‘Lil’ ole me’s got herself a recording contract,’ she sang. ‘I’m gonna be bigger than Diana Ross. A star, baby, a star. Ooooh, Bobby.’ Reaching for him, she locked her hands behind his neck, pulling him down towards her. ‘Wanna celebrate? Wanna kiss me? Wanna make love t’me? I know y’ do. You’ve always wanted to, haven’t you, baby?’
The opportunity was right there. Sharleen, inviting him to do what he had always dreamed of.
Two things stopped him. His best friend, and the fact she was so stoned she didn’t know what day it was. When he and Sharleen got together – and he knew that one day fate would arrange it – it would be after she and Rocket were through, and whatever else, the lady had to know exactly what was happening.
He wanted Sharleen.
But only on his terms.
Los Angeles
Saturday, July 11, 1987
Cybil arrived home early from her photo session. She was fully made up, her blonde hair a thick mane of stylized curls. She seemed to have forgotten about their fight, and was full of good cheer.
‘How was your randy photographer friend?’ Kris asked sarcastically.
‘Gay,’ Cybil laughed. ‘Veree randy and veree gay and veree careful. My God, Kris, with this AIDS scare, nobody’s doing it anymore.’
He didn’t want to discuss AIDS. The very word panicked him. Somewhere he had heard that every time you got into bed with a new person you were also getting into bed with every one of their sexual partners for the past seven years. Jesus! That meant hundreds of people – maybe even thousands – all rolling around together swapping germs. Frightening! One of the reasons he stuck to Cybil in America, and Astrid in England. Playing musical beds was out.
‘I’m going upstairs to change,’ Cybil said. ‘What time are we leaving?’
She obviously expected to go with him to Novaroen, although he couldn’t recall inviting her. But what the hell, he wasn’t in the mood for another fight ‘The Hawk’s comin’ by in half an hour. Will you be ready?’
She grinned. ‘I’m a quick-change artist. Just watch me!’
* * *
The smell in the bus was stifling, and Maxwell Sicily was delighted when the vehicle turned off the Pacific Coast Highway and started up a steep incline to an open-space area where everyone was instructed to disembark.
The air was fresh and strong, a brisk ocean breeze tempering the afternoon heat. Glancing around he noticed security guards everywhere busily organizing the restaurant staff into groups, readying them to board the small shuttle buses which would take them up to the main estate.
As they climbed into the shuttles – eight at a time – a guard ticked their names off a lengthy list, while a uniformed woman holding a two-way radio relayed the checked-off names to some unseen person.
‘This is worse than prison,’ joked one of the waiters.
‘How would you know?’ sneered another.
True, Maxwell thought. How would any of them know? The grim realities of prison life bore no relation to a glorious sunny day on a billionaire’s estate overlooking the white-tipped waves of the Pacific.
‘George!’ The plaintive whine of Chloe, the plump woman who sat behind the desk at Lilliane’s, wafted through the air. ‘Wait!’
Putting his head down, pretending not to notice the floppy cow bearing down on him, he mumbled his name to the guard as he jumped on the shuttle.
Chloe pushed her way through, managing to squeeze on beside him. ‘Phew!’ she exclaimed. ‘What a journey. I’m tired before we even begin!’
Cheap perfume assailed his nostrils. Sweet and clinging. Hooker perfume. The kind the filthy whores the prison guards smuggled in for hefty compensation wore. Dirt bags, as they were known around the joint.
Chloe laid a pudgy hand over his. ‘You’ll havta keep an eye on me today, George,’ she trilled coyly. ‘You watch out for me, an’ I’ll do the same for you. One thing’s for sure, I’m not gonna miss the concert. I’ll find us a nice place t’watch it. How would you like that?’
She shifted on her seat, leaning against him, enveloping him in her cheap stink.
He didn’t say a word. Chloe was just another minor irritation to dispose of when the time came.
* * *
Two representatives from Blue Cadillac Records and an abrasive young publicity woman arrived at L’Ermitage ready to escort Rafealla to Novaroen and the evening concert.
She kept them waiting in the lobby for forty-five minutes, causing all three of them to break out in a nervous sweat.
At last she appeared, wearing baggy khaki pants and a loose shirt, her long dark hair tied back. A bellboy trotted behind her carrying a plastic hanging bag containing her outfit for the concert – a simple blade dress.
She had requested neither a makeup artist nor a hairdresser.
‘This one’s gotta be weird,’ Trudie, the publicity girl, had said. ‘I never heard of a female artist who didn’t want the whole shebang.’
The two record executives fawned all over Rafealla, while Trudie stood back and took stock. Who needed makeup and hair when they looked like this? Rafealla was startlingly beautiful, more so than her publicity photos, which did not do her justice at all. The reverse was usually true. Gorgeous, glamorous photographs always seemed to belong to very ordinary-looking women. Rafealla was certainly the exception.
‘We’ll do a sound check as soon as we arrive,’ one of the record executives said, helping her into the limo. ‘Then you’ll have at least a couple of hours to relax before the show.’
‘Fine,’ she said quietly.
Not the talkative type, Trudie noted.
‘You’ll be on after Bobby Mondella, and before Kris Phoenix,’ the executive said.
Rafealla did not reply. Bobby and Kris. Two names from, her past. Kris and Bobby . . .
Sadly, only one of them would remember her.
* * *
Speed was running early. He had the uniform. He had the car. And he had several hours to kill.
No big deal. There was a new Sylvester Stallone movie just waiting for his attention. Or maybe he should catch up on Beverly Hills Cop II. Speed loved going to the movies. He always bought popcorn, candy and Coca-Cola. And when he sat down in that darkened theatre, with those larger-than-life images flickering on the screen, he became the character he was watching. Shoot! He was tougher than Clint, hornier than Warren, fairer than Redford, and funnier than Chevy.
Speed often thought he’d missed his vocation. He should have been an actor. No, not an actor. A movie star. Yeah. For sure.
With a snort of resignation he realized there was no way he could go to the movies today. Too much of a risk. How could he possibly leave the Caddy limo? What if it was stolen?
Reluctantly he knew that whatever he was going to do, he was going to have to do it from the car.
He headed for Westwood, picked up some Kentucky Fried Chicken, stopped to buy Penthouse and Playboy, and set off towards the beach.
* * *
The limousine driver was a brother. A brother with a script and a mouthful of ideas.
‘Shut him up,’ Bobby muttered to Sara. ‘I don’t need this.’
‘Driver,’ Sara interrupted politely. ‘Mr Mondella is very tired. He’d appreciate silence.’
‘Silence!’ the driver exclaimed excitedly. ‘I wrote a song called ‘Silence’ once. Maybe I should sing it for y’all!’
‘No!’ Sara said hastily, vowing never to use this limo company again. The least they could do was check out their drivers and not send out would-be screenwriter-singer-song-writers.
‘I understand,’ the man said in a hurt voice, sounding like he didn’t understand at all. ‘I’m cool.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ Sara said. But just to make sure, she found the button to raise the glass partition and hurriedly pressed it.
* * *
Nova Citroen’s white-blonde hair was swept up in an elaborate, twisted chignon. Her fingernails and toenails gleamed with slick, crims
on polish. Her body tingled – the result of a vigorous massage – and her makeup was porcelain perfect.
She was ready hours too early, but that’s the way she liked it. Slipping on a plain blue silk shirt and matching slacks, she thought about the three superstar singers due to arrive at Novaroen shortly. A glimmer of a smile brought back the memories.
Kris Phoenix. What a randy bad boy he was.
Bobby Mondella. Ah . . . Bobby . . .
And Rafealla. Her smile faded. The bitch Marcus wanted to fuck.
Nova decided to greet them all personally.
* * *
One of the things Vicki Foxe enjoyed as she play-acted at being a maid was the downstairs gossip. Boy! What scandal and rumour. It made the Enquirer seem positively tame!
Everyone loathed Nova Citroen. The Iron Cunt was her nickname. ‘She makes Imelda Marcos look like a pussy,’ was the general opinion of her loyal staff.
Marcus Citroen was regarded with a sort of grudging admiration. ‘At least he says please an’ thank you once in a while,’ was Bertha the chief cook’s opinion.
Talk was rife of the Citroens’ bizarre sexual practices. ‘There’s handcuffs in his bedside drawer,’ revealed one maid.
‘And a closet full of kinky outfits,’ said another.
Vicki had personally found a concealed cupboard with whips and chains and all the paraphernalia of sexual perversions. She couldn’t care less. Her years as a professional had taught her many things, and one of them was never to be surprised. The thought of either Nova or Marcus Citroen trussed up and ready for action amused her. Sado-masochism wasn’t her kick. But each to his own. Vicki Foxe never judged anyone.
She often wondered what turned Maxwell Sicily on. He certainly hadn’t given any hint. Most men, faced with her lethal charms, started drooling on the count of three. Maxwell had stayed cold as an ice-pick. That kind of disinterest intrigued her. Where was he going after tonight? What did he have planned? Was there another woman in his life?
So far he’d only paid her a quarter of the money she was supposed to get. The deal was he would contact her twenty-four hours after the caper and tell her where she could pick up the rest.
‘Yeah? An’ what makes you think I’m gonna trust you?’ she’d asked suspiciously.
‘We do it my way. Are you in or out?’ he’d replied icily, without so much as a moment’s pause.
She admired a man who didn’t waver. ‘I’m in,’ she’d said, and set about finding out exactly who George Smith really was. Not so difficult. Vicki had her ways.
‘I’ve been lookin’ for you.’ Tom, the chief of security, startled her as he came up behind her in the front hall of the main house.
She held her shoulders a touch straighter and thrust her bosom forward, straining the limits of her drab uniform. ‘And you’ve found me,’ she answered sassily. ‘What’s up?’
He edged close to her, his bad breath offending her nostrils. ‘How about you an’ me watchin’ the concert together like you suggested?’ he asked with a knowing leer.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said guilelessly. ‘You’re working, and so am I. It’s not possible.’ Softening her voice she added, ‘Much as I’d love to.’
His eyes dropped to her breasts, big balloons just straining for his touch. Tom knew when a tootsie wanted him, and this broad had been giving him the eye for weeks. Now he’d finally figured out a good time to get her to himself. ‘I got a place for us to see it,’ he said.
Looking surprised she cooed, ‘Oooh, Tom, you’re so smart! How exciting!’
‘It will be, honey,’ he said, managing to brush against her. ‘Just keep everything hot.’
With one deft movement her hand slid across the telling bulge in his pants. ‘It’ll take a real man to cool me down,’ she whispered. ‘See ya later, big boy!’
* * *
Marcus curbed his desire to visit Rafealla at her hotel. He had to be so careful. The girl reminded him of a horse he’d once owned, a magnificent Arabian filly which allowed nobody close.
Marcus had tamed the excitable, exquisite animal. It had taken him many months of discipline and extreme patience.
He planned to do the same with Rafealla. Only this time he was running out of patience.
Kris Phoenix
1975
The baby was whining – some might say it was crying, but Kris knew a whine when he heard it.
He wasn’t good with babies, couldn’t quite get the hang of them. And he knew for a fact that it wasn’t his job to be watching over some smelly little sod with a nappy full of crap, even if it was his.
Putting down his pen, he picked up a newspaper. Writing songs was a kick, but only when he could concentrate, and who could concentrate with a whimpering baby making distracting background noises?
Willow was going to have to give up her job, there was no other answer. They’d just have to manage without her salary. Screw it. He needed peace and quiet to create, and he sure as hell wasn’t getting it at home.
Home was a basement flat in Kilburn – was he ever going to get out of there? It had a tiny, dark bedroom, matching bathroom, a cramped kitchen, and a dreary living room, which led out to a seven-foot patch of weeds, where they kept two rusting deck-chairs and the baby’s pram – a rather fancy gift from Willow’s uptight parents.
Kris thought for a moment of Willow’s formidable mummy and daddy. Mr Wigh, a bank manager in Esher, and his neurotic wife, a raging snob with delusions of grandeur. No wonder Willow had run away from home twice before she was sixteen, finally moving out on her nineteenth birthday to attend secretarial college in Hampstead. Her parents sent her such a paltry allowance she was forced to get a part-time job working in a dress shop with Flower. Flower, of course, introduced her to Kris. Before he could turn around she was pregnant, and he – suburban schmuck that he was – had married the girl.
Kris Phoenix – rock star. Forget it. Let’s all give a big hand to Kris Phoenix, husband, father, jerk of the year.
He threw the newspaper down in disgust, not even bothering to study the naked page three girl with tits you could balance a mug of beer on.
‘Shit!’ he said aloud, and the baby shifted from a whine to a hearty wail.
Nothing was going right for him, not one damn thing. Eighteen months ago The Wild Ones had cut their first record, ‘Lonesome Morning’, and everyone had been so high on it. Kris hadn’t doubted that success and all that went with it was just around the corner.
‘Lonesome Morning’ descended on an uninterested public, and got no radio play. ‘How can people buy it if they’ve never heard it?’ he’d demanded of anyone who would listen.
‘You’re not on any of the play lists,’ Sam Rozelle told him regretfully.
‘So tell the fucking record company to get it on. That’s their job, isn’t it?’
‘Everyone’s doing their best,’ Sam replied, not looking him in the eye.
Kris suspected otherwise. He went into six record stores, and not only were they completely unaware of the record’s existence, but after searching, found they didn’t even have it in stock.
‘There’s somethin’ funny going on,’ he complained to Mr Terence, who took absolutely no notice.
‘Nonsense!’ Mr Terence said. The time isn’t right for you. You all need more experience.’ And he promptly sent them back on the road. Back to the one-night stands, greasy roadside cafes, groupie slags, and sleeping in the back of the clapped-out Volkswagen bus.
Back to square one. Do not pass Go. Do not collect a fucking thing.
In London, Willow’s pregnancy progressed. Flower relayed news bulletins when she arrived to visit Buzz.
‘Her father’s furious.’
‘Her mother’s having a nervous breakdown.’
‘Willow moved home last week.’
And finally: ‘Her old man’s making her have an abortion.’
‘What?’ Kris shouted, the blood draining from his face. ‘No fucking bank prick’s gettin’ rid o
f my baby.’ And before anyone could stop him, he was on a train.
He turned up at Willow’s parents’ house in the middle of the night. A frightened au-pair let him in and immediately shouted for Mr Wigh, who came downstairs and attempted to throw him out. Mrs Wigh appeared next, and feigned a fainting fit. And then Willow, scrubbed and clean, with just the hint of a tiny belly beneath her robe.
‘I’m gonna marry you,’ Kris blurted.
‘No you’re not,’ stormed Mr Wigh.
‘Just watch us, mate,’ retorted Kris. And he took her back to Leeds, where they got married in the local register office with Buzz as best man, a stoned Flower, Ollie, Rasta and an assortment of teenage groupies in attendance.
The wedding ceremony took less than ten minutes, and after it was over they all went to a local cafe and got well and truly pissed.
In the heat of the moment it was an exciting time. After that it was downhill on a fast sled. What was an aspiring rock star supposed to do with a wife, let alone a pregnant one?
Mr Terence went ape-shit when he found out, ranting and raving, threatening to tear up their contract, swearing them all to secrecy. ‘Nobody is to know about this. Absolutely no one,’ he said severely. ‘And if anyone finds out – deny it. Do you hear me? It never happened, she’s just a girlfriend.’
Apparently, in their quest to become rock stars, girlfriends were acceptable, wives were not.
Willow agreed she wouldn’t wear a wedding ring. Not that Kris had bought her one. Who had the money?
When Mr Terence calmed down, he took the situation in hand, finding them the furnished flat in Kilburn, and advancing Kris the cash to pay for it. ‘I’ll deduct this from your song-writing royalties,’ he’d said testily.
‘What royalties? I haven’t had any bleedin’ songs published yet – only ‘Lonesome Morning’, an’ that’s dead in the fuckin’ water,’ Kris replied.
Didn’t I tell you?’ Mr Terence said vaguely. Del Delgardo and the Nightmares heard it, liked the song, and cut their own version. It’ll be out in America next week.’
‘No, you didn’t tell me,’ Kris was furious. He felt betrayed.
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