Page 3 of Just Like in the Movies

Chapter 1

‘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 that 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 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.

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