Rock Star

by Jackie Collins

‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Lowering his voice the manager added discreetly, ‘We do have a dress code, Mr Phoenix. If you follow me I’m sure we can put that right.’

  ‘A what code?’

  ‘Dress, sir. Jacket and ties for the gentlemen. Suitable attire for the ladies.’

  ‘You’re kiddin’?’

  ‘This way, sir.’

  The manager ushered him into a side room where he offered him a white shirt, blue jacket, and red tie.

  ‘I feel like a bleedin’ Union Jack!’ Kris joked, putting the outfit on.

  ‘We’ll turn a blind eye to your bottom half, sir’, said the manager, with a benevolent smile. ‘Perhaps you can sign my daughter’s autograph book. She’s quite a fan.’

  Ego was slowly being restored. Kris took the autograph book with a flourish. ‘Certainly mate. An’ what’s the little darlin’s name?’

  Rafealla

  1977

  Lady Stephenson, Fenella’s mother, was the most amazing woman. She knew everyone and was invited to everything. Film premieres, the best parties, restaurant openings, art galleries. If there was a gala occasion, it was a safe bet that Lady Stephenson, in her frills and flounces, would be there.

  Fenella did not often accompany her, but when she heard The Wild Ones were doing a one-night concert in London, and that her mother – as usual – was invited, she telephoned Rafealla and said enthusiastically, ‘I’m going to ask mummy if we can go too. Are you on?’

  ‘You bet!’ Rafealla replied. Both she and Fenella were crazy about The Wild Ones. At finishing school they’d played ‘Dirty Miss Mary’ whenever they could. Fenella quite fancied the black drummer, and Rafealla thought Buzz Darke the most interesting, with his sinister looks and ‘I Don’t Give a Damn’ attitude.

  They set off for the concert full of great expectations. Rafealla was relieved to get out of the house. It was three weeks since she’d slept with Eddie Mafair, and she had not heard one word from him since. She couldn’t believe it. What a bastardl!

  ‘Why don’t you phone him?’ Fenella suggested helpfully.

  Phone him! Ha! She’d sooner die. He had her number, she’d scrawled it in his phone book herself.

  He was a jerk anyway. After sex he’d fallen asleep, surfaced three hours later, and summoned a cab to spirit her back to the country. The cheapskate didn’t even offer to pay for the taxi, so she’d had to borrow the money from the Stephenson’s butler. Men! What a bunch of insensitive creeps.

  And yet . . . she loved him. In spite of the fact that going all the way with Eddie Mafair had not been as physically fulfilling as the playful necking sessions she’d indulged in with her other boyfriends. It didn’t matter. She still loved him.

  So what? He obviously couldn’t give a damn about her.

  In her head she went through the excuses he might come up with.

  Too busy at work.

  What did he actually do? She had no idea.

  Sick.

  Did that mean his dialling finger automatically stopped functioning?

  On vacation.

  Well, he would have mentioned something about going away, wouldn’t he?

  It was not a happy time for her. But he would phone. If she just sat it out and waited patiently, she knew he would.

  The venue for The Wild Ones’ concert was crazy time. Lady Stephenson had special stickers attached to her car, and parking attendants waved her chauffeur-driven Rolls through the unruly crowd to a VIP roped-off parking area.

  ‘Come along, everyone,’ she trilled. ‘Let’s go backstage and have a drink.’

  ‘Divine, darling’, said Pierce, her faithful walker, who did double duty as her interior designer. Lord Stephenson only made rare forays into his rambunctious wife’s social activities. He infinitely preferred the quiet life.

  The backstage party was an experience. Lady Stephenson and Pierce vanished into the melee of people, while Rafealla and Fenella stood at the entrance taking it all in. Rock and roll was a whole new world.

  ‘Wow!’ Fenella breathed. ‘Don’t stare, but that’s him. That’s the drummer. And I think he’s looking over here!’

  ‘Hmm . . . whatever happened to “black bastard”?’ Rafealla asked coolly, checking out the cheeky-looking drummer.

  ‘Oh, God! Don’t bring that up,’ Fenella groaned. ‘You can’t imagine how embarrassed I am. How could I ever have said that?’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The guy on the drums, idiot.’

  ‘Rasta. Sounds interesting, huh?’

  ‘Yeah, your mother would find it veree interesting if she knew you fancied him.’

  ‘Girls!’ The piercing voice of Lady Stephenson filled the air, rising above the clamour, followed by a frilled and flounced wave. ‘Over here!’

  They edged their way towards the makeshift bar, where Pierce supplied them with two paper cups filled with flat Coca-Cola.

  Another exciting evening, Rafealla thought. Why hasn’t Eddie Mafair phoned me? Why?

  ‘Isn’t this fun?’ Lady Stephenson shrilled.

  * * *

  She’s a bank clerk’s daughter

  An’ y’know what I mean

  Y’see when I met her she was barely eighteen

  So I took her to my bed

  An’ I gave her some . . .

  LOVIN’

  YEAH!

  LOVIN’

  YEAH!

  Y’know what I mean

  Oh yeah, y’know what I mean

  Screams rang through the air as Kris and Buzz gave it their all – sharing the microphone with a certain vagabond intimacy. Two talented likely lads on the make.

  She’s a bank clerk’s daughter

  So pretty an’ sweet

  Innocent as an angel with exceptionally small feet

  Long yellow hair an’ big blue eyes

  An’ I gave her some . . .

  LOVIN’

  YEAH! – ‘

  LOVIN’

  YEAH!

  Y’know what I mean

  Oh yeah, y’know what I mean

  Every girl in the audience knew what they meant. The excitement factor ran high.

  Rafealla found herself swept away by the sheer energy of their performance. Buzz Darke and Kris Phoenix made a formidable combination – whether they were singing or playing brilliant guitar riffs together, or merely running and jumping around, they both had pure animal magnetism. The whole group was great. It was an exciting concert.

  Afterwards, at Annabel’s, where they were joined by several Americans in the music business, plus Sharleen – the famous recording star – there was much discussion about exactly how good The Wild Ones were.

  ‘I think they’re the new Rolling Stones,’ announced Lady Stephenson knowledgeably – she liked to keep up with what she termed ‘the youth culture’.

  ‘No!’ Pierce disagreed. ‘They’re much sexier. And Kris Phoenix doesn’t scream and make faces like that awful Mick Jagger.’

  ‘Mick Jagger’s adorable,’ insisted Lady Stephenson, fluttering a quiver of fake lashes as she ordered champagne from an attentive waiter. ‘I will not listen to a word against him.’

  To her horror, Rafealla discovered that one of the Americans in their party was Marcus Citroen – her very own flasher from the South of France. He did not appear to remember their brief encounter, and merely nodded when introduced, turning his full attenton on the startlingly pretty singer Sharleen, who appeared to be his date.

  Stifling a giggle she whispered the story to Fenella, who shook with silent laughter.

  Being in Armabel’s reminded her of Eddie Mafair, and the night they first met.

  I’m nearly eighteen, she thought despairingly. My life is ahead of me. I have to forget about Eddie, he’s just a creep.

  Lady Stephenson was a wow on the dance floor, twirling and twisting until her chubby cheeks were red with exertion. Pierce made a suitable consort in his Doug Hayward suit.

 
; ‘Haven’t we met before, young lady?’ Marcus Citroen asked Rafealla, as soon as Sharleen went to the ladies’ room.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she replied shortly, wishing he would go away, for she would never be able to erase the mental picture of Marcus Citroen, naked, with an erection, in the Franconinis’ swimming pool. As it was she had merely swum away, climbed out of the water, and vanished into the house, making sure their paths never crossed again.

  ‘What do you do?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m a student,’ she mumbled.

  ‘A student,’ he repeated her words, staring straight at her. ‘A very unusual and beautiful student, if I may say so. I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before.’

  She returned his stare, saying nothing, refusing to look away, challenging his intent scrutiny.

  ‘If I can ever help you in any way, please call me,’ he said, handing her his engraved card. ‘I mean it.’

  Accepting it reluctantly, she stuffed it in her purse, and hurriedly turned to speak to Fenella – sitting down after a hectic session on the dance floor.

  ‘Guess who’s here?’ Fenella whispered excitedly.

  ‘The Queen Mum.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll tell you now.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You’re not going to like it.’

  ‘Will you stop playing games, and tell me.’

  Before Fenella uttered his name, she knew.

  ‘Eddie Mafair,’ said Fenella.

  Oh no! Her stomach knotted up. ‘Alone?’ she asked wanly.

  ‘He’s with Fiona Ripley-Hedges. She looks like the back end of a bus, but her father owns most of London, and we all know how attractive that must be. Especially since there’s a rumour going around that Eddie’s broke.’

  * * *

  By the time Kris Phoenix made his entrance, Rafealla was ready for him. She was ready for anyone actually, having surreptitiously drained every glass of alcholic beverage in sight.

  As soon as he sat down she was on to him, wasting no time in forcing the rock star to pay attention and notice her. ‘I loved your concert,’ she said. ‘You were fantastic’

  ‘Thanks, luv.’

  ‘I honestly mean it.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Before I saw you I used to think Buzz was the star of the group, but now . . .’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  He wasn’t interested, dammit. He only had eyes for the record moguls and Sharleen. Especially Sharleen.

  Without a doubt he regarded her as just another boring fan. Well, she would show him – Mister Star – Mister Who-Did-He-Think-He-Was.

  Marcus Citroen had his attention now, but it kept wandering towards Sharleen. Helplessly Rafealla watched the eye-play between Kris and the pretty singer. Sharleen was coming on to him. Licking full red lips, touching fluffy hair, eating him up with those big brown eyes.

  Rafealla stood up. She had youth on her side, that had to count for something. ‘Can we dance?’ she asked aggressively.

  ‘Uh,’ Kris glanced around, hoping she was talking to someone else. The kid was a looker, but just a kid, and he’d had that scene.

  No escape was in view, so getting to his feet he staggered a bit and followed her onto the packed dance floor, where she pulled him into a close clinch, grinding her body into his. He immediately got a hard-on. Some men couldn’t get it up when they were drunk. He was just the opposite – all that booze went straight to the old bone.

  Rafealla experienced a moment of power. Young as she was, she already realized the sexual hold she had over men.

  Screw you, Eddie Mafair. I can have anyone I want.

  And then she saw him, dancing nearby, with horse-faced Fiona held tightly in his arms. He was laughing at something and didn’t even notice her.

  Determinedly she moved closer to Kris Phoenix, as inexplicably her eyes filled with tears.

  Bobby Mondella

  1977

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Pernod’

  ‘I don’t think I have any of that, Mrs Citroen.’

  ‘Yes you do. Look in the cupboard under the bar, you’ll find it’s fully stocked.’

  He was the occupant of the apartment, and she was telling him where to find things.

  Goddammit, this woman was too sure of herself by far.

  ‘Maybe you can fix it yourself. I’m gonna shower an’ put clothes on,’ he said, feeling at a disadvantage because she was fully dressed and he was still clad in his workout clothes – shorts and a cut-off tee-shirt.

  She raised an elegant eyebrow, unused to being told to do things for herself. ‘Fine,’ she said coolly. ‘And can I make something for you while I’m playing barman? Or should that be maid?’ she added sarcastically.

  ‘Orange juice.’

  ‘My, oh, my. We are on a health kick.’

  ‘Your idea.’

  A slight smile. ‘In that case, one drink a night is allowed.’

  ‘Scotch.’

  ‘How about champagne?’

  ‘I don’t have—’

  ‘Ah, but you do,’ she interrupted. ‘So why don’t you go shower and simply leave everything to me.’ A glimmer of a smile. ‘I’m very capable when I have to be.’

  Walking into the bedroom, he was aware of a distinct feeling of anticipation. The tailor had left, and they were all alone in the apartment. Mrs Citroen was not staying around for her health. The lady was hot for action, and if that’s what she wanted . . .

  No! an inner voice warned him. This is dangerous territory. The lady is the boss’s wife.

  Yeah? he answered himself. So what? He was just about ready for a touch of danger.

  Stripping off his sweaty clothes he entered the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped under the invigorating needles of spray.

  Mrs Citroen. With her ice-queen looks and cool demeanour. The same Mrs Citroen whose husband had played games with Sharleen, nearly finishing her off. What did the lady want from him?

  C’mon, Bobby – you know what she wants.

  He almost laughed aloud. Yeah, he knew what she wanted, and if she was very patient . . . yeah, really patient. Then maybe, only maybe, mind you . . .

  Naked, except for a black lace G-string and spike-heeled shoes, Nova got into the shower behind him, carrying an open bottle of Cristal. She nuzzled the cold bottle against his back. ‘I never really welcomed you to Blue Cadillac properly, did I?’ she murmured, in her husky voice.

  He’d known she was going to come on to him, but not this strong. And not this soon. She was not a patient woman.

  ‘Don’t turn around,’ she commanded, placing the bottle on the tile floor. ‘Just relax.’

  Sure. He could certainly relax with a naked, married woman cosying up behind him, running talented and expensive fingers along his spine. He thought about what to say, but it was too late for words. With great confidence she was reaching for his balls, cupping them delicately, applying just the right amount of tingling pressure before falling to her knees.

  ‘Now!’ she said urgently. ‘Turn around now!’

  He did as she asked, plunging deep inside that elegant mouth, ready and waiting to taste and tease him with feathery jabs of her tongue and a low animal groaning sound.

  Eat your heart out, Marcus, he thought. I’m getting my own back for Sharleen.

  He surrendered to sensation. There was really nothing else he could do, except lean back and enjoy it.

  Los Angeles

  Saturday, July 11, 1987

  The security checks aggravated Kris. ‘What is this shit?’ he demanded. ‘Don’t they know who I am?’

  ‘Of course they do,’ the Hawk said soothingly. ‘They’re merely following orders. You can’t be too careful with the amount of terrorists around today.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Kris replied sarcastically. ‘We really look like a terrorist group, don’t we? Y’know, in the limo an’ all. Just ridin’ on up to rip the bleedin’
place to pieces.’

  ‘Have you been to Novaroen before?’ the Hawk asked, quickly changing the subject.

  ‘Once,’ Kris replied vaguely.

  ‘You didn’t tell me that,’ squealed Cybil. ‘One of the girls did a shoot here for that perfume Nova Citroen was pushing, and she says the place is amazing.’

  ‘It is,’ the Hawk assured her. ‘They have two houses, all decorated in different styles. The main house is Colonial. The guest house is—’

  ‘Christ! Not again!’ bitched Kris as the limousine stopped for a third security check.

  ‘Lighten up,’ Cybil said, laughing gaily. ‘This is an adventure. I’m really enjoying it!’

  He stared at his Californian girlfriend, all bright eyes, glossy hair, and whiter-than-white teeth. It didn’t take much to make her happy, did it?

  Sometimes she got on his nerves.

  * * *

  It was amazing how inefficient security became once the guards were sure everyone was doing something.

  Maxwell Sicily surveyed the scene. The workers were all in place, name-tagged and running here, there and everywhere like an army of robots. Access between the makeshift tented kitchen and the open-air dining area was no problem. Now that there were over a hundred catering personnel busying themselves on the premises, a party atmosphere prevailed. Waiters and busboys were whistling and cracking jokes. The chefs were slicing and pounding as they prepared gourmet delights. The dessert cooks were hard at work creating creamy concoctions. And an army of barmen were unpacking crates of the finest champagnes and wines, plus a dizzying assortment of other beverages.

  Maxwell picked his moment before slipping quietly away. He knew exactly where he was going. Thanks to Vicki Foxe he was aware of every inch of Novaroen.

  * * *

  Alighting from her limousine, Rafealla took a deep breath. The sea air was invigorating. If only the circumstances were different she might be enjoying herself.

  ‘Here comes the greeting committee,’ warned Trudie, as a dapper man with owl-like glasses and a pleasant smile stepped forward.

  ‘Welcome to Novaroen,’ he said, in a clipped English accent. ‘I’m Norton St John. Personal assistant to Mrs Citroen. Please allow me to escort you to your suite.’