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sp; You’re not surrendering anything, Dorothy. Not without a fight.
Chapter 2
‘I cannot believe Rafael Falcone’s son is coming tonight. Or that he owns half of The Royale. That’s so extra,’ Jacie Ryan, Ruby’s assistant manager, announced while shovelling green popcorn into a green-striped paper sack.
‘Believe it,’ Ruby murmured. Jacie’s stream of consciousness about Devlin’s visit was starting to fray her nerves. ‘But keep your voice down, no one is supposed to know.’ She wasn’t entirely convinced their secret guest of honour was actually going to show. He’d been due here about twenty minutes ago according to the email she’d had from his PA confirming his attendance.
The foyer was packed with people, all dressed to the nines in their best Oz paraphernalia – from Munchkins to Tinmen to Brynn, the owner of Brynn’s Babes, the bar round the corner, who had gone all out and looked magnificent as Glinda the Good Witch of the North, complete with pink-sequined frock and a crystal crown. The Merry Merry Land of Oz rang out on The Royale’s tinny sound system on a loop, and people spilled out of the auditorium where Brynn’s master of mixology, Cameron, and Gerry, The Royale’s barman, were busy serving Rainbow-coladas, Emerald-aritas and Munchkin Mojitos.
Ruby had gathered her six-person staff and as many helpers as she could muster eight days ago to put together tonight’s event in record time. To do it, she’d called in every favour she had ever been owed and several she hadn’t, basically bribing, begging and borrowing her way across West London with the ferocity of a Kansas tornado.
To be fair, The Royale looked awesome, as a result. The peeling paint and crumbling cornices were disguised with enough glitter and fairy lights to make the place visible from space and Jacie had even managed to source a gold runner at a knock-down price in Shepherd’s Bush Market to double as the Yellow Brick Road and cover the worst of the wear on the threadbare carpeting.
Emerald City, eat your heart out.
He has to show. Please let him show.
The whole Royale community had put so much work into making tonight’s event a success – everyone from the drag queens at Brynn’s Babes, who had made some spectacular costumes, to Agatha, a local primary-school teacher who had gotten her pupils to make papier-mâché flowers and vines and corncobs to decorate the lobby, to Errol, their projectionist and Jacie’s granddad, who’d roped in the ladies from his local church with their famous Goat Curry and Plantains and Rice and Peas recipe to serve after the show at five pounds a pop and raise funds for the church’s homeless shelter.
Tonight was going to be epic, but it would all be for nothing if Devlin didn’t put in an appearance as promised.
‘Good luck keeping it a secret once he shows,’ Jacie said. ‘Remember how he got mobbed at the cremation? His resemblance to his old man is freaky.’
‘I know,’ she said, even though she had barely registered Luke’s appearance at Matty’s funeral because she’d been way too busy being poleaxed by grief.
The sharp edges of that awful day and the week before it had blurred in the last eight days, the unbearable pain of losing Matty shoved to the edges of her consciousness while she got stuck into Operation Get Luke Devlin Invested In The Royale with a Wizard of Oz Extravaganza. But now that all the work was done and the only thing left to do was enjoy the event, and wait for her co-owner to appear, Ruby had begun to second-guess her whole strategy.
‘Perhaps I should have warned people?’ she murmured.
Devlin had stipulated that no one was to know he was coming. The man obviously had an issue with being recognised, she realised, recalling that clashing baseball cap. But perhaps it would have been wiser to prepare everyone for the arrival of Rafael Falcone’s doppelgänger rather than respect Devlin’s wishes.
Devlin’s father was a movie super star whose films had set a billion hearts fluttering in the seventies and eighties and could still do so today whenever they ran a season at The Royale. His brooding image graced T-shirts and advertising hoardings and posters in student dorms. The bad boy with the face of a god. A hot god. All lean chiselled lines and moody intensity, with a crystal-blue gaze that had the power to make most women and some men pant by proxy. The actor had become a cultural icon as enduring as Elvis and Marilyn and Jimmy Dean and had only become more iconic since his untimely suicide sixteen years ago.
Rafael Falcone was a legend to most of the people here tonight. And Luke Devlin looked exactly like him. Hadn’t she had breathing difficulties herself when she’d first clocked that remarkable face up close in Ryker’s office?
‘I thought you said he said not to tell anyone?’ Jacie whispered, as she handed over packs of green popcorn to a bunch of Gen Xers kitted out in red wigs and green jackets and leggings.
Were they supposed to be Munchkins, or citizens of Oz, or leprechauns, because it was hard to tell?
‘He was very specific on that score,’ Ruby confirmed once the leprechaun-Munchkins had moved off. ‘If he got mobbed at the funeral, I guess that explains it. But there’s a good chance the same thing might happen tonight and I don’t want to make him uncomfortable.’
‘Make who uncomfortable?’ Gerry their barman – who was dressed as a rather chunky Scarecrow – joined them behind the concession stand.
‘Nobody,’ Ruby said, starting to panic in earnest. What if she had made a terrible mistake? Not warning everyone of Devlin’s arrival?
Jacie tapped her nose piercing. ‘It’s top secret, Gez, but I think you’ll be wowed by our guest of honour tonight – when he turns up.’
‘What guest of honour?’ Gerry asked, his eyes sparkling with curiosity, because he was a much bigger star-stalker than Jacie. ‘I didn’t know we had one. Shouldn’t we have put it on the posters?’
‘He’s shy,’ Jacie said.
At the exact same time, Ruby shouted, ‘No, we should not have put it on the posters!’
Gerry and Jacie stared at her, as did a couple of the Generation X leprechaun-Munchkins who were still munching popcorn nearby.
‘He doesn’t like publicity,’ Ruby added, whispering this time. ‘He’s not a proper celebrity.’
He’s just the spitting image of one.
