It was a foggy December morning when Harry's flight landed at Heathrow Airport. He wasted no time. A black Range Rover picked him up directly from the terminal, and within the hour he was standing in front of his prize — the London Dream Theatre.
Few months ago, it had been an aging cinema on life support.
Now? A glowing neon marquee spanned across the immense three-storey façade. The entrance was flanked by movie posters, in sleek backlit frames, announcing the latest films. Inside, head-turning family-friendly movie posters were placed centered in the entrance hallway under colossal historical movie images, while ushers withing sharp uniforms helped families, teenagers and couples with show-time tickets and locations as two food courts bustled with activity on the second level.
This was his creation. His gamble. His tenth of a fortune to acheive this.
And now it was alive.
"Mr. Jackson!" called a familiar, hoarse voice.
Harry turned to see the theatre manager, Marsh Wahan, approach a clipboard balancing on one arm and two coffees in the other.
Marsh appeared to have seen no sleep in a week.
"You look like a corpse," Harry said, grabbing one of the coffees.
"That's an improvement. I looked like a war crime last week," Marsh countered.
"Where's Patel?"
"Checking on the new ticket machines in Hall 6. He'll be back in five."
In the moment, a disturbance was occurring just outside the dining area. An old woman in a purple wool coat, and enough perfume to kill a small mammal, was laying into one of the young receptionists.
"I know the owner! He's an old friend of my husband's bridge partner! You're going to be fired for this rudeness—fired, I say!"
Harry blinked at this unfamiliar woman. Marsh sighed and rolled his eyes.
"She's been here every day for four days in a row now. She complains about everything. Seats are too soft, popcorn is too salty, she says that our toilets are 'too American.' I didn't even know that was a thing."
Harry stepped forward, gently tapping the old woman on the shoulder.
"Excuse me, ma'am," he said.
She turned, assessed him from head to toe with noble disdain and said, "Who are you?"
Harry smiled.
"I'm the owner."
Her eyes went wide. For an instant she looked like she might pass out. "You? It can't be! You're—too young!
"I moisturize," Harry said dryly. "Now, unless your next complaint involves illegal rodents, I suggest we both have a lovely afternoon and not threaten to fire employees for doing their jobs."
The woman pursed her lips and stormed off, cursing something about "rude youth." Marsh shot Harry a thumbs-up.
"Do you still want to fire me?" Marsh asked.
Harry smirked. "No, but I need you to get me some better tea options. British pensioners are creepy."
Later that afternoon as Harry sat in the top floor executive lounge, overlooking the theatre's central atrium, Lisa's name popped up on his phone.
"Talk to me." He took a sip of his Earl Grey.
"Working hard or hardly working?"
"I just got threatened by a seventy-five-year-old war veteran with a handbag, so I'd say both."
Lisa chuckled. "You really need to get some help, boss. The theatre's growing. Fox is pushing for more meetings. The shows are coming in fast. And you're juggling a million things."
"I know," Harry replied. "Are you suggesting I hire another assistant?"
"Exactly! I've got someone perfect in mind."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Please don't tell me…"
"Yes," Lisa said with a grin. "My husband."
Harry sighed. "Lisa. Isn't that a bit nepotistic?"
"Oh, come on! You trust me, right?"
Harry hesitated. "To manage my life? Absolutely. To choose staff? I trust you a little less."
"He's organized, always on time, used to handle accounts at a law firm, and he's great at dealing with bossy people—because he's married to me."
"Fair point," Harry muttered. "Alright. But he reports to you. If he messes up, you're the one who sorts it out."
"Deal!" she said cheerfully.