by Heidi Rice
I will keep The Royale open. I will keep The Royale open. I will, I will, I will. Even if it means landing a house on Luke Devlin.
‘So, keep an eye out for details of the next Matty’s Classics movie on our Facebook page, our Instagram and Twitter accounts and the local—’
She stopped talking abruptly as a tall figure dressed in black, even down to his baseball cap, slipped through the double doors at the front of house and joined the back of the crowd in the foyer.
The raw spot grew as the bill of his ball cap lifted and that startlingly blue gaze locked on her face.
He came. He actually came.
People’s heads swivelled round, trying to locate the reason for Ruby’s sudden silence. She coughed, struggling to recall what the heck she had been saying.
With his shoulders hunched, his hands buried in his pockets and that baseball cap tilted back over the top half of his face, Devlin was doing his best to be invisible.
Was that why he had arrived so late?
‘So, my fellow citizens, let’s Follow the Yellow Brick Road to Oz,’ she managed, while she really wanted to shout, at the top of her lungs: “Pay no attention to the man standing at the back of the foyer!”
But it was already too late. A few people at the front of the crowd clapped, while others entered the auditorium, but the bulk of the crowd’s attention had shifted to the back of foyer and the whispers began.
‘Bloody hell, is that Falcone?’
‘He’s dead. Who hired the Falcone lookalike? He’s worth every penny.’
‘It’s his son, remember he was at the cremation.’ This from Glinda whose voice was so rough with awe, it was as if she were about to start levitating.
Devlin really should have followed the dress code if he wanted to remain inconspicuous, Ruby thought, as she stumbled off the podium and shoved her way towards the muscular figure in black standing out like a sore thumb in a sparkling sea of green and assorted other primary colours.
‘I should take a selfie and put it on our Instagram account,’ Jacie piped up as she joined Ruby in her trek across the foyer. ‘It’ll be great for business.’
‘Not sure that’s a good idea,’ Ruby cautioned, feeling like Dorothy wading through a field full of drugged poppies – the crowd and the deep sense of foreboding closing in around her.
She got as far as Gerry who was standing a foot from Devlin, looking more awestruck than Glinda. ‘He’s the guest of honour?’ he hissed in a theatrical whisper that Devlin had to be able to hear. ‘Oh. My. Can I say hello to him?’
‘No!’ Ruby said, attempting to muscle Gerry out of the way. But their bulky Scarecrow wouldn’t be budged.
‘Hello, Mr Falcone— I mean, Devlin.’ Gerry launched himself forward, breaking through the exclusion zone around Devlin that had been created by the industrial strength back-the-fuck-off vibes pumping off him. ‘I’m Gerry,’ he said grasping Devlin’s hand. ‘I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself at the funeral,’ he continued, pumping Devlin’s fingers as if he were trying to win an arm-wrestling contest. ‘It’s so wonderful to see Matty’s nephew here. It’s not often we have a bona fide celebrity in our midst. Would you like an Emerald-arita?’
Oh, shit. Gerry was hitting on him.
‘I’m good, thanks,’ Devlin said smoothly, managing to extricate his hand.
Ruby side-stepped Gerry, but before she could get close enough to rescue Devlin, Jacie shoved past her.
‘Hi, I’m Jacie Ryan. It’s so sick that you’re here at The Royale.’
Ruby winced as Jacie grabbed the hand Gerry had only just released.
‘And we’re even more excited one of Matty’s own family will be part of our fam now,’ Jacie said, then reached inside the pocket of her floaty pink Seventies skirt.
The blood drained out of Ruby’s face.
Please, Jacie, please don’t …
‘Hope you don’t mind if I take some shots for our Instagram account?’ she asked whipping her phone out.
‘I’d rather you …’ Devlin began, but before he could issue a cease-and-desist notice, Jacie – who was their social media guru as well as the assistant manager – had positioned her iPhone and snapped off about twenty shots.
The sound triggered the rest of the crowd, and suddenly, Devlin’s exclusion zone was history. Everyone poured forward en masse like Munchkins waking up to the joyous news the Wicked Witch was dead. They shouted greetings, tried to shake his poor abused hand, and congratulated him on his stunning resemblance to ‘a cinematic icon of the first water’ – this last compliment from Beryl, the septuagenarian head of the pensioners’ club and their matinee cashier who’d had a crush on Falcone about twenty years longer than Ruby.
It was a bloodbath. Instead of the buoyant, beautiful introduction to the glowing fabulousness of The Royale Ruby had anticipated, she was watching a reboot of The Wizard of Oz as directed by Quentin Tarantino, the carnage in agonising slow-motion.
Why had she thought inviting Devlin to their first Matty’s Classics gala evening would be a good idea? Why hadn’t she at least briefed everyone on the proper etiquette when greeting this guy? He’d said he didn’t want any fuss. She should have known this would be their reaction. She knew most of these people. And she loved them. But not one of them knew how to behave when getting the chance to meet a long-dead cinematic icon made flesh.
Having Luke Devlin walk among them was like witnessing the Second Coming of Christ … but with much better hair and cheekbones.
Devlin’s body language was still screaming ‘back the hell off’ and his frown had become catastrophic. But when his gaze connected with Ruby’s over the heads of the Munchkin mob, instead of fury, or distain, what she saw was panic.
Then he mouthed something at her, and she didn’t have to be a lip-reader to understand it.
Help!
Jolted out of her trance, Ruby clapped her hands above her head.
‘Everyone, chill the hell out!’ she shouted in her best Arnie-as-The Terminator voice.
The crowd turned as one, shocked into silence – which was precisely why she kept Arnie for special occasions.
‘Mr Devlin is not here to fulfil your Falcone fantasies,’ she said, striding past Jacie and Gerry to get to their guest of honour and grip his forearm. The flex of sinew beneath the expensive cashmere of his sweater had her Arnie voice taking a detour into Annie territory. ‘Mr Devlin now owns half of The Royale. And if we don’t want him to shut us down, we need to treat him with respect.’
‘Who said anything about getting shut down?’ Jacie’s mouth fell open in horror.
Balls, that was too much Arnie and not enough Annie, because the Munchkins – who weren’t known for their lack of drama – were all staring at her as if she’d just reanimated the Wicked Witch of the East and helped her wrestle the ruby slippers off Dorothy.
‘It’s okay, Jace,’ she said. ‘Everyone. Everything’s great. Errol’s waiting to start the movie, so I think we should head into the cinema,’ she added hurriedly, scrambling to take the tremble out of Gerry’s bottom lip – and the shock out of everyone else’s eyes.
‘Mr Devlin, would you like to join me?’ she asked, cutting through the crowd towards the auditorium, keeping a firm grip on her guest’s elbow, despite the goose bumps ricocheting up her arm. His forearm beneath the cashmere was quite spectacular. ‘We have a seat for you at the back – where no one is going to bother you,’ she said casting an evil eye over everyone they passed.
‘I’ll bet,’ he said, raising a sceptical eyebrow. The panic had gone, if it had ever been there in the first place. She must have imagined it. He didn’t look like the type to get freaked out by a load of overeager film buffs.
‘No, really,’ she said. ‘Are you still happy to stay?’ she added, not wanting to give him a choice, but knowing she had to.
She waited for his reply, aware of the silence, as if the whole theatre was holding its breath. But thank god, no one said anything. And no one app
roached him.
He nodded, finally. ‘Yeah, I guess so. I’m here now.’
It was hardly a fulsome endorsement, but she’d take it.
She led him into the auditorium and to one of the two-seater sofas right at the back, which she had reserved for them both. The rest of the audience filed in behind them. Every single one of them stared at him while trying to look as if they weren’t staring at him.
He took the seat nearest the wall and ignored the attention.
The house lights went down at last, cocooning them in darkness, and the film’s opening credits began, accompanied by the opening bars of the overture.
‘Would you like a drink? On the house,’ she whispered as everyone finally found their seats and stopped whispering and glancing their way. ‘We have several wonderful themed cocktails …’
Perhaps one of Cameron’s Munchkin Mojitos would redeem the evening – after all, they were super-delicious.
‘A beer will do, if you have one,’ he said, his striking features cast into harsh lines by the sepia light from the screen.
‘I’ll be right back.’ She shot off past the bar, which bar staff were busy clearing as quietly as possible for the start of the movie, and into the kitchen alcove behind.
‘Shit, Ruby, what’s going on? Is he going to shut us down?’ Jacie wedged herself into the small space next to her.
‘No. No one is shutting down The Royale,’ Ruby replied. She grabbed a bottle of Camden Hells lager from the fridge, and popped off the cap. Not ever.
She peered round the bar at Devlin. His body language screamed indifference as he watched Dorothy hound Auntie Em and Uncle Henry about the imminent arrival of Miss Gulch and her plan to eviscerate Toto.
Dorothy was scared and anxious and about to run away to save her dog. Ruby knew how she felt. If only she could run away, too.
She reached for the pitcher of Emerald-aritas Gerry had put in the fridge for after the screening and poured herself a generous glass. She was going to need something stronger than a beer to get through two hours of watching Devlin watch this movie while praying for a sign he was falling under its spell … or had at least forgiven her for the Munchkin mobbing in the lobby.
‘Could you to do me a massive favour, Jace,’ she murmured to her assistant manager, who was also eyeballing Devlin.
‘Sure, what?’
‘I’m going to sneak Devlin up to Matty’s flat during the end credits of this movie’ – the entrance to which was conveniently situated in the foyer – ‘so he can leave via the flat’s fire escape before anyone spots him and we don’t get a repeat of what happened when he arrived.’ Perhaps she had imagined his panicked look, but she wasn’t taking any chances.
‘But everyone will want to meet him,’ Jacie said, still not getting it.
‘I know, but he doesn’t want to meet them. Not yet, anyway.’ She could only hope that one day he would, but that wasn’t going to be today.
She should have laid the groundwork for his appearance tonight and she hadn’t. She wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
‘So, what’s the favour?’ Jacie asked.
‘Could you handle everything down here till I’ve gotten him safely out of the building? Create a distraction if you have to. Get Glinda and Gerry to help you.’
‘I suppose, but they’ll be pissed off they missed him.’
‘They’ll get over it.’ Her top priority had to be ensuring Devlin survived his first night at The Royale without any lasting trauma – so they got a second chance to impress him at a later date.
Judy Garland launched into her signature tune on screen, but her rich contralto voice was soon drowned out by the audience. The Royale’s vintage movie nuts belted out ‘Over the Rainbow’ as if their lives depended on it, just as they had at Matty’s funeral.
Emotion clogged Ruby’s throat and she joined in the chorus with Jacie.
Devlin wasn’t singing, she noticed. But he was still watching. He’d stayed, when he could have done a runner. That had to count for something.
She lifted her drinks, ready to join him on their sofa.
‘One other thing, Jacie,’ she said as she passed her friend. ‘You need to delete the photos you took of him. And make sure if anyone else took any they delete them, too. And tell everyone they must not under any circumstances post anything about him being here online or on social media.’ She hadn’t seen anyone else taking photos, because they’d all been way too busy harassing Devlin, but she needed to be sure.
‘You’re kidding?’ Jacie said, having to raise her voice over the singing. ‘Nothing at all, but …?’
‘I’m serious,’ she said. ‘The Royale’s future may depend on it.’
‘I thought you said we were okay?’
‘We are …’ Or at least she hoped they were. Matty had always handled the books, and somehow found a way to keep them in the black each month. But she knew they couldn’t have been making much of a profit, or Matty would have found money to pay for all the repairs which had built up over the years. The Royale had always been Matty’s dream but she’d realised in the last week, once she’d started functioning again, that Matty hadn’t spent any money on the cinema’s infrastructure in well over a decade. His flat, which she’d moved into this week, was just as dilapidated and he’d stopped going on his ‘marvellous adventures’ years ago, too – which could only mean one thing. Matty had been broke, which meant The Royale had to be struggling as well. She hoped the stress of keeping the place running on limited funds hadn’t contributed to his heart attack, or she’d be absolutely gutted with guilt as well as grief. ‘I’m sure we’re okay,’ she said, taking another sip of her Emerald-arita. ‘But if we could get Devlin to invest in the cinema’s future we could finally get the thousand and one things done that Matty and I have been talking about doing for ages.’ Such as repainting the foyer, sorting out the dodgy plaster near the stage, buying a new sound system, and that was just for starters. ‘Devlin owns half The Royale now, and he’s loaded.’ Which she knew because she’d done some Internet research over the last eight days, in between killing herself and everyone else to turn The Royale into the Merry Merry Land of Oz. ‘Which means schmoozing him to within an inch of his life, and not pissing him off. He’s a private guy, let’s respect his privacy, okay?’
Jacie’s mutinous look dissolved as the final bars of the song faded. But then she shrugged as Miss Gulch arrived on her bike to snatch Toto.
‘Fine,’ Jacie whispered. ‘I suppose I can forego five million likes on Instagram, if schmoozing Devlin means getting carpeting in the lobby that doesn’t smell like my armpits after V Festival weekend.’
Ruby gave Jacie a kiss on the nose. ‘Thank you, Jace, you’re awesome.’
‘I know, now go schmooze him into a new carpet, Dorothy,’ her friend said.
‘No problem, Dorothy.’ Ruby took another fortifying sip of her cocktail and headed towards Devlin’s sofa with their drinks just as the real Dorothy and her little dog escaped through a window.
I do believe I can schmooze Devlin into investing in The Royale. I do. I do. I do.
***
Two hours later, Ruby wasn’t even convincing herself anymore.
Devlin had sat through the whole movie, drunk his beer, declined another. And said nothing. Not one thing. He hadn’t even moved much. And there had certainly been no singing, of any description – even during the many renditions of ‘We’re Off to See the Wizard’, which was the catchiest song known to man. The constant stream of people heading past them to the toilet, then back to their seats during the screening probably hadn’t amused him much. Because he must have figured out that either The Royale’s clientele had some serious bladder issues or he was still the night’s star attraction.
It hadn’t amused her much either.
Obvious much, guys?
That said, Devlin hadn’t shown any signs of distress from the constant eyeballing, either, and he’d survived the flying monkey scenes without f
linching, so she’d taken that as a positive. Maybe Matty’s movie favourite had started to grow on him, a teeny tiny bit? Even if the nosey parkers in The Royale’s audience hadn’t.
He hadn’t objected when she’d suggested they head up to the flat so he could avoid the crowd once the film finished.
But as she entered the flat’s living room behind him, she couldn’t shake the thought that tonight’s schmooze offensive had been a bigger disaster than the tornado.
Thank god she’d cleaned the fallout from the Glastonbury wake off the carpet.
Devlin would have looked out of place in Matty’s front room – decorated in Matty’s flamboyant shabby-chic style to disguise the twenty-year-old paint job and the aging furniture – but for the giant framed poster from Boy Blue, Rafael Falcone’s debut film, that hung above the fireplace.
Falcone’s image – all brooding angst and dramatic cheekbones – in tones of blue and black stared down at them both. The resemblance was striking, and would probably have freaked Ruby out more, if she hadn’t bypassed the Toto-en-route-to-the-abattoir stage of anxiety an hour ago.
She took a moment to observe Devlin with his hands stuffed into the back pocket of his black jeans, but instead of noticing the similarities between the two men, she noticed the differences.
Luke Devlin was taller than Falcone and leaner, his rangy build that of an athlete rather than a boxer. And his features were unmarked. He didn’t have the bump on the bridge of his nose Falcone had gotten in a barroom brawl in Burbank, or the famous crescent shaped scar next to his left eye which legend had it the star had acquired during a knife fight in his native Bronx. But the look in Devlin’s sky blue eyes, the dark rim around the irises the only thing he appeared to have inherited from the Devlin side of his bloodline, was just as moody.
‘Would you like a quick cup of tea before you go?’ she said, forced to break the stony silence. ‘We should probably wait a few minutes before you make your getaway, so Jacie can distract everyone from your disappearance.’
