Rock Star

by Jackie Collins

  There were always lots of girls in the audience when he performed. They squealed and giggled, but he never got to meet any, and now it was over. The truth was he didn’t care if he never sang or wrote another song again. He couldn’t sing anyway, puberty had struck, and his voice was now an unfamiliar croak.

  Mr Leon Rue had discovered Bobby the day after the boy’s eleventh birthday. Bobby was singing and playing the piano in a local talent contest, and he was good, having learned to do both at Aunt Bertha’s weekly prayer meetings. The music came naturally to him and gave him enormous pleasure. It gave Aunt Bertha pleasure too. She encouraged her nephew, and boasted about his God-given talent and pure falsetto voice to all her friends. Bobby won the contest and fifteen dollars, while Mr Leon Rue won Aunt Bertha’s confidence, and within weeks he had persuaded her to let him take over Bobby’s career, become his legal guardian, and build him into a big singing star.

  ‘It’s for your own good, Bobby,’ Aunt Bertha whispered sadly when the time came to say goodbye. ‘This be the only way you’ll ever get yourself a real chance.’

  Soon he was whisked off to Mr Rue’s large house in Nashville, where he was put to work writing simple country and western ditties. He was used to gospel, but he soon learned what Mr Rue wanted by listening to countless country records – most of them with the same familiar theme.

  Churning out hits was easy, even though it failed to inspire him.

  * * *

  Bobby’s six thousand dollars did not last long. Ernest needed a new car, which took most of it. And Fanni needed new clothes, which took care of the rest of it. Aunt Bertha had left her only daughter the house and a small amount of money, but the time soon came when everyone had to get a job, including Bobby.

  Fanni resumed her old position as book-keeper in an accounting firm, and Ernest began working as a magazine salesman.

  ‘What you gonna do, boy?’ Ernest demanded belligerently. ‘Can’t sit ’round here on your fat ass livin’ off your cousin all day long.’

  Conveniently he had forgotten Bobby’s six-thousand-dollar contribution to the family’s fortunes.

  Bobby had no idea what he could do. The only thing he knew was music, and that part of his life was over. He was sixteen years old and finished, and yet there had to be a future for him. Scanning the job ads, he circled anything that looked remotely interesting and did not require a college degree.

  Five interviews later he found he had been turned down for a variety of reasons. Too young, too inexperienced, too fat, too uneducated, and most of all – too black.

  Of course, none of the people who interviewed him actually came out and gave their reasons, but he knew. Living in New York, he was wising up fast

  Finally, after several weeks of looking, he tagged three years onto his age and got a job in the Chainsaw, a vast Manhattan discotheque, as a men’s room attendant.

  The final humiliation. ‘Sweet Little Bobby’ no longer existed.

  Rafealla: Paris

  1967

  It was Rafealla Le Serre’s seventh birthday, and as she skipped along the Paris street hand in hand with her best friend, Odile Ronet, she could feel her heart beating fast with excitement. Odile had celebrated her birthday ten days earlier, and she had received a bicycle – a fantastic, shiny red bicycle.

  Rafealla desperately hoped she would be as lucky.

  Mrs Macdee, her Scottish nanny, walking ahead with Odile’s nanny, turned to scold the two little girls, but in an affectionate way. ‘Come along, do come along,’ she said briskly. ‘There won’t be time to change into your pretty frocks if you don’t hurry.’

  Rafealla giggled nervously, squeezing her friend’s hand. Odile giggled too, and they whispered together about bikes and dolls and dresses and chocolate cake.

  Nanny Macdee led the way as they turned briskly into the Avenue Foch, where Rafealla and Odile lived in neighbouring houses. The two little girls kissed each other on the cheek and ran up the steps to their respective homes.

  ‘All this fuss! You’re going to see each other in a minute,’ grumbled Nanny Macdee.

  The front door was opened by a uniformed manservant. Rafealla rushed by him, racing up the grand staircase to her room, where her party dress was laid out on the bed, just waiting for her to climb into. Oh, what a beautiful dress, she thought, gazing at the pink organza creation with a full skirt and white satin sash. Throwing off her school uniform, she attempted to struggle into it.

  ‘Dearie me, no,’ stated an out-of-breath Nanny Macdee as she entered the room. ‘We’ll have a wash first, missy, won’t we?’

  Rafealla stifled a groan. Washing was so boring. She obliged anyway – arguing with Nanny just wasn’t worth it.

  Soon she was ready. Face washed. Hands scrubbed. Long dark hair brushed and ribboned. Pink dress in place on her lithe young body.

  ‘Now we’re ready,’ said Nanny Macdee, finally satisfied. ‘Come along, dear.’

  In the living room, Anna and Lucien, her parents, waited. Rafealla paused in the doorway so they could both see how pretty she looked. Then with a whoop of delight she ran straight towards her father, who swooped her into his arms, swinging her around and around as if she was a limp rag doll.

  ‘Poppa! Poppa!’ she shrieked happily.

  ‘Happy birthday, my sweet little sugar-cake,’ he said in his wonderfully deep booming voice.

  Wriggling free, she ran to her mother, who enclosed her in exotic fragrances as she hugged her close.

  Out of the corner of her eye Rafealla spotted a pile of colourfully wrapped presents.

  ‘Yes, they’re for you,’ smiled her mother, gently releasing her. ‘You may open them now.’

  To her great consternation Rafealla couldn’t see any package that looked big enough to conceal a bicycle. With grim determination she began tearing open the fancy paper wrappings, wondering if perhaps her precious bicycle was divided into pieces and scattered among the presents.

  ‘Not so fast,’ admonished Nanny Macdee from the doorway.

  ‘It’s all right, she’s so excited,’ excused Anna Le Serre, watching her daughter with warm amusement.

  ‘Just like her mother when she gets presents’, teased Lucien, putting his arm around his delicately beautiful wife, causing her to gaze up at him with open adoration.

  Nanny Macdee averted her eyes. She had never worked for people who were quite so openly affectionate as the Le Serres. They acted like a honeymoon couple, always billing and cooing as if no one else existed.

  Nanny Macdee had been in their employ since Rafealla was born, and she had decided long ago it was because of Mr Le Serre’s background. He was . . . different. Not only was he extremely famous – a great tenor who performed in the most prestigious opera houses in the world. He was also black – half Ethiopian, half American – and quite the most imposingly handsome man Nanny Macdee had ever set eyes on.

  Anna Le Serre was the perfect foil for her giant of a husband – he was six feet five inches, and she was a bare five feet four. Her skin was alabaster white, and her hair raven-black. Combining English and French blood, she possessed a rare and gentle beauty and was fine-boned and slim. Once a promising ballerina, she had given up her career to marry Lucien, a career she now hoped her daughter would follow.

  Rafealla had inherited the best of both her parents, with her smooth olive complexion, luxuriant, thick dark hair, long legs and budding beauty.

  Her mouth down-turned with disappointment as she unwrapped the last of the presents and discovered no cleverly concealed bicycle.

  The doorbell rang, and her school friends began to arrive for her afternoon tea-party. Breathlessly, Odile, in brown velvet with a white lace collar, asked to see her gifts. Her eyes commiserated with her friend when she realized a bicycle was not among them.

  Tea was delicious. Cakes and scones and tiny little English tea sandwiches filled with cream cheese and cucumber, jam and chocolate spread. All of Rafealla’s favourites. And then out came the cake – a hug
e confection of meringue and strawberries, with seven candles.

  I’m seven, Rafealla thought in wonderment. I’m almost grown up.

  Lucien picked her up and gave her a big kiss. ‘I love you, sweet-cakes,’ he said in his big gruff voice. ‘You make my life so very pleasurable. And don’t you ever forget it.’

  He then carried her into the front hall, where there was the biggest, the best, and the shiniest red bicycle she had ever seen.

  With yells of joy she fell upon it. Her day was complete.

  Later, when her friends had gone home – all except Odile, who as a special treat was to stay the night – Rafealla and Odile sat at Anna’s feet as she prepared for an evening out. Both little girls found it fascinating to watch as she applied makeup, pinned her luxurious tresses on top of her head, and clipped on exquisite diamond and turquoise earrings and a matching necklace.

  Rafealla knew for sure that her mother was extremely beautiful, and it made her very proud.

  Nanny Macdee soon arrived to shoo the girls away. ‘Give your mama privacy, for goodness’ sake!’ she scolded.

  They fled downstairs to the library, where Lucien was entertaining Odile’s father, Henri – a prominent French politician. The two men were good friends as well as neighbours, and tonight they were attending an important political dinner together. Odile’s mother, Isabella, was away visiting relatives in the country.

  ‘What naughtiness have you two been up to?’ Lucien demanded with a big smile.

  The girls protested their innocence, and were each rewarded with a tall glass of forbidden Coca-Cola. Nanny Macdee would have a fit. No fizzy drinks, especially just before bedtime.

  Anna entered the room, a vision in pale lilac chiffon. ‘I’m ready,’ she said apologetically. ‘I do hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’

  The men told her how lovely she looked, and she accepted their compliments with grace and charm.

  Rafealla felt happy inside – it had been a lovely birthday.

  ‘We’d better get moving,’ Lucien announced. ‘We cannot be late.’ He stared intently at his daughter. ‘There’s something different about you, my sweet little girl. Ah, yes, I know what it is,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘You look like you must be seven!’

  Amid much laughter the three grown-ups moved towards the front door. Lucien flung it open, standing back to allow his wife to pass through first.

  ‘Oh, dear!’ Anna exclaimed. ‘I forgot something. You start the car, I won’t be a minute.’

  We’re going in Henri’s car,’ Lucien said, with a sigh of impatience. ‘Hurry up.’

  Smiling at Odile’s father she said, ‘You can’t take Lucien’s driving either, eh, Henri? I thought it was just me!’ With that she hurried upstairs.

  Rafealla stood on tiptoe to kiss her father, but even then she couldn’t reach. Picking her up he whispered, ‘Sweet dreams, my baby girl.’

  ‘Poppa, I’m grown up now,’ she protested.

  ‘Ah, well.’ He kissed her affectionately. ‘In that case, sweet dreams, my big girl.’

  And then he and Mr Ronet walked down the front steps and climbed into Mr Ronet’s silver Mercedes.

  The two little girls stood at the open door waving as Nanny Macdee came bustling up behind them with a cross expression. ‘You’ll catch your death!’ she complained. ‘And I’ll be blamed. Now come along, upstairs. Right now.’

  Obediently Rafealla turned away, ready to do as she was told. So did Odile.

  ‘I should think so too,’ sniffed Nanny, not really as cross as she made out.

  Anna was on her way downstairs, lilac chiffon flowing behind her as she rushed so as not to keep Lucien and Henri waiting. She had never looked more beautiful.

  Together they all heard the roaring explosion. It came from the street. A blast so loud it sounded as if a bomb had landed on top of the house.

  And then came the effect. Windows shattered, as the full force hit, and – they were all thrown to the ground and showered with lethal shards of glass.

  Rafealla saw her mother begin to fall down the stairs, and it was as if she were Watching a slow-motion ballet.

  As pieces of glass embedded themselves in her legs causing unbearable pain, she began to whimper.

  ‘Poppa,’ she called out in frozen terror. ‘Oh, poppa! Save us! Please save us!’

  Kris Phoenix

  1968

  After a late start, Kris discovered sex with an enthusiasm surpassing even his best friend’s.

  ‘Cor blimey!’ Buzz exclaimed one day, as they lounged on the beach in Majorca. ‘You never bleedin’ stop! At least I give it a breather once in a while.’

  Kris laughed. Two and a half years away from home, fending for himself, including a year and a half spent hitchhiking across Europe, had given him a new sense of confidence. He was not only sure he could be independent without scrounging handouts from his mum, but he was now secure in the knowledge that he could pull the birds with the best of them. He might not be tall, dark and traditionally handsome, but at nearly twenty he had his own style. Crooked good looks, dirty-blond hair, a wiry body, and a solid suntan.

  ‘Best thing I ever did was draggin’ yer out of England,’ Buzz remarked.

  Kris rolled over on the hot sand. He had his eye on two giggling girls in bikinis standing by the edge of the water. ‘I’m not gonna argue with that, mate.’ He squinted at the girls. ‘Which one you want?’

  Buzz looked surprised. ‘Am I gettin’ first choice for a change?’

  ‘Yeah, why not,’ Kris said generously.

  ‘The one with the big tits,’ Buzz decided.

  ‘Aw, c’mon. Do me a favour. Y’know you like ’em skinny.’

  ‘I feel like a handful today.’

  ‘Screw you.’

  The two friends laughed, while the girls – who knew they were being watched – pretended not to notice.

  ‘You pull ’em, then,’ Kris said.

  Buzz groaned. ‘I’m still recovering from that little Swedish raver last night. I can’t bleedin’ move, can I?’

  Buzz had lost his eerie pallor, and was now a deep gypsy brown. He wore his black hair long and unkempt, and one gold stud earring decorated his right earlobe. He was so thin his ribs stuck out.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Kris said, with mock annoyance. ‘Why have I always gotta do the pulling?’ Leaping up, he swaggered across the sand towards the giggling girls. ‘’Ello, darlin’s’, he said confidently. ‘Speaka da English?’

  They spoka da English all right. They were on vacation from Liverpool.

  Taking a survey one day, both Kris and Buzz had decided that the easiest girls to have it off with were the English. A quick bit of the verbals and it was up, up and away. Second were the Scandinavians – Swedish, Danish and Finnish – easy pickings. The local Spanish senoritas were a no-no, while German and French girls were a pain in the backside. And Americans – impossible, unless you romanced them and got them pissed – which took time and money. Neither of which Buzz or Kris was inclined to do.

  After a brief chat-up, Kris took the two giggling females over to meet Buzz, and before long it was Sangrias (a lethal combination of red wine, fruit and lemonade) all round, and playful gropings on the hot sand.

  By sundown things were getting serious, and a romantic stroll along the beach led the way to a quiet wooded area, where after five minutes of concentrated foreplay it was time for the great moment.

  Kris got off on that first plunge into a new girl. Every time he did it he thought of the two stuck-up little Edwards girls and the other girls at school who’d called him weird and wouldn’t give him the time of day. When he jammed it into a new female he was doing it to all of them, and it felt good.

  ‘Will I see you later?’ his latest conquest asked, awkwardly hitching up the bottom half of her bikini.

  ‘What hotel are you at?’ Cleverly he avoided answering her question.

  She told him and he nodded knowingly. ‘An’ how long you stayin’, luv?’


  ‘Six more days’, she said obligingly, adding hopefully, ‘Can I see you later?’

  Ah, six days to avoid that particular beach and hotel, and then it would be safe again. ‘I wish I could, but I can’t manage tonight,’ he said regretfully. ‘Whyn’t I see you here tomorrow?’

  And that was how it usually went. In and out and on to the next. Evenings were for work. A gig at a local restaurant playing the guitar and singing – and then usually a late night session at a club or discotheque where they got together with other musicians and really let rip. They were getting so hot on their guitars that they’d acquired quite a reputation, and any visiting players sought out the two English kids to jam with.

  They had stayed in Majorca for nearly a year, sharing a one-room apartment. The weather was sensational, the booze cheap, and a continual stream of tourists kept the place interesting, not to mention hot and cold women on tap at all times. Before that they had travelled across Belgium, Germany, France and Italy – taking jobs along the way, and enjoying every moment of their new-found freedom.

  The drag was they hadn’t been discovered, and that bothered Kris more than it did Buzz, who seemed quite content to live his life in the sun without, any of the hassles of England. Kris knew for sure that if they were ever going to put a group together and try to do something decent, it was not going to be in some Spanish holiday resort getting laid regularly. Eventually they were going to have to go home, whether Buzz liked it or not. England was where it was all happening, and he was anxious to be a part of it. New groups were springing to prominence all the time – he read the trades – a couple of weeks late but better than nothing. The Musical Express and the Record Mirror were full of success stories – Rod Stewart, the lead vocalist from the Jeff Beck Group, was making his mark, and groups like Blind Faith, Yes, and Led Zeppelin were leading the trends.