Rock Star

by Jackie Collins

  ‘Lonesome Morning’, the Del Delgardo and the Nightmares cover, was a smash, reaching number three in the States, and a healthy number two in England.

  Proud as he was of the song, Kris would sooner the hit belonged to The Wild Ones. Still, after he got over his initial anger, it was a satisfying feeling for both him and Ollie – who had written the music to his lyrics. It would have been nice if Mr Terence had asked their permission before handing their song over to someone else, but at least it was a hit.

  The most annoying thing of all was that when they performed the song on stage everyone thought they were covering Del Delgardo and the Nightmares’ smash single, even though Kris announced that they could go out and buy The Wild Ones’ original recording. Big deal. Nobody did. Or maybe they just couldn’t find it.

  With Willow installed in the flat, Kris at least had somewhere to go on the one weekend a month he managed to get back to London. It made a pleasant change from being constantly on the road. Willow could cook, and she cared about him. She was pretty, clean and loving. What more could any man ask?

  She was also getting bigger every day, her stomach swelling like a large ripe watermelon preparing to burst.

  Naturally he had to introduce her to his family. Mum acted okay, but his two sisters carried on alarmingly, telling her every embarrassing story they could think of about him. Brother Brian sneered derisively. ‘How did you get to marry the daughter of a bank manager?’ He was impressed, in spite of himself.

  ‘Just a big cock, I guess’, Kris replied nonchalantly. ‘Shame it doesn’t run in the family.’

  ‘You’re no good at anything you do’, Brian hissed with a baleful glare. ‘Why don’t you pack this stupid singing lark in, and get yourself a proper job with a future?’

  ‘Why don’t you shove it up your arse?’ Family. He tried to stay away from them.

  When Willow gave birth he was on stage in Glasgow playing to an audience of appreciative, squealing girls. The Wild Ones had quite a following in spite of no record deal, no publicity agent, and no-hope venues.

  Avis took Willow to the hospital in a taxi. She phoned the uptight Wighs, who drove down from Esher the following morning. By the time Kris arrived from Scotland he was the father of a seven-pound-six-ounce baby boy. Willow sat in her hospital bed surrounded by a loud-mouthed Avis, a stoned Flower, and a tight-lipped Mr and Mrs Wigh. The perfect group. From that moment on he felt completely trapped.

  They named the baby Peter (after Willow’s grandfather), John (after Kris’s father) and Buddy (a respectful gesture to the late Buddy Holly – one of Kris’s personal heroes). Somehow Peter John Buddy never got called any of those names. Bo was his nickname. Baby Bo.

  He’d been with them for fourteen months, and in that time The Wild Ones split up – temporarily. Rasta went on a tour of Europe with a German rock and roll band who made him an offer he didn’t want to refuse. Buzz took off with Flower to Ibiza, where he got a job as a waiter and resident guitarist in a local restaurant. And Ollie concentrated on composing new songs, while Kris settled down to supplying the lyrics.

  They sold a few of their songs, causing Mr Terence to grab a hefty percentage. But their best compositions they saved for the re-forming of The Wild Ones.

  Mr Terence was furious with the group for splitting up, but as they straggled off the road he could see they were all burnt out and needed to do other things for a while, so he didn’t put up too hard a fight.

  ‘When we get back together,’ Kris informed him, ‘We’re goin’ to do if properly. No more screwin’ around. An’ if you can’t do it for us, we’ll find someone who can.’

  ‘Let us not forget that we have a contract,’ Mr Terence said waspishly. ‘A legal contract.’

  ‘Fuck the contract an’ fuck you,’ Kris fumed. ‘You sold us down the river with ‘Lonesome Morning’, and it ain’t happenin’ again.’

  ‘How dare you! I’ve supported you boys through thick and thin. Given you money, a roof over your heads, looked after your personal problems. I’ve—’

  Kris held up a commanding hand, stopping the fussy Mr Terence in his tracks. ‘I know all that,’ he said. ‘An’ believe me – we’re grateful. But we’re not goin’ to waste any more days bustin’ our arses in deadbeat cities performin’ to crummy audiences who don’t know shit from chocolate. We want the big time.’

  Kris had made that little speech three months ago, and he meant every word of it. He was twenty-six years old, getting up there. The dreaded thirty was only four years away and he was determined to make it before then. The Wild Ones were good and he knew it. God! He wanted success so much he could taste it in the back of his throat every morning when he got up, and every evening when he went to sleep.

  The baby’s crying increased. Gingerly he picked the infant up, cradling it awkwardly. Holding the baby reminded him that since giving birth, Willow did not like to make love. She just lay there, a stone slab with all the enthusiasm of a deceased fish.

  Miraculously Bo stopped crying, and gurgled happily, Kris carried his son over to the table, laying him on a dean towel. Removing the baby’s nappy he stared down at the Phoenix crown jewels. It certainly looked as if Baby Bo had a major inheritance coming his way.

  Kris grinned, just as a steady stream of pee hit him straight in the left eye.

  * * *

  ‘I don’t know,’ Willow said, a worried frown creasing her brow. ‘What about germs, and the water, and all that heat?’

  Kris had just suggested a welcome family holiday in Ibiza with Buzz and Flower, and she was moaning about germs and heat. She was lucky he was even considering taking her and the baby. The smart thing would be to leave them behind while he talked Buzz into rejoining the group. The time had come for The Wild Ones to get back together. He’d already contacted Rasta, who was raring to go. And Ollie waited impatiently on red alert. They had a stash of dynamite songs, and Kris had no doubts that this time around it was all going to happen. All he needed was Buzz.

  He had not, as yet, given the good news to Mr Terence. He wanted to be sure of Buzz first, and he knew the best way to hook the lazy layabout was to tell him face-to-face.

  The holiday idea seemed perfect. There were cheap flights to Ibiza, and Buzz had said they could stay with him and Flower anytime they wanted. Kris had thought Willow would be delighted. No such luck.

  ‘C’mon, luv,’ he wheedled. ‘It’ll be fun.’

  ‘For you,’ she said, with a toss of her head. ‘I’ll be looking after the baby the whole time.’

  ‘We’ll share.’

  ‘You say that now, but I know you.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’ He grabbed her playfully around the waist. Lately he was feeling randy all the time. Maybe it was because Willow tried to limit their sexual adventures to once a week, which was about six times too little for him. Before he was married he’d had sex every day. Wasn’t marriage supposed to improve things?

  Sliding his hand up, he cupped her right breast.

  She tried to wriggle free, but his grip on her waist was firm.

  ‘Stop it, Kris,’ she scolded.

  ‘Why? We’re a respectable old married couple,’ he said, hand diving beneath her blouse, burrowing under her bra like a mole.

  ‘I said stop it,’ she repeated, her voice developing an annoying whiny quality. ‘It’s the middle of the afternoon.’

  He was on a mission and had no intention of coming back to earth until mission accomplished. Pulling her reluctant hand down to his hard-on he said. ‘Feel this. I don’t care what the fucking time is.’

  ‘Don’t swear.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s coarse.’

  ‘So am I. You didn’t marry the bleedin’ Prince of Wales, y’know.’

  Roughly he pulled her blouse open and unhooked her bra, as she stood motionless in the centre of the room like a martyr about to be sacrificed.

  He didn’t care. He was beyond caring. He was too busy deciding whether to suck on one of
her deliciously inviting tits, or go for the goal in one.

  The boobs triumphed. It was more fun for him if she enjoyed it too, and he’d noticed she was never averse to a certain amount of stroking and caressing in that area.

  And so they both stood there, Kris carefully working her up to the great moment.

  Finally she gave in, sinking to the floor with a small moan of acceptance.

  Pulling her panties down he zeroed in for the home rum. It was quick but ultimately satisfying.

  ‘We’re going to Ibiza,’ he said firmly. Pack your bags an’ count on it. Okay, luv?’

  Rafealla

  1975

  ‘Remember when you tried to kill yourself?’ Odile Ronet asked matter-of-factly. Like Rafealla she was bilingual, and spoke perfect English without a trace of her French accent.

  ‘Remember when you tried to do yourself in?’ Rafealla retorted sharply.

  ‘Hmmm . . .’ Odile replied with a reflective shrug. ‘Neither of us did much of a job, did we?’

  ‘Thank goodness!’ exclaimed Rafealla.

  ‘It certainly would have been a waste,’ stated Odile, admiring her slim figure in the full-length mirror.

  Odile was visiting from Paris. Since she and Rafealla had been living in different countries they had spent nearly every summer together, usually dividing their time between their two families. Odile’s mother, Isabella, had also remarried.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Rafealla, standing beside her best friend so they could compare reflections.

  Two fifteen-year-old girls on the threshold of adventure. Both long-legged and coltish. Both attractive promises of things to come. But there the resemblance ended. Rafealla was dark, Odile fair. Rafealla’s looks were strikingly unusual. Odile had a simple prettiness.

  Best friends and not a secret between them. They shared more than friendship, they shared a tragedy that would never go away.

  ‘My breasts are bigger than yours,’ Odile announced, sticking her chest out to get the best effect.

  ‘No they’re not,’ protested Rafealla vehemently.

  ‘They certainly are.’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘See.’ Odile raised her sweater, exposing firm, small breasts without the hindrance of a bra.

  ‘Ha!’ exclaimed Rafealla, opening her shirt. ‘Look at these.’

  ‘Fabulous!’ exclaimed a male voice from the doorway. ‘Utterly fabulous!’

  ‘Rupert – you little shit,’ she screamed, pulling her shirt closed, while just as quickly Odile dragged her sweater down. ‘I’ve told you never to come into my room without knocking. Never!’

  ‘The door was ajar,’ Rupert Egerton, son and heir of Cyrus, Lord Egerton – the newspaper magnate – pointed out.

  ‘So what?’ yelled Rafealla furiously. ‘So bloody what?’

  ‘Hmmm . . . And what are you two doing anyway, comparing each other’s thingies? Couple of lesbos, I bet.’

  ‘Fuck off, Egerton.’

  ‘I will not.’ Rupert sat himself down on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m bored.’

  At nineteen, Rupert was an amiable, younger mirror-image of his father, and his grandfather, and his great grandfather before him. Ancient portraits decorated the halls of Egerton Castle. There was no mistaking Rupert’s heritage. He was tall and gangly, with a shock of bright-red hair, hundreds of freckles on parchment-white skin, and pointed patrician features. The only thing he hadn’t inherited was the Egerton family stammer.

  When Rafealla’s mother, Anna, had married Rupert’s father, Cyrus, Rafealla had thought she would die. For one whole year she’d refused to acknowledge Rupert’s existence – until one day, while out riding in the grounds of Egerton Castle, Rupert had sneaked up behind her on his horse, startled her, and made her mount rear into the air, causing her to be thrown to the muddy ground. ‘I hate you!’ she’d yelled. ‘You stupid, freckly dumb boy!’

  ‘And the same goes for me, missy,’ he’d yelled back. ‘You’re a stuck-up, conceited wog brat. I wish you’d never come here.’

  Rafealla had burst into tears. She was thirteen and he was a big bully of seventeen. It had never occurred to her that he didn’t want her around either.

  After that little incident they began to talk to each other, grudgingly at first, but soon they found they had certain things in common – like riding, and jazz records, and a hatred of Cook’s pot pies. One night they sat together in the empty ballroom and began to speak about their outrage and hurt at losing a parent. Rupert’s mother had drowned in a boating accident when he was seven – exactly the same age as Rafealla when she lost her father to a terrorist’s bomb.

  Suddenly they were close, and from that moment on Rafealla loved her stepbrother as if he was the real thing. Of course, like the real thing, he could be an absolute pain, and today was one of those days.

  ‘Rupert,’ Rafealla said briskly, ‘I don’t care if you’re bored, I really don’t. Odile and I hardly ever see each other, so will you kindly go and be bored elsewhere.’

  ‘Yes,’ Odile agreed. ‘Why don’t you run away and read the National Geographic?’

  ‘Nobody reads that anymore. Not when you can see human, white – well, almost white – bosoms at home.’

  ‘Fuck off, Egerton,’ Rafealla repeated, with a finger gesture to match the phrase.

  ‘Hmm . . . just when I thought I might treat you two young ladies to a night on the town in London,’ he said casually, getting up and wandering towards the door. ‘Of course – if you want me to leave . . .’ He trailed off, waiting for their response.

  ‘Really?’ asked Rafealla suspiciously. She wouldn’t put it past him to dangle the carrot and then withdraw it at the last moment.

  ‘I don’t offer idle invitations,’ he said, quite affronted.

  ‘Yes you do,’ Rafealla contradicted him.

  ‘I most certainly do not.’

  ‘Children!’ interrupted Odile. ‘Let us not waste precious time arguing. A night in London sounds divine. The answer is yes, Rupert. Yes, Yes. Yes.’

  * * *

  Rafealla loved going to London, although it was usually during the day with her mother. They always lunched at Harrods, shopped around Knightsbridge, and then devoured a delicious tea at Fortnum and Mason. Sometimes Lord Egerton drove in to meet them, and they dined at his favourite restaurant, Wheeler’s, in Old Compton Street, where Rafealla always ordered the crab salad.

  Once or twice she had played truant from school, taken the train and visited London with a girlfriend. They’d walked up and down the King’s Road admiring the fashion parade of punks – with their purple and green spiked hair, bizarre makeup, and outlandish dress. And Sloane Rangers – the properly brought-up daughters of well-bred and affluent parents – clad in twin-sets, pearls, and sensible Gucci shoes.

  After watching the fashion parade they’d spend hours looking through the record albums in W. H. Smith before going home.

  Rupert’s London was different altogether. He took them to San Lorenzo, an Italian restaurant in fashionable Beauchamp Place, where he seemed to know almost everyone.

  Mara, the warm proprietress, chucked him lovingly under the chin. ‘You like ’em young, Rupert, huh?’ she asked with a wicked twinkle.

  ‘This is my sister, Mara,’ he said-reproachfully. ‘Rafealla, say hello to the great Mara. She runs this place with an iron fist. We’re all terrified of her.’

  Shyly Rafealla shook hands.

  ‘Your sister, Egerton,’ said a tall young man with a sly smile. ‘Since when did you have a sister?’

  ‘Since my father remarried,’ Rupert replied. ‘Rafealla – meet Eddie Mafair – he’s a pain in the backside and rolling in filthy lucre. And Eddie – this is Odile Ronet. Hands off. One day I’m going to marry this girl.’

  Rafealla and Odile exchanged amazed glances.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Rupert said casually, winking at Odile. ‘Must have slipped my mind – thought I did.’

  They dined on mushroom salad
and fresh pasta with shrimp, followed by a wonderful creamy dessert concoction called zabaglione. Rafealla spotted two Hollywood movie stars, a world-renowned tennis player, several English actors, and Del Delgardo – lead singer with the Nightmares.

  ‘I think I’m dreaming!’ she whispered to Odile. ‘Isn’t Del Delgardo gorgeous?’

  ‘Ugly,’ replied Odile with a pantomimed shudder. ‘Those teeth!’

  ‘Who cares about his teeth. Everything else is perfect!’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I can dream, can’t I?’

  Pulling a face, Odile said, ‘He’s old. He must be at least thirty.’

  ‘That’s not old.’

  ‘One foot in the grave, my dear.’

  Sometimes even best friends got on one’s nerves. Rafealla shot Odile a dirty look.

  After dinner Eddie Mafair reappeared and hovered by their table. ‘We’re all going to Annabel’s,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come with us?’

  ‘Can we?’ Rafealla and Odile questioned in unison, turning hopefully to Rupert.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head vaguely. ‘I suppose I should drive you girls home.’

  ‘Why?’ Rafealla asked anxiously. She thought Eddie most attractive, and could imagine nothing better than spending the rest of the evening with him. ‘My mother and your father are away this weekend. There’s nobody waiting up for us.’

  ‘True,’ he said.

  ‘Well?’ the two girls demanded.

  ‘All right,’ he decided. ‘But you’ll both have to chip in on the bill, I’m not made of bloody money.’

  Annabel’s presented a world Rafealla hadn’t seen before. It was a sophisticated nightclub, with music courtesy of The Beatles, David Bowie, Aretha Franklin, Jefferson Lionacre, Gary Glitter, Olivia Newton-John, Del Delgardo and the Nightmares – a mixed group – whose records blared forth from loudspeakers stationed above an overpacked dance floor.

  ‘Ohhh! I love discotheques,’ Odile exclaimed, with a delighted smile. ‘I’ve been to Le Club in Paris, you know. My mother took me there for my fifteenth birthday.’

  Rupert raised his eyebrows as if he’d only just realized how young they were. ‘For God’s sake,’ he hissed. ‘If anyone asks, you’re both eighteen.’