Rock Star

by Jackie Collins

  This one was different. This one was a lady. She was also Marcus Citroen’s wife, and therefore untouchable.

  In spite of that he found her powerfully attractive.

  ‘Yeah, please do,’ he said, meeting her direct gaze with one of his own.

  ‘Thank you.’ Amusement glinted in those mesmerizing eyes.

  The executive from Blue Cadillac Records said, ‘Mrs Citroen was anxious to meet you, Bobby. Word has it everyone loves the album material in New York. Are you nearly finished?’

  ‘Two more tracks to go.’

  ‘Perhaps I can come to the studio,’ she said. ‘I always enjoy watching the creative process.’

  He enjoyed watching her, with her drawn-back white-blonde hair and slim figure. Nova Citroen represented class with a great big capital C.

  ‘It gets kinda rough in the studio,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’ Holding him a tight captive with her eyes, she allowed too long a pause before saying, ‘Well, Bobby, if things get too rough I’ll just have to leave, won’t I?’

  She turned up on two successive nights, each time with a different male escort. She stayed fifteen minutes in the recording booth watching him intently through the glass, and left before he took a break.

  It was annoying. He wanted to talk to her, find out more about the mysterious Mrs Citroen. For she was mysterious – nobody seemed to know much about her, except that she moved in high society, and had been married to Marcus for a long time.

  She vanished after that, and did not reappear until six weeks before his Hollywood Bowl debut.

  By this time his duet with Sharleen was number one on the soul charts, and steadily climbing the mainstream list. Things were going as planned.

  He couldn’t help being in a nervous sweat, even though he’d never looked and sounded better in his life. The Hollywood Bowl concert was make-or-break time. He knew he could perform on record, but a stage performance was a whole other deal.

  No one could say he wasn’t prepared. He was at fighting weight and raring to go.

  Nova arrived at his apartment one morning – again unannounced, and this time alone. She wore a white silk suit, green blouse, and crocodile accessories. ‘What are you planning to wear?’ she asked coolly, as if they had just paused in the middle of a conversation.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘At the Bowl.’

  ‘Uh . . . the stylist has a selection of leather suits for me.’

  ‘Leather?’ She raised an elegant eyebrow.

  ‘It’s sexy.’ He laughed; sending himself up. ‘Or so they tell me.’

  ‘It’s sweaty.’

  He challenged her. It’s what I’m wearing.’

  A faint smile. ‘I don’t think so.’

  * * *

  Bobby stretched, and slowly sat up. The workouts were hard, but the rewards were worth it. In fact, the entire year had been quite something. And now Nova Citroen was in his living room instructing her own personal tailor to measure him for size.

  He would wear whatever she wanted. Instinctively he knew her choice would be the right one.

  The tailor entered the mirrored workout room armed with a tape measure and a determined expression. ‘Mrs Citroen knows exactly what you want,’ he said, busily unrolling the measure.

  ‘Yeah, an’ I know exactly what she wants,’ Bobby muttered under his breath.

  Kris Phoenix

  1977

  The cavernous dressing room was filled with people all milling around a long wooden trestle table piled high with cans of beer, paper cups, dishes of crisps, and several plates of stale sandwiches. Hardly luxury, but The Wild Ones were finishing their first tour and had not yet learned to make demands.

  Buzz had his own bottle of scotch, given to him by an admirer. He sat in a corner swigging blissfully.

  ‘He’ll get drunk,’ Mr Terence fussed.

  ‘No way,’ argued Kris. ‘It’ll improve his voice.’

  Mr Terence raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘Go and talk to that girl over there. She’s from the Evening News. Say something witty.’ He mopped his forehead with a polka-dot handkerchief.

  ‘Shit!’ muttered Kris. He hated this socializing bit before a concert. Why did he have to make nice to reporters and other assorted hangers-on, when all he wanted to do was concentrate on the performance ahead of him? He’d tried to explain to Mr Terence on numerous occasions, but Mr Terence insisted that the press were too important to shut out. How come everyone expected him to do it, and not the rest of the band?

  ‘Kris!’ The girl from the Evening News had lank hair, buck teeth and an upmarket accent. ‘Do tell me how it feels to be number one.’

  ‘Bloody marvellous’, he replied.

  ‘Super!’ She jotted something down in a loose-leaf notebook. ‘And do tell me, when the critics knock your music, does it upset you terribly?’

  ‘I didn’t realize we were bein’ knocked’, he said, helping himself to a soggy potato crisp.

  ‘There’s a review of your Manchester concert in the current issue of New Musical Express. Let me see . . .’, Cocking her head on one side, she sucked on her pencil. ‘I think it said something like, Kris Phoenix sounds like a cross between a sore throat and a foghorn in a bad storm.’

  ‘Charming!’

  Pencil poised, buck teeth facing him like a firing squad, she said, ‘Any other comment?’

  ‘Fuck ’em. It’s not the bleedin’ critics who are buying our records.’

  Scribbling furiously, she agreed with an enthusiastic ‘Quite. I like your attitude.’

  He wandered off, looking for mum and the rest of his family. They were all supposed to be here tonight, the lot of them – including dear old brother Brian. He’d given Avis backstage passes and told her exactly where to go, but he couldn’t spot any of them.

  Rasta rushed over. ‘You see those two little darlin’s over there,’ he said, pointing out two girls hovering on the edge of the crowd. ‘How about one for you an’ one for me – I’ll book ’em in now, while I can. If Buzz spots ’em, it’s all over.’

  Kris glanced across the room, checking out two very attractive but extremely young females. ‘Juveniles,’ he said dismissively.

  ‘Leave it out,’ Rasta complained. ‘I bet they’re at least sixteen. That’s old enough.’

  ‘I like ’em over twenty, and smart,’ Kris said firmly. No more Willows in his life. For the last year he’d bedded a variety of girls, scrupulously steering clear of teenagers, or any girl who didn’t look like she knew what she was doing. His opening line was always, ‘Are you takin’ precautions or shall I?’

  It got the ball rolling nicely, in more ways than one.

  Willow was behaving like a right cow. When he was nothing she’d been only too happy to agree to a quickie divorce. But as soon as he started to make it, she was there with a sharp lawyer and a suitcase full of demands. Bitch! What had she done to deserve any of his hard-earned money? He didn’t mind supporting Bo, but Willow’s demands were ridiculous. Even his lawyer agreed. It wasn’t as if he were making a fortune. Everything he earned – except the publishing – had to be split four ways, and that was after Mr Terence had taken his fat thirty-five per cent. And then there were all the expenses – including travel, roadies, a sound man, lighting, publicity, clothes, a secretary, bodyguards, et cetera, and finally, the dreaded tax.

  As a matter of fact he was almost as broke as he’d ever been.

  Every day he realized more and more that if they wanted to score big – America was the place.

  Tonight Mr Terence had promised that several hot-shots from American recording companies would be in the audience. Okay, we’re gonna show ’em what we can do, Kris decided. We’re gonna really rock ’n’ roll!

  ‘Christopher!’ shrieked a fat butterball of a woman in a flounced lavender dress. ‘Your music sends me!’

  ‘Kris,’ he corrected, backing away from her over-zealous approach.

  ‘Ah . . . but short for Christopher, dear boy. Am
I right?’

  Who the fuck was this weird old bird? ‘No,’ he said, looking round for someone to rescue him.

  ‘We’re having a little thingy at Annabel’s later. Simply marvellous fun. Can you join us?’

  Annabel’s. He’d heard of it. The poshest nightclub in London, where all the chinless wonders and their birds hung out. Royalty, too.

  Annabel’s. Yeah! But not with this apparition, who was old enough to be his mother.

  ‘Can’t make it, luv,’ he said, trying to sound regretful. ‘Sorry. Gotta take me mum out.’

  ‘Shame!’ brayed the fat lady. ‘Fenella is dying to meet you.’

  ‘Well, she’ll just have to wait, won’t she?’ Edging away he bumped into a red-faced Mr Terence. ‘What did she say?’ Mr Terence hissed anxiously.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lady Stephenson.’

  Is that who she is when she’s at home.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Wanted me to join her at Annabel’s, didn’t she.’

  ‘Just you?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  Mr Terence did a nervous jig. The Wild Ones making it so quickly and with such strength had left him out of his depth. He wasn’t quite sure how to deal with it. Too much was happening too fast. Half the offers he received on their behalf he didn’t even tell them about. America was begging for attention, and yet he’d done nothing, because, knowing Kris and his raging ambition, they’d run off to the States and never return. A contract was no real protection once those beady-eyed Yank lawyers got their hands on it.

  Mr Terence was in a turmoil. Snatching a quick peek at Buzz, lounging happily in a quiet corner swigging from his bottle of scotch, calmed him down. Buzz would hate America and the gaudy razzamatazz that went with it. In fact, he was doing Buzz a favour keeping all the lucrative offers to himself.

  ‘C’mon.’ Ollie grabbed Kris by the arm. ‘Let’s get out of here. This circus is no good before a show. We should be tuning up.’

  Ollie, the perfectionist. So straight and serious. He’d found himself a red-headed girlfriend who played the cello and hated what she termed ‘the pop business’.

  ‘Right,’ agreed Kris. ‘Let’s grab the others an’ find a quiet corner backstage.’

  ‘I’ll round up Rasta, Buzz is all yours,’ Ollie said.

  ‘You got it.’

  Lady Stephenson grabbed his arm as he walked by. ‘Kris, dear,’ she said, as if they were old and intimate friends. ‘Do say hello to my daughter, Fenella, and her friend, Raffi.’

  He was face to face with the two baby girls Rasta had fancied earlier. ‘Hello,’ he said, hardly noticing them.

  ‘Now, Kris, dear,’ Lady Stephenson continued, double chins wobbling above lavender and lace frills. ‘If you can get away later, do join us. You might find it to be rather an interesting group. Quite a few American music people who I’m sure you must know. The Dorfmans, Marcus Citroen. Oh, and Sharleen – the famous’ – she lowered her voice – ‘black singer.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Kris said. Now he was really interested in going, but he had promised his mum and the family a night on the town, and he couldn’t dump them.

  ‘Cheers!’ gushed Lady Stephenson. ‘Don’t forget. Annabel’s. I’ll leave word at the door.’

  * * *

  The concert was a blast. Finally London – and the fans loved them.

  What a raw sense of power! What a roller-coaster high!

  Kris knew there were a lot of important people out there watching them live for the first time, and he really let rip – straining his gravelly voice to the limit, performing virtuoso guitar solos, taking turns with Buzz, who was full of piss and sardonic strut.

  The crowd yelled, cheering and stamping their approval. The usual chants rose above the yelling and clapping.

  ‘KBISSSS . . . WE . . . LOVE . . . YOU!’

  ‘BUZZZZ . . . WE . . . LOVE . . . YOU!’

  Kris leaped across the stage, his energy level at an all-time peak. He wore high-top sneakers, skin-tight faded jeans, and a tee-shirt with THE WILD ONES ’77 emblazoned across the front.

  Buzz weaved back and forth, picking at his guitar with talented fingers, face impassive, body clad in black footless tights, with a mangy long black shirt hanging loose.

  ‘’Ere,’ Rasta had said when faced with them before the show. ‘Wot you two doin’ then? ’Aving a who’s-got-the-biggest-cock contest?’ He’d fallen about at his own rather accurate observation.

  Mr Terence had wanted them to wear matching blue gabardine jumpsuits. ‘You know where you can shove that idea,’ Kris told him. He ran the group now as far as what they played, how they played it, and certainly what they wore.

  ‘Why the frig we payin’ Mr T bleedin’ thirty-five per cent?’ Buzz bitched. ‘Whyn’t we dump ’im?’

  The thought had occurred to Kris. But he knew there was bound to be a big legal hassle, and their timing wasn’t right. Also, they owed Mr Terence something. After all, he was the one who’d bankrolled them when they had nothing – even though he was deducting every penny of his initial investment from their earnings, on top of his hefty percentages. No wonder they were still broke.

  The money was rolling in, but not in their direction.

  There was a rumour backstage that Princess Anne was somewhere in the audience. The blinding lights left no room for searching the rows of eager faces, although Kris had noticed at all their gigs that the rows in front never contained the swooners and the screamers.

  ‘That’s because they’re comps,’ Ollie had explained.

  ‘Wot’s that?’ asked Buzz.

  ‘Complimentary. Free seats for the managers, theatre owners, promoters, record execs, and all their friends.’

  Kris decided that when he had enough clout, comps would be moved to the middle of the venue, and only the real fans would be allowed up front.

  Triumphantly they launched into their last song. A fast-driving rocker written by Kris and Ollie entitled ‘Skinny Little Slider’.

  It brought the house down. The audience were on their feet, yelling and clamouring for more.

  They did two more choruses of ‘Skinny Little Slider’, and then they were off, running from the stage, sweat-soaked and ecstatic.

  ‘Fuck me!’ screamed Rasta. ‘This is better ’n sex any day!’

  ‘Bloody right!’ agreed Kris.

  Who needed one woman when there were sixty thousand lusting after your body?

  * * *

  ‘You looked like a bunch of tatty layabouts,’ brother Brian said, shovelling spaghetti into his mouth. ‘Can’t you afford decent outfits?’

  Jennifer, his wife agreed. ‘Oh, yes. Matching outfits would be ever so nice, wouldn’t they? The Beatles always appeared so smart . . .’ She trailed off, silenced by the look Kris gave her.

  He sat with his mum, Horace, his two sisters and their boyfriends, Brian and Jennifer, in Trattoria Terrazza, an Italian restaurant in Soho.

  What a group! What a letdown! Why he had arranged a family outing on a night like this was beyond him. Christ! This was the downer of all times, and he’d asked for it. Set it up. While everybody else went off to parties and celebrations.

  He’d done it for his mum, really. Avis, so proud. The matriarch of the family with her loud voice and work-worn hands.

  She was beaming with pride, ignoring Brian for once. ‘I never thought I’d see the day,’ she said, craftily snagging a half-eaten roll, wrapping it in a tissue, and sliding it in her bag.

  ‘Mum!’ Kris objected. ‘I can buy you all the bread you want.’

  ‘Not like this, lad. Nice an’ fresh. It’ll go down a treat in the morning with a bit of marge, a dab of jam, an’ a nice cuppa tea.’ She smiled contentedly.

  ‘Take one for me,’ Horace said irritably. ‘Streuth! I’ve got an ’orrible ’eadache after all that noise.’

  ‘Me too,’ agreed Brian. ‘Give me Barry Manilow any day.’ He threw his younger brother a smug look. ‘No offence, Kris. But even you
have to admit that it’s a bloody awful racket you make up there.’

  The evening went from bad to worse as Brian got into his stride, complaining about everything. Horace joined in, and his two sisters stared at him as if they’d never really noticed him before. Meanwhile Avis went on a food-stealing binge the likes of which he’d never seen. After the bread rolls she laid claim to a slice of veal Jennifer had left over, almost an entire salad, and a large piece of chocolate rum cake.

  ‘Ma,’ he pleaded. ‘Let ’em pack the stuff up for you. I’m payin’ for it, y’know.’

  ‘That’s all right, dear,’ she said cheerfully, having a wonderful time. It’s better this way. Don’t want to embarrass you, do I?’

  Oh, sure. She had a bag full of food wrapped in a few soggy tissues, and she didn’t want to embarrass him. Great! At least she was happy.

  A girl at another table recognized him and scurried over asking for an autograph.

  ‘She probably thinks you’re Rod Stewart,’ sneered Brian.

  ‘Thanks,’ Kris snapped, and called for the bill.

  * * *

  By the time he reached Annabel’s he was well gone. Once the family were dispatched into the night, he’d stopped by Rasta’s party, held at a rowdy pub in Brixton. Several beers and a few vodkas later he arrived at the exclusive Berkeley Square establishment, his only claim to respectability being the chauffeured Daimler he’d hired for the night.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the doorman said, with frosty politeness. ‘This is a membership-only club.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Kris swayed slightly, cleverly concealing a burp. ‘The thing is, I’m joinin’ Lady Stephenson. How’s that for gettin’ me in?’

  ‘You’d better speak to them downstairs’, the doorman said regally, indicating that Kris should descend the open stairway.

  ‘Bloody basement,’ Kris muttered, holding onto the side for support.

  Downstairs, inside the entrance to the club, a manager in evening dress greeted him. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Uh . . . Kris Phoenix, that’s me. I’m s’pose to be joinin’ uh . . . Lady Stephenson.’

  ‘Ah, yes, sir. Mr Phoenix from The Wild Ones. Lady Stephenson is expecting you.’