Rock Star

by Jackie Collins

  ‘Yes, Rupert,’ Odile said obediently.

  ‘And I’m twenty-one,’ he added, a trifle sheepishly.

  Rafealla nodded, her eyes darting all over the place. ‘How old is Eddie?’ she asked innocently.

  ‘Too old for you,’ he snapped.

  They joined Eddie Mafair and a group of his friends. The girls at the table all resembled the Sloane Rangers Rafealla had spotted strolling in Knightsbridge and the King’s Road. She was glad she’d chosen to wear a short black skirt and white turtleneck sweater – at least she looked different, and certainly older than fifteen.

  ‘How about some champers?’ Eddie offered, already filling her glass with the fizzy liquid.

  She decided he liked her too, and felt a shiver of excitement. Rupert was seated further down the table with Odile next to him, so she was safe. Tentatively she took a sip. It tasted wonderful.

  ‘Drink up. That’s my girl,’ encouraged Eddie, staring straight into her eyes.

  She studied his face. He had sharply handsome features, sallow cheeks and light brown hair worn appealingly long. His clothes were a casual blue blazer, white shirt, dark pants, and a blue and red striped tie. She imagined he was only a year or so older than Rupert.

  ‘I say, Eddie,’ brayed-the Sloane Ranger sitting on his other side. ‘Let’s trip the light.’

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me, Fiona. I promised this one to Rafealla.’

  Fiona pouted, not prettily. ‘Drat! I simply adore The Who.’

  Rafealla stifled a giggle. She couldn’t imagine Fiona adoring anything other than a walk in the country with a panting labrador sniffing at her crotch.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ asked Eddie.

  ‘Nothing.’

  He took her by the hand and stood up. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘I simply adore The Who,’ she mimicked wickedly.

  ‘Now, now,’ he chided, with an amused smile.

  They danced the night away. Slow ones, fast ones, sambas, even a waltz! Until at one thirty in the morning a rather irritable Rupert insisted he drive them home.

  ‘I want to see you again,’ Eddie Mafair whispered in her ear as they were leaving. ‘Very, very soon. I’ll give you a ring.’

  She nodded, knowing full well her mother would object strongly if an older, sophisticated man like Eddie rang her for a date. She was allowed to go to the cinema with a mixed group and that was about it. To her chagrin she’d only been kissed once, and it was no big deal. The boy in question was one of the gardener’s assistants. Reasonably good-looking, he had a black front tooth and missing finger, which quite spoiled the effect.

  Odile was dying to find out everything, but managed to control herself until they got home and Rupert went off to his room.

  ‘Well!’ she exclaimed. ‘Tell me all! And don’t leave anything out.’

  Rafealla realized there was not that much to tell. After all, the only thing they’d done was dance. ‘He wants to phone me’, she said lamely.

  ‘Of course he does,’ Odile enthused. ‘And he probably wants to make mad, passionate love to you.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You must know.’

  ‘How?’

  Odile rolled her eyes. ‘You had all those slow dances with him . . .’ She hesitated, then rushed on. ‘Was he . . . you know . . . stiff?’

  ‘What a question!’

  ‘Well, was he?’

  Rafaella felt a fit of the giggles coming on. She was sure she was blushing, even though Odile was her best friend and they told each other everything.

  ‘Yes’, she said at last. ‘He was stiff as a sergeant on drill parade!’

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Odile, collapsing with laughter. ‘And will you go out with him when he phones?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rafealla replied defiantly. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

  Bobby Mondella

  1975

  ‘No,’ Bobby said.

  ‘You’re one stubborn son of a bitch,’ Sharleen replied, dragging nervously on her cigarette. ‘Why not?’

  ‘We’ve been over it a hundred times,’ he said flatly. ‘You know how I feel. I got loyalty – an’ it belongs to Amerika Allen.’

  ‘Goddamn!’ Viciously Sharleen stubbed her cigarette into an ornate lead-crystal ashtray. ‘Blue Cadillac and Marcus can do so much more for you. Why don’t you listen?’

  ‘Because you’re wrong’, he replied calmly. ‘Soul On Soul have been very good to me.’

  ‘They haven’t taken you to number one on the crossover charts,’ she said, reaching out and selecting another cigarette from a fancy silver box on an expensive mahogany coffee table. ‘What do you have to say about that?

  ‘You know something?’ he said mildly. ‘You’re gonna ruin your voice if you keep on smoking those things.’

  ‘Don’t wanna talk about it, huh?’ she jeered. ‘Don’t wanna admit that Soul On Soul is a little fish in a large pond, an’ Blue Cadillac with Marcus Citroen is the goddamn shark.’

  ‘Oh yeah, he’s a shark all right,’ Bobby said quietly.

  ‘You’ve never even met him,’ she said accusingly. ‘Don’t assume power equals bad.’

  He stared at her. In two and a half years she had changed considerably. No longer the wide-eyed, enthusiastic girl he’d first met, she was now a twenty-nine-year-old, polished, sleek woman. Pretty – yes. Vulnerable – no. Loving – yes. But only when it could get her somewhere or something she wanted.

  He was still her friend. He still loved her, but he wasn’t sure he liked her anymore.

  ‘I spoke to Rocket yesterday,’ he said, changing the subject.

  ‘That bastard!’ she snapped.

  When had Rocket become that bastard? The day she dumped him. Or the day he married Roman Vanders, a black actress ten years his senior?

  ‘I guess you don’t want to hear how he is.’

  ‘Bobby.’ She leaned towards him persuasively, close enough so he could study her perfect makeup, and observe the unhappiness in her big brown eyes. ‘All I want is for you to be part of the Blue Cadillac family. It’s right for you. I know it is. And think how great it will be when you and I can work together. I’d really love to cut an album with you.’

  ‘I’ll ask Amerika. Maybe she’ll have you over to the studio an’ we’ll do somethin’ for Soul On Soul.’

  Sharleen’s expression grew stony. ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘Why?’

  Don’t be ridiculous.’ She got up from the couch and walked over to the french windows of her Park Avenue apartment. Marcus Citroen paid the rent. Marcus Citroen owned every inch of Sharleen.

  Throwing the windows open she strolled outside onto the terrace. A panoramic view of the New York skyline greeted her.

  ‘Come outside, Bobby,’ she called. ‘Come and see what you’re missing.’

  The only thing he was missing was a woman in his life, and Sharleen no longer fit the bill.

  Following her outside he had to admit the view was impressive. But what kind of woman sold herself for a view and a couple of hit records?

  Oh yes, Marcus had kept his promise. Sharleen was a rising star, and she loved it. Privately Bobby thought the stuff she was recording was pop crap. While Sharleen had never possessed the greatest voice in the world, she’d always had soul and feeling. Now she sounded as if she was singing by numbers. It didn’t appear to be important. The public loved her, and along with Marcus Citroen they had made her what she was today.

  He grew restless standing on her terrace. ‘I gotta split,’ he said, pulling up the collar of his jacket.

  ‘Can’t you stay for dinner?’ she asked, a note of disappointment creeping into her voice.

  ‘I never planned on it. I’m meeting Amerika.’

  ‘Of course.’ She swept back into the apartment. He walked behind her. Suddenly she turned on him. ‘Are you sleeping with her?’

  That’s none of your business, lady,’ he replied with a sharp edge to his voice.

  ‘Obvi
ously she has some hold over you. Why else would you turn down the best offer of your life?’

  ‘A little thing called loyalty. L-O-Y-A-L-T-Y. Remember that word – you may need it someday.’

  Later he met with Rocket and his wife, Roman, at a restaurant in the Village famous for its Southern fried chicken and black-eye peas.

  Rocket looked good. Fame as a New York method-style actor suited him. He was still short, dark and moody, but now he had confidence and style, and he was successful enough to pick and choose his roles. He was in demand, and he loved every moment of it.

  Roman was a serious-looking black woman who had a fine reputation as a character actress. The two of them had met on location in Georgia. Bobby still suspected that Rocket had married her on the rebound from Sharleen.

  He remembered the night of the break-up with a sour taste in his mouth. Sharleen had been seeing Marcus Citroen for weeks, arriving home in the early hours stoned and uncommunicative. Bobby didn’t know what to do. Finally he’d weakened and called Rocket in L.A., telling him there was a problem.

  ‘I’ve got two more days dubbing and I’m back,’ Rocket had said confidently. ‘No problem.’

  He was back all right. In time to greet Sharleen as she staggered home at six in the morning.

  They screamed at each other for two hours, made love for another two, and later, when Rocket and Bobby strolled down to the corner deli to pick up some cold cuts and potato salad for lunch, Rocket confided that everything was great, Sharleen was sorry, and they were just as much in love as ever.

  Somebody forgot to tell Sharleen. When they arrived home with the food, she was packed and gone – courtesy of Marcus Citroen, who had sent his chauffeured car for her. Rocket had sworn he’d never forgive her.

  Amerika joined them at the restaurant for coffee. She was full of enthusiasm about Bobby’s new single, which was creeping steadily up the black music charts.

  It’d be sensational if it crossed over,’ he said casually, thinking of what Sharleen had said.

  Amerika shook her head. ‘The most difficult task in the world. You can count the black artists who cross over on one hand.’

  ‘Stevie Wonder.’

  ‘Dionne Warwick,’ chimed in Roman.

  ‘Johnny Mathis,’ said Rocket.

  ‘We are talkin’ mainstream singers here,’ Amerika said. ‘Bobby Mondella is pure soul. He has a hard-core black audience. They love him. Surely that’s enough, isn’t it?’

  For once Bobby thought that maybe it wasn’t.

  * * *

  ‘Lookit – boy. How come we don’ never see you? Don’ git no word at all. What you think this kinda behaviour gonna do to your fine cousin, Fanni? You got a short memory or what? That woman done plenty for you when you was nuttin’. Now you big time an’ we don’t git t’hear no word. What you gotta say ’bout that, boy?’

  The blustering voice on the other end of the telephone was unmistakably Ernest Crystal.

  ‘Don’t call me boy,’ Bobby said ominously, wondering how Ernest had managed to track him down after almost seven years of silence. ‘What the hell do you want?’

  ‘What I want? What I want?’ Ernest’s voice reached a falsetto level of outraged insincerity. ‘You-all have family, boy. Relatives who care ’bout you.’

  Sure. When he left Fanni and Ernest’s, he’d attempted to keep in touch. But neither of them had shown any interest, and eventually he’d stopped calling.

  ‘How’d you get my number?’ he asked resignedly.

  ‘Your record company done tole me – once I tole them I was your dear uncle. ’

  ‘My what?’ Bobby spluttered.

  ‘A relative is a relative, boy.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear me the first time?’ Bobby said, his words measured. ‘Do not call me boy.’

  Jest habit, I guess.’ Ernest cleared his throat, getting ready for the pitch. ‘Listen t’me. We was the ones who done took you in when Mister Leon Rue set you loose on the streets of New York City wit nowhere t’go. We was the ones done gave you a bed, an’ food, an’ a roof over your head. We looked after your ass when you was sick, an’ never asked for nuttin’ in return.’

  Conveniently Ernest seemed to have forgotten about the six-thousand-dollar cheque Bobby had arrived with, plus a healthy piece of his pay from the Chainsaw every week.

  ‘Cut to the chase,’ Bobby said abruptly, having no desire to listen to Ernest’s whining. If they needed money he was prepared to give them some. He wasn’t rich, but he could certainly afford it, and Fanni was his only living relative.

  ‘You talk tough, bo— uh – Bobby. You don’ sound like that sweet, fat kiddy we once knew an’ loved.’

  ‘He died,’ Bobby said dryly. ‘How much?’

  ‘Did I say one damn word ’bout money!’ Ernest yelled indignantly.

  ‘How much, goddammit?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Ernest hesitated. ‘Since you bein’ gentleman ’nuff to ask . . . Fanni bin feelin’ bad. She can’t work no more. She done gain a pound or two, an’ she bin havin’ trouble wit her heart.’

  ‘Has she seen a doctor? They could put her on a diet, you know.’

  Ernest rolled his eyes. ‘She don’ have no truck wit them doctors. They jest take your money an’ laugh you in the face.’ He paused, waiting for the right moment to strike. The trouble was, he didn’t know how much to ask for. Best to go for high, he decided. ‘We could sure use . . . say . . . uh . . . twenny thousan’.’

  Bobby laughed.

  ‘Or fifteen,’ Ernest added sheepishly. ‘Wit all the bills we got to pay . . .’ He trailed off, waiting for a reaction.

  Bobby couldn’t believe the nerve of the man. Twenty thousand dollars! Fifteen! He should tell the son of a bitch to take a hike. ‘I’ll send Fanni a cheque for three thousand. And you can tell her it would have been nice if she’d taken the time to call me herself.’

  ‘Three thousan’!’ bitched Ernest. ‘You-all mus’ be makin’ plenty. An’ you’re tellin’ me all y’kin spare is three thousand—’

  ‘You don’t want it, just say so,’ said Bobby, cutting him off.

  ‘Aw, I guess we’ll take it, we’ll take it,’ Ernest whined, an unsatisfied man, but three thousand was better than nothing.

  Bobby put down the phone, and for one lousy moment flashed-back on life with the Crystals. Their constant fights. The insults he’d endured. His pokey back room behind the kitchen – freezing in the winter and hotter than a sauna in the summer. Food. Greasy, plentiful ribs and potatoes and fried chicken. Pies and cakes, cookies and candies. Was it any wonder he’d remained a fat piece of blubber while living with them?

  It was true though – Fanni had taken him in, and defended him many times against the bullying Ernest.

  He went to his desk and wrote out a cheque before he changed his mind. Then he addressed an envelope to Fanni and scrawled a short note telling her to call him and maybe they’d get together.

  Needless to say he never heard a word in return, although his cheque was cashed quickly enough.

  Sharleen was silent for several months too. He was used to not hearing from her – she only called when she needed something, and since he’d turned down Marcus Citroen’s offer to join Blue Cadillac he was obviously not on her wanted list. He got on with his life, writing songs, recording, doing quite nicely, dating a variety of girls and having a good time. Until one summer night, round about midnight, the buzzer sounded on his apartment door and wouldn’t quit.

  He was alone, watching a late-night movie on television.

  ‘Who is it?’ he called out before opening up.

  The answer was incomprehensible. Instantly he knew it was Sharleen.

  Throwing open the door, he was just in time to catch her as she fell into his arms – a beaten, bleeding wreck.

  Kris Phoenix

  1975

  ‘It’s bloody hot here,’ Kris complained.

  ‘Don’t knock it,’ Buzz replied, a sardonic grin lightening his debauc
hed features. ‘The booze is cheap. It’s friggin’ dope paradise. An’ the crumpet runs around with nothin’ between them an’ a cold!’

  Kris could see it was going to take quite a speech to get Buzz back to rainy London and work. He had to admit his friend looked great, with his gypsy tan, long hair, and single gold hoop earring. In England Buzz was always whiter than washing powder, managing to resemble a walking corpse. Here, at least, his malevolent looks came with a healthy tan, and he didn’t appear to be five days away from death, although he was still frighteningly skinny.

  ‘Sounds like your cup of tea, all right,’ Kris remarked casually.

  ‘I can tell yer, it beats the piss out of spendin’ me days an’ most of me nights in that stinkin’ Volkswagen, with Rasta’s smelly feet in me face, and Ollie fartin’ the bleedin’ night away.’

  Lounging on faded beach chairs, they both laughed. Flower brought out cans of beer. At twenty-three she was still the perennial hippie. Flowing hair and flowing clothes. Spacey eyes and an angelic smile. Kris figured she and Buzz had been together a long time – almost eight years. He half expected them to get married and be done with it. ‘Are you two ever goin’ to make it legal?’ he couldn’t help asking.

  ‘Wot? ’Ave you gone friggin’ barmy?’ Buzz retorted while Flower just smiled dreamily.

  Yeah, Kris decided, Buzz certainly had the right idea. Why get married if you didn’t have to? Willow had caught him in a trap, and he knew it.

  They’d arrived in Ibiza a few hours before, after a bumpy flight. Willow complained all the way.

  Buzz met them in an open jeep wearing nothing but the smallest black briefs and a welcoming leer. Throwing their luggage in the back seat he said, ‘Blimey! You’re the two unhealthiest-lookin’ humans I’ve ever seen!’

  ‘Thanks’, Kris replied. ‘You always did know how to make a person feel good.’

  ‘It’s me charm,’ Buzz said with an evil wink, reaching for Peter John Buddy, who was clutched tightly in Willow’s arms. ‘Let’s see the baby, then.’