not want her to start bawling or he’d miss his meeting.
‘We won’t be able to figure anything out today,’ he said, keeping his voice firm and impersonal, so as not to set her off. Luckily, he was an expert at dealing with women on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Thanks, Mom. ‘Once I’ve gone over the financials, we can talk about what we’re going to do next.’
‘What do you mean, what we’re going to do next? We’re going to run The Royale …’ Her throat constricted as she swallowed. ‘Together,’ she added, the word propelled on a torturous puff of breath. ‘It’s what Matty would have wanted.’
Yeah, but Matty’s dead.
It’s what he wanted to say. What he would have said if he wasn’t trying to diffuse the situation instead of have it blow up in his face. And if he hadn’t watched that damn tear track down her cheek and disappear into a wad of damp tissue.
‘I’ll be back in town Friday next.’ At which point he could only hope she would have gotten herself under control. ‘We can talk then.’
‘Um, yes, okay.’ He was surprised to see her brighten. But also grateful. At least she wasn’t going to have her nervous breakdown today. ‘That could work.’ Her mouth tipped up in a smile, which looked remarkably guileless for a woman who had shacked up with a guy twice her age just to get her hands on a half-share in a movie theatre. ‘If you come to the cinema, we could introduce you to the true wonder of The Royale and everything you’ve inherited,’ she finished with a flourish.
He didn’t give a damn about The Royale, or the wonders of what he had inherited. But her enthusiasm for the place was obvious, and a lot easier to handle than her grief, or her enmity, or her detachment from reality, so he gave her a curt nod.
‘My assistant will be in touch,’ he said.
He didn’t want to go to the theatre. Why would he? The movie industry had caused him nothing but trouble his whole life. And he knew exactly how fake the wonders of everything associated with the movies were. Plus, he should know by next week what the bottom line was with the place, so he could communicate his plans over the phone or, better yet, via email through his administrative assistant. Right now, he had somewhere else he needed to be, so he headed for the door.
By Friday next, he should have all the facts at his fingertips – so he could explain to Ruby Graham in words of one syllable what was and was not going to work for him, crummy business ventures-wise.
***
As Devlin walked out of Ryker’s office, Ruby was still processing the flicker of distaste that had shadowed his expression when she’d suggested he come to The Royale. He had exited stage left before she’d gotten enough of her wits back to realise she could not let him leave – not before getting a much firmer commitment from him than, “My assistant will be in touch”.
After spending most of her life getting fobbed off by pretty much everyone except Matty and her friends at The Royale, Ruby was getting much better at spotting a con job when she saw one. Like her mum, when she swore she would never hook up with another creep again while getting dolled up to head out to Pete’s Wine Bar so she could hook up with another creep; or the school careers’ counsellor who had been so enthusiastic about Ruby’s determination to become a film director, before sending her on a ton of interviews for minimum-wage jobs in retail; or the baby-faced decorator who had charmed her into paying him an upfront deposit last year with all of his convincing talk about how he could repaint The Royale’s foyer on a shoestring, only to disappear from the face of the earth as soon as he’d pocketed the fifty quid from petty cash.
A dizzying rush of purpose and determination – which had been conspicuous by its absence ever since Matty’s death – flooded her bloodstream.
‘Mr Ryker, I have to go, too,’ she said, swinging her bag over her shoulder. ‘If you could email me all the details of the Will that would be terrific.’
‘Certainly, Ms Graham,’ Ryker said, but his words were lost in the buzz of adrenaline as she shot out the door after Devlin – frantic to stop him and get some kind of actual commitment.
She clattered down the stairs and burst into the street. Devlin stood on the pavement fifteen feet away, about to step into a black cab. She almo
st missed him because he’d donned a green baseball cap, which totally clashed with his dark blue Tom Ford suit. How odd.
‘Mr Devlin?’ she shouted and waved. ‘Wait!’
His head snapped round and he paused. ‘Ms Graham, don’t shout out my name.’ Although his face was obscured by the baseball cap, she could hear the frown in his voice as she jogged towards him. She ignored it. She was on a mission here, a mission that suddenly seemed crucial to the survival of her home and her business.
Her business.
It took her a moment to recalibrate her breathing.
Well, half of her business, as the other half was Luke Devlin’s.
I own half of The Royale now.
I won’t let you down, Matty. I swear on the ruby slippers. I’ll keep our dream alive. Even if it means stealing Luke Devlin’s broomstick.
Okay, perhaps that was a bit much.
Luke Devlin was certainly a lot hotter than the Wicked Witch of the West. That said, he had a pinched look on his face by the time she reached him that would have rivalled Miss Gulch’s sour expression after being savaged by Toto.
‘Please, I need to talk to you, it really won’t take long,’ she said, a little breathless – either from her mad dash to catch him, or Devlin’s phenomenal bone structure. Because even with his face obscured, his resemblance to a movie star whose poster had been pinned on her bedroom door all through her teenage years was so striking it was breath-taking. Literally.
‘Here, mate, you getting in or not? I haven’t got all day,’ the cabbie said with typical London taxi driver savoir faire.
Devlin directed his frown at the driver. It was all the opportunity Ruby needed.
‘If you could just hear me out,’ she begged unashamedly. ‘You can get another cab in a minute. This really won’t take long and there’s not too much traffic this time of day, you’ll get to Canary Wharf in no time.’