Page 100 of Just Like in the Movies

He reached a door at the end of a corridor with a large gold star on it. Scribbled underneath on a chalk board in his mother’s handwriting were the words:

Helena Devlin aka Hell on Wheels.

Do Not Disturb unless you’re bearing gifts or uncritical adoration. Preferably both.

Both was underlined twice.

So his mom had embraced her nickname – possibly e

ven coined it.

He tapped his knuckles above the star, oddly charmed by the sign. How come he had never realized his mom had a sense of humour about her diva-ishness?

Perhaps because he’d never had a sense of humour about it himself.

‘Danny, if that’s you run away and get us both a quick curtain-up mimosa, I’m gasping, sweetheart. And beg Megan for a new pair of stockings but don’t tell her I’ve laddered another pair though or she’ll probably chop my legs off.’

His mother’s voice rang through the door, rich and fluid, professional and yet full of affection. He’d always known she loved the sound of her own voice – funny that he’d never realized he liked the sound of it quite a lot, too.

He opened the door to find her sitting at a dressing table laden with powders and perfumes and a host of other potions, the traditional light bulbs surrounded the mirror’s frame. The room was small for a diva, crammed with rails full of clothing, a day bed, a spray of potted plants and flowers and a huge basket of cellophane wrapped fruit. It looked like a thousand other dressing rooms he’d visited her in over the years.

But for the first time, instead of feeling tense and on edge, the knots of stress in his stomach relaxed.

She glanced round, her hair tied back in a wig net, her face covered in the sculptured foundation she used to make her look a least ten years younger than she actually was.

‘Luke? You came to see the show again, how marvellous.’

She bounced off the chair and crossed the room to give him a hug.

She enveloped him with her signature perfume and he took a deep breath in, for once appreciating the exotic scent of wild flowers and patchouli.

‘Hi, Mom,’ he said, having to clear his throat as she held him.

She stepped back, holding his shoulders, and smiled a guileless smile of pure pleasure, that wasn’t faked. ‘I’m so pleased you’re here,’ she said, the genuine affection in her voice tearing at something inside him.

He swallowed.

Jesus, why was he suddenly choking up?

‘I can’t stay for the show, I came because I need your help with something.’

‘You do?’ She seemed astonished. And it occurred to him he’d probably never said those words to her before. She’d asked for his help a million times, but when had he ever straight out asked for hers? He guessed that was pretty messed up, considering who the parent was here.

‘Yeah, I do,’ he said, trying not to dwell on the novelty of the situation.

‘Tell me what you need me to do?’ she said, without even blinking.

Taken aback by the eager, unequivocal response, he forced himself not to dwell on that either.

‘I want you to buy my share of The Royale. Ruby’s gonna have to sell the theatre to pay the debts – and she won’t take my money – but if you’ll agree to buy it, I could give you a loan. No interest, no need to repay it.’ It was the only solution he could come up with, that would save The Royale and give him a chance to figure things out with Ruby at the same time.

His mother’s eyes took on a curious gleam.

‘That sounds a bit sneaky,’ she said. ‘If you’re loaning me the money to pay for your share and I don’t have to pay it back, how is it even mine?’

‘Mom, could you just not argue about—’

‘Why won’t she accept your money?’ she interrupted him.

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