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‘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.’
