‘If I had a chance to have professionals get me together, I’d jump at it,’ Trudie admitted, reaching for an M&M candy set out in a small glass dish.
‘I’m sure Rafealla knows what she wants,’ said one of the record executives, shooting her a warning glare. Rule one – never criticize anything a celebrity does.
‘Uh, you know something – it’s disturbing,’ Rafealla said, feeling she had to explain herself. ‘Having a stranger paw at your face. I don’t like it.’
‘With a face like yours you don’t need it,’ Trudie observed grudgingly. ‘Me – they’d have to pile it on with a trowel and then some!’
Rafealla smiled faintly, and wished she was somewhere else.
* * *
Speed had no intenton of hitting on the Mexican broad in the tight red pants and halter top, but she was coming on to him with such force he’d have to be dead to resist her.
She sashayed past the parked limousine several times, wriggling her big ass and jiggling her tits, before finally saying, ‘Hiya, handsome. It’s a too hotta day to be sittin’ in a car.’
It was hot all right. He’d found a nice quiet side street off San Vincente. Residential. Nobody to bother him. First he’d eaten his chicken, then he’d studied both Playboy and Penthouse cover to cover.
Oh yes, it was hot. And when Miss Mexico tottered by on stiletto heels, he couldn’t help but notice her, and she certainly noticed him. Well, he had this magic with women, didn’t he? Sort of a Burt Reynolds magnetism without the looks.
Not that his looks were anything to complain about. Somebody had once told him he resembled Roy Scheider on speed.
He didn’t do drugs. Well, only sometimes. A few uppers, downers. A snort if he was feeling flush.
He wouldn’t mind a snort today, and a piece of fine Mexican ass. Playboy and Penthouse had gotten his engine revving.
Furtively sneaking a look at his watch he realized there was still time.
Miss Mexico hovered near the window, waiting for a go signal.
Speed knew he was irresistible to women. He also knew this one was a hooker – although what she was doing plying her trade in this respectable area in the middle of the afternoon was beyond him.
‘How much?’ he asked, trying to make up his mind whether to proceed or not.
‘Beeg good time or leetle good time?’ the woman leered, suggestively fingering one of her nipples.
‘Head.’
‘What?’
‘Suckee.’
‘Ah.’ She put a finger to her lips, touching it reverently with her tongue. ‘Twenny dollar.’
‘Forget it.’
‘Fifteen,’ Her nipple hardened beneath her touch.
Speed let out an anticipatory grunt. He’d always been a sucker for big bosoms. ‘Get in the back,’ he said gruffly, springing the locks.
‘You no disappointed.’
Quickly he got out of the car, glancing up and down the street. It was deserted. Ready to rhumba he joined her on the back seat.
‘Money,’ she said, holding out her hand, palm up.
Struggling in his back pocket he came up with three fives, shoving them in her eager hand.
‘Vice,’ she said, dropping the Mexican accent and miraculously producing a police badge. ‘You’re under arrest, buster.’
* * *
And so the limousine carrying Bobby Mondella arrived at checkpoint number one on the vast ocean-side estate. A guard spoke to the driver, and then peered inside.
‘What’s happening?’ Bobby asked. This is what he hated more than anything, having to ask about every little thing.
Sara laid a reassuring hand on his arm. Just a security check.’
‘What for?’
‘I don’t know. I guess they have to be careful at an event like this.’
‘Sure,’ Bobby said acidly. ‘Someone might try to blow Marcus Citroen’s ass sky high – an’ not a moment too soon.’
‘Bobby! Don’t talk like that.’
What did Sara know? Exactly nothing. She had no idea how evil a man like Marcus Citroen could be.
The car moved smoothly off, up a steep incline and along a narrow private road which would eventually lead the way to Novaroen.
Bobby took a deep, strangled breath, and remembered Nova Citroen. The bitch of all time.
* * *
I’m not a fucking maid, Vicki Foxe wanted to say to the bossy housekeeper who seriously thought she was Joan Crawford reincarnated. However, she could not say that, because – right now – she was a maid, or at least playing a role. So instead she said, ‘Yes, Mrs Ivors, as soon as I’ve finished cleaning the silver champagne goblets for the guest house.’
‘Mrs Citroen needs attention now,’ the Ivors woman snapped, scarlet lips and heavy eyebrows a fond tribute to Mommy Dearest. ‘Those goblets should have been polished days ago. I don’t know what you girls do with your time.’
Vicki didn’t say a word. Thank God this was the last day she would have to put up with this unbelievable crap.
‘Go to Mrs Citroen. Now,’ instructed Mrs Ivors. ‘And when she’s finished with you, come right back here. I don’t want to find you cosying with the guards. You’re much too familiar with them. We’ll have to have a talk about attitude if you’re to continue in this job.’
How Vicki longed to say, Get stuffed, you silly old cow. You can shove this crappy job right up your drawers — and watch out for moths. Smiling serenely she said, ‘Yes, Mrs Ivors. I’ll be right back, as soon as Madame lets me.’
Madame! What a great touch! Even Mrs Ivors shut up.
Vicki made her way upstairs to the master suite, humming softly to herself. Within hours it would be all over. And not a moment too soon.
* * *
‘Good afternoon, Mr Citroen.’
‘Nice day, Mr Citroen.’
‘Delighted to see you again, Mr Citroen.’
Minions. All of them. Worker ants. The guards. The gardeners, the staff, the security. The place was a hive of activity. If he’d had his way they would never have thrown open their home for such an event.
‘It’s not our home,’ Nova had reminded him scornfully when he’d voiced his objections. ‘Merely a weekend shack. And if I want to have the party here, this is where it will be.’
Sometimes she challenged his authority, not too often. Nova knew exactly how far she could go. Only as far as he’d allow her to. If she stepped beyond the bounds he punished her.
Nobody took the punishment the way Nova did. Nobody . . .
As far as Marcus was concerned it made their relationship perfect.
For a moment he thought about Rafealla. So young . . . so spirited . . .
It had been a very long time since he’d been forced to wait for a woman. But Rafealla was going to be worth it. Of that he was sure.
* * *
Nova Citroen glanced up as the maid entered after knocking discreetly. ‘What took you so long?’ she asked irritably.
‘Mrs Ivors only just told me you needed someone—’
‘Yes, I do,’ Nova interrupted rudely. ‘Get down and find my ring. I think it rolled under the bed.’
How Vicki yearned to say, Find it yourself, you spoilt bitch.
Dutifully she assumed the position and scanned the dusty underneath of Mr and Mrs Citroen’s custom-made bed. She spotted the ring immediately. A huge solitaire diamond.
What would happen if she slipped it casually down her cleavage and claimed she couldn’t find it? It was a thought. But too risky on today of all days.
‘Here we are, Mrs Citroen,’ she said brightly, scooping it up.
Nova took the ring and slipped it back on her finger.
The maid was staring at her. Nova hated scrutiny. She was perfect from a distance, but up close sometimes the cool perfection cracked. ‘You can go now,’ she snapped. Stupid bovine creature. Take your eyes off me. God! She was getting too thin, that was why her ring had fallen off. As one grew older svelte turned into scrawny, and
when rings started slipping off one’s fingers it was time to do something about it.
‘Thank you, Mrs Citroen.’ Vicki bobbed a curtsy, another perfect touch. She was almost beginning to enjoy this!
As soon as the girl left, Nova resumed her agitated pacing. She twisted the magnificent diamond on her finger, and thought about its history. Marcus had bought it for her. A blood present between the two of them, and only she knew why.
Kris Phoenix
1977
The noise was a deafening roar. A cacophony of excited sound.
‘KRIS! KRIS! KRIS!’
‘BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!’
One of the roadies had told him there wasn’t a dry seat in the house when they were finished, just like it was when The Beatles were performing.
They moved together, the four of them, The Wild Ones, surrounded by their people. A makeup girl, a hair stylist, Mr Terence, a couple of bodyguards, and the ever-present Flower.
Buzz swigged from a bottle of scotch, shoving it towards Kris, who drank his share before passing it on to Ollie and Rasta.
‘WE WANT THE WILD ONES!’ chanted the crowd, ‘WE WANT THE WILD ONES!’
‘Yeah,’ muttered Kris. ‘An’ you’re gonna get ’em.’
As they neared the side of the stage Flower passed Buzz a joint. Taking a couple of deep hits, he automatically handed it on to Kris, who did the same.
Mr Terence pretended not to notice.
Kris held up the roach, waving it at Ollie and Rasta.
‘Anyone?’
‘Naw,’ said Rasta. I’m high enough, man.’
‘Let’s go get ‘em then!’ shouted Kris, adjusting his guitar. ‘Let’s go rock the shit outta ‘em!’
‘We’re goin’ in for the kill!’ yelled Buzz.
And the four of them ran frantically on stage as the screaming reached high fever pitch.
‘KRIS. WE LOVE YOU!’
‘BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!’
‘KRIIIIIIIIIS!’
It had been that way from the beginning of the incredible relaunch of their stalled careers. Within a fast eighteen months they had become media superstars. Roaring a path to fame and glory with nothing and no one to stop them.
The Wild Ones. White hot and ready to play. Sexy. Talented. Four likely contenders in the rock and roll sweepstakes.
While Ollie and Rasta were considered cute, and definitely necessary to the over-all picture, it was Kris and Buzz who culled the major attention.
Kris Phoenix. How the little teenyboppers loved him. They went crazy for his irreverent looks, his spiky, dirty-blond hair, his ice-blue eyes, and his wiry body. They especially liked his wiry body.
Buzz attracted the slightly older fans. Suntan long gone, he was back to his usual whiter than white pallor. And with his long, raggedy black hair, oblique unsmiling expression, and skinny snake hips, he had a certain satanic quality parents feared and loathed. Therefore rebellious teenagers worshipped and adored him.
Kris Phoenix and Buzz Darke. Two new English heroes for the seventies – a triumph over punk music, which was all the rage, with groups like The Sex Pistols, The Jam and The Damned getting most of the attention.
The Wild Ones were no way punk influenced. All four of them hated the tuneless mindless music of the ‘fuck you’ generation of punk musicians. The Wild Ones took their influence from a combination of early rhythm and blues, Buddy Holly, Chuck Berry, Sam Cooke and Otis Redding. They threw in a little of The Rolling Stones’ drive, the melodies of The Beatles, the guts of Joe Cocker’s vocals, and the pure guitar genius of Eric Clapton.
What emerged was a very distinctive sound, especially as they only performed their own compositions.
In eighteen months they’d made it. Quickly enough for some of the music press to label them an overnight success.
‘Overnight bleedin’ success, my arse!’ sneered Buzz. ‘What about the friggin’, sloggin’ years nobody would friggin’ look at us? What about explorin’ England in a friggin’ Volkswagen?’
True words. But now they were stars. In England. They hadn’t cracked America yet. They hadn’t tried.
Flash! Photographers captured that initial crazy moment as they launched into their first hit record – ‘Dirty Miss Mary’. Kris had written the lyrics to go with the melody Buzz created. It was a quirky tune, reminiscent in a way of The Beatles’ ‘Eleanor Rigby’.
Kris and Buzz sang it together, sharing the centre microphone for effect – working off each other – singing the hell out of the sardonic lyrics.
Kris felt the adrenalin pumping through his system – charging him up – making him razor-sharp and ready for anything. Christ! There was no feeling in the world like performing for an appreciative, yelling, stamping, screaming audience of fans. Hell, no.
And yet it had almost never happened. Buzz hadn’t wanted to leave Ibiza, where he sat around stoned all day with naked girls to satisfy his every need. It had taken a great deal of not-so-gentle persuasion. In fact, they’d almost come to blows, with Kris calling him every name he could think of. Well, he had to have someone to vent his frustration on. Once he’d packed Willow and the baby back to England, he took it all out on Buzz. They fought for five long weeks, arguing back and forth until finally Buzz gave in. ‘Fuck it!’ he’d said bitterly. ‘I can see I’m never goin’ t’get any peace again if I don’t do it.’
‘Bloody right,’ Kris agreed.
Since Willow left he’d been to bed with Inga, the strapping Swede, both Chickie and Chick, and a variety of other females. Oh yes, and he’d taken part in his first orgy, which didn’t thrill him one little bit. ‘Too messy,’ he’d informed Flower when she invited him to attend another one.
‘Don’t be so silly!’ she’d chided lightly. ‘It’s fun!’
His idea of fun was not squirming around on the floor with a bunch of sweaty, maybe disease-ridden strangers. Buzz and Flower got off on it at least twice a week. Kris couldn’t understand why.
Catching goody-goody Willow with Klaus, the German, was a real downer. He couldn’t remember having felt such rage over anything. After discovering the two of them, he’d dragged her out of the room, slapped her stupid face, and told her to get packed. Then he’d booked a flight for her and the baby, driven them to the airport, and put them on the next plane to London.
Willow cried. ‘Please come too,’ she’d begged.
‘I’ll be back when I feel like it’, he’d said without emotion.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whimpered.
Was she sorry she’d been caught? Or sorry she’d done it? He didn’t know and he didn’t care. He felt betrayed. But he wasn’t going to let it ruin his life.
Working on Buzz to come back kept him sane. And sleeping around restored his ego. By the time they arrived in London he’d decided to forgive Willow for the sake of their baby. After all, they were even now.
He was too late. She’d gone. Fled home to mummy and daddy in Esher, taking Baby Bo with her. Divorce papers awaited him.
He didn’t waste time worrying about it. But he did get hold of a lawyer to make sure he could visit his son regularly.
From then on it was all work. Once they’d rehearsed the new material, they went out on the road to try it out. The old, familiar Volkswagen van transported them up north.
‘Bloody hell!’ Buzz grumbled. Is this what I bleedin’ dragged meself back for?’
Audience reaction was great. Mr Terence came up for the concert when they reached Scotland. He liked what he saw so much he arranged for a well-known booking agent to fly in and see them the next day.
Within a week they had signed on to open for Del Delgardo and the Nightmares, the big American group who were due to do a two-week tour of England.
Night after night they stole the show from Mr Delgardo and his Nightmares, causing major friction, and a rapid payoff after only one week. Kris couldn’t care less. Del Delgardo was a prick. Besides, a scout from Force Records had seen them and signed them to make an album of their original
material. The power of positive thinking obviously worked. Kris had instinctively known that this time it was all going to come together.
Force Records put a strong P.R. push behind them when they released the first single from the album. There were interviews, photo sessions, promotional appearances, and radio shows. When ‘Dirty Miss Mary’ began to climb the English charts, they got on Top of the Pops – the record plugger’s dream television show. Within weeks ‘Dirty Miss Mary’ went to number one. The Wild Ones were a hit!
Kris often thought about his mother’s face when he told her. She’d gone quite pale and clutched the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Does number one mean it’s selling more than anything else?’
‘Yes.’
‘More than Johnnie Ray?’
‘Ma, Johnnie Ray was a long time ago.’
She’d beamed. ‘I’m proud of yer, lad. We all are.’
And they all were, except Brian, who still treated him like his snotty-nosed kid brother. ‘You’d better save your money,’ Brian had said airily. ‘It won’t last.’
It had lasted long enough to give them two more hit singles and a successful album. Now they were on the last leg of a sold-out European tour. Next stop – London. After that Kris planned to sit down and discuss how they were going to conquer America.
America was the world.
And he wanted it.
Rafealla
1977
Mother decided finishing school was in order. Preferably Switzerland. And she finally settled on L’Evier, an exclusive, expensive all-girls school nestled deep in the lush green countryside.
‘Why finishing school?’ Rafealla complained. ‘I’m nearly seventeen. I’m too old for school.’
‘One year, and then we’ll send you to a suitable American college. You’re looking forward to that, aren’t you?’
If I survive a year in Switzerland,’ Rafealla groaned.
Touching her lightly on the cheek her mother smiled. ‘You’ll survive, my darling, you’re just like your father.’
It pleased Rafealla when Anna spoke of her father. She cherished every mention of him – after all, she was so young when Lucien died, and her memories were vivid and very precious.
Rock Star Page 17