PROLOGUE
Live in the moment, and try not to die while doing it.
Matthew Aloysius Devlin
Ruby Graham stepped out of the tube at Hammersmith Broadway on a Thursday morning in March and adjusted her sunglasses to quell the headache detonating in her frontal lobe.
Commuters barged past her, cutting through the pedestrian traffic with the grim determination of First World War squaddies leaping from the trenches.
She forced herself to move, instead of standing like a dummy at the tube entrance – causing a pavement pile-up was not going to bring back her soul mate or unbreak her heart.
I miss you so much you daft old sod, why did you have to die?
She sniffed down the sob cueing up in her throat as she headed along Shepherd’s Bush Road.
No more tears, Ruby, all they do is make you look like a badger.
If she tried hard enough, maybe she could hear Matty laughing at himself and the ridiculousness of being struck down with congestive heart failure in his flat above The Royale Cinema, instead of dying while cliff diving in Acapulco, or motorbiking across the Sahara desert or participating in one of the many other ‘marvellous adventures’, which had made up his life.
She dug her iPhone out of her pocket and reread the email she’d received the day after Matty’s death. The email she’d ignored in the last ten days while getting the million and one things done that came with an unexpected death. Unfortunately, she couldn’t ignore it any longer, because the appointment was today.
She lowered her sunglasses to double-check the address.
Peter Ryker, Solicitor, Ryker, Wells and Associates, 121a Shepherd’s Bush Road.
She stopped at a doorway jammed between a kebab shop and a florist and pressed the bell for the first floor.
The muffled ring drilled into her skull and she cursed her lemon-tini binge at yesterday’s wake for the five hundredth time since she’d woken up in Matty’s tiny flat above The Royale an hour ago amid a pile of debris worthy of Glastonbury.
Note to self: catastrophic hangovers and grief do not make great bedfellows. Especially when you still have the reading of the will to get through.
The intercom buzzed and she whispered her name, so as not to wake the sleeping dragon that had only been temporarily tamed by the cocktail of extra-strength painkillers she’d found in Matty’s medicine cabinet.
She climbed the narrow staircase to the first floor, praying on each creaky tread that Matty hadn’t lined up too many shocking reveals for this afternoon’s entertainment. Given Matty’s addiction to showmanship and the fact he appeared to have stage-managed the reading of the will scene from The Grand Budapest Hotel, she wasn’t holding out too much hope.
Ruby’s stress downgraded when she reached Peter Ryker’s office to find an open airy space, the clean lines of the modern furniture highlighted by the comforting view through the Victorian bay window of Brook Green – and no sign of Ralph Fiennes anywhere. Ryker stood when she entered and came from behind his desk. A slim man in his fifties, he wore an expertly tailored slate-grey suit, his warm smile contradicting his conservative appearance.
‘Miss Graham, thank you so much for coming.’ He shook her hand in a firm grip, the easy confidence in his manner matched by the cosy chestnut brown of his eyes.
Ruby’s lungs squeezed, Ryker’s paternal smile reminding her of Matty – and everything that would be missing in her life from now on.
No Matty to make her laugh at some daft exploit from his youth. No Matty to pore over the relative merits of Easter Parade versus Monty Python’s The Life of Brian for The Royale’s Good Friday screening. No Matty to share a spiced caramel latte with while they debated the next quarter’s schedule of gala events. No Matty to be there for her when she needed a shoulder to lean on. Or a person to tell her they were proud of her. Or even a hopeless romantic with Cupid delusions who insisted on trying to fix her up with guys he fancied, most of whom turned out to be gay.
She dragged in a breath past the boulder in her throat that had taken on asteroid proportions during yesterday morning’s service at the Golders Green Crematorium. Time to stop fixating on the prospect of her life with no Matty in it and concentrate on the irony that she was even going to miss those terrible blind dates Matty had been fixing her up with ever since she’d turned twenty-one.
‘Sorry, if I’m a bit late,’ she managed to mumble to Ryker.
‘Not a problem.’ He touched her arm as he let go of her hand, the welcoming smile faltering. ‘And let me say, I’m so sorry for your loss. Matty was such a character, I’m sure we’ll all miss him immensely.’
She nodded, as her eyeballs stung and the asteroid in her throat head-butted her tonsils.
Ryker indicated a chair on the left side of his desk. ‘Why don’t you take a seat so we can begin.’
Remembering her sunglasses, she slipped them off and stuffed them in her bag.
She and Matty had never discussed what would happen in the eventuality of his death. For the simple reason, he had been fit and healthy and only in his early fifties – and neither of them had known he had an undiagnosed heart condition. Because it was, well, undiagnosed. She choked down the asteroid, which was expanding again. That Matty had written a will at all was news to her when she’d gotten Ryker’s email.
But whatever the will contained, her only objective now was to keep The Royale open for business. The small, and only slightly dilapidated art-house cinema in north, north Notting Hill had been Matty’s life and his legacy – and it was all she had left of him.
She crossed to the chair Ryker had indicated as he stepped behind her to close the office door. But as she shifted round to place her bum on the seat, she stiffened and bolted upright.
The trickle of blood still left in her head flooded into her cheeks as she spotted the man sitting in the chair behind the door.
His striking blue gaze flicked over her, the assessment both dispassionate and yet disturbingly intimate.
‘Luke Devlin,’ he said, and nodded.
The curt introduction struck her low in her abdomen. Even his voice sounded like Rafael Falcone’s – the deep American accent enriched by the sandpaper quality that had the media dubbing his father ‘the voice of sex’ nearly half a century ago.
‘Rube…—’ She cleared the rubble in her throat and attempted to introduce herself again, preferably without a helium squeak worthy of Minnie Mouse. ‘Ruby Graham, pleased to meet you,’ she murmured automatically.
Although she wasn’t pleased to meet him. What was he doing here?
She’d spotted him yesterday at the back of the crowd in the crematorium. Even then, with his face downcast and his shoulders hunched, the resemblance to the man who had fathered him was striking enough to make Ruby catch her breath.
That had to suck.
But now the likeness almost made her swallow her tongue. Not easy with an asteroid in the way.
It had been Matty’s dying wish Ruby invite his long-lost nephew to his funeral, one of several dying wishes he’d whispered to her from the gurney as they waited to wheel him into surgery. But Ruby was fairly sure at the time he’d only done it to be melodramatic. Matty had always been a drama queen, no way would he have missed the opportunity to milk a possible dying-wish scenario. But he’d never met Luke Devlin, having been estranged from this man’s mother, his sister Helena, since before Devlin was born. Ruby had only sent the invite because… Well, it had been a dying wish for goodness’ sake, intentional or not. She’d never expected Luke Devlin to show at Golder’s Green Crematorium on a rainy Wednesday morning. Especially as she hadn’t even been able to find an address for him, so had been forced to send the funeral notice to his mother’s agent.
Wasn’t the guy a property magnate in Manhattan?
Yesterday, he’d looked supremely uncomfortable, probably because he’d been hit on by half the congregation – after all, most of them were massive film buffs – then left without a word. The whole experience of burying her best friend had been so surreal and overwhelming, Devlin’s appearance had just been one other piece of weirdness Ruby hadn’t had a chance to process properly…
But she was processing it now, like a data analyst on crack.
She searched her memory banks for what she knew about the guy.
But her head was still too fuzzy with grief to remember anything coherent about Devlin. Just that he was rumoured to be the love child of Matty’s sister, renowned stage star Helena Devlin, and Falcone. Helena had always been coy about admitting who had fathered her oldest son – he had a couple of half-siblings, a brother by a Maine fisherman and a sister by British director Hal Markham whose parentage she hadn’t been nearly so coy about. Helena had been notorious in her day, for having three love children by men she hadn’t married, children she had then proceeded to drag around the globe with her and shove into the full glare of the media spotlight. But all three of them had faded from the gossip columns as they’d grown up. Luke in particular was famous for being a bit of a recluse – which had to explain that dark frown.
But if he liked to keep out of the limelight, why had he attended Matty’s funeral? Matty’s death had been mentioned in the tabloids, even if it only got a couple of column inches, simply because of his association with Helena, who had hit ‘national treasure’ status last year after a decade in the wilderness with a Tony-winning role in a revival of Gypsy on Broadway. Ruby hadn’t spotted any photographers, but there was always a chance one might show up for a Where Are They Now? angle. Getting a photo of Falcone’s son, his only known progeny, would be a major coup.
Devlin acknowledged her with a slight inclination of his head, sweeping the thick wave of expertly styled hair off his brow when it threatened to slide down his forehead.
She dragged her gaze away and forced her knees to bend. Her bum hit the cool leather seat just as the rod in her spine collapsed.
Luke Devlin was here on Ryker’s invitation. He had to be. Which could only mean one thing. Devlin was attending as his mother’s representative. Had Matty left The Royale to his sister? After all, Helena and her three children were Matty’s only living blood relations.
Ruby had always considered herself Matty’s family, but she wasn’t his real family. And while he’d refused to speak to his sister for thirty-something years, and never met any of her children, Ruby had never once heard Matty say a mean thing about Helena.
Matty must have been planning to make some grand gesture of reconciliation from beyond the grave. Although he had probably intended to do it when he was ninety, not fifty-one. It would totally fit with Matty’s sense of the dramatic. She could just imagine him savouring this scene as he dictated the terms of his legacy to the solicitor. Either that or he’d had a crush on the debonair Ryker and had needed a reason to see him.
Panic combined with the grinding pain in the pit of Ruby’s stomach and turned the asteroid into a lump of radioactive waste. She’d been so busy making funeral arrangements in the last ten days and coming to terms with the great empty space in her life which would never be filled, she’d had no time at all to properly consider her future and the future of The Royale.
Was she about to lose her home and her job as well as her best friend? Because The Royale was her home, not only did she spend more waking hours there than she’d ever spent in her tiny flat in Maida Vale, the Art Deco cinema had been the home of her heart ever since she was twelve years old, and Matty had caught her sneaking into a Saturday matinee of The Magnificent Seven and offered her a job selling popcorn and ice creams in the foyer on weekends. She had quickly made herself indispensable, Matty’s expansive friendship and The Royale’s glittering fantasy world providing a sanity-saving escape from the chaotic council flat in Bayswater she shared with her mother, and her mother’s endless parade of inappropriate boyfriends.
‘Right, let’s get started,’ Ryker said with forced enthusiasm as he sat down behind his desk.
He opened his laptop and began to talk, but Ruby couldn’t hear a word, his calm sensible delivery washing through her like acid. A spot beneath her right earlobe prickled, far too aware of the man sitting behind her.
And to think she’d woken up this morning, the day after cremating her best friend and soul mate – and the only man she had ever loved – while rocking the killer hangover from hell, convinced her life couldn’t possibly get any shittier.
No such bloody luck, Rubes.
PART ONE
The Wizard of Oz (1939)
Ruby Graham’s verdict: I want to live in Oz, where danger is defeated by friendship and solidarity, charlatans are exposed, your dreams are always in glowing Technicolor and you can get a pair of absolutely stunning ruby slippers simply by landing a house on a hag!
Luke Devlin’s verdict: Flying monkeys? Seriously?
CHAPTER ONE
‘Could you run that by me again,’ Luke Devlin murmured, concerned he had entered an alternate reality. Or been hit over the head by a two-by-four. Because that’s what his head felt like at the moment, as if he’d been sideswiped by a piece of lumber, the way he had been during his first major rehab job in Queens a decade ago.
‘Certainly, Mr Devlin,’ the urbane lawyer said in his cut-glass British accent without even flickering an eyelash. But then Luke would hazard a guess these guys were trained to tell people insane shit while pretending it wasn’t totally nuts. ‘Which section do you want me to run by you again?’ the lawyer asked.
‘The part about the movie theatre,’ Luke said over the choking sound coming from the girl sitting next to him, which was starting to worry him.
She’d started spluttering the minute the will had been read. He’d already been kind of disturbed by her colour when she’d entered the room. He never knew people could actually turn green, but her pale skin had a definite tinge when she’d lifted her sunglasses and spotted him. The way she’d jolted then winced suggested to him his uncle had been given one hell of a wrap-party after the cremation he’d attended. Thanks to his mom, he was trained to spot a bitch of a hangover from thirty paces.
‘Yes, please could you repeat that bit,’ the girl said, her voice hoarse with stress.
So she’d been hit by a two-by-four, as well.
‘Of course, Ms Graham.’ The lawyer shuffled through the pages on his desk, which constituted The Last Will and Testament of Matthew Aloysius Devlin, and read the relevant chapter again in the dry-as-dust tone that, unfortunately, didn’t make his estranged uncle’s bequest sound any less batshit crazy.
‘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 worse-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 telenovella 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, 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 his crummy investment antennae going on to high alert.
‘It’s going very well, thank you,’ she said.
Yeah, right. His crummy-investment antennae weren’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 something 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. And once again confirmed 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 in 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 anymore – 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 had less than an hour to get to Canary Wharf now 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 redundant 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 are 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 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.
