Rock Star

by Jackie Collins

  No – that wouldn’t have worked either.

  Deep down, he had to admit he missed Buzz. They’d grown up together, shared each other’s lives – including the back of that horrible Volkswagen for months on end. Buzz had been closer to him than a brother could ever be. They’d had some good old times together. One of his favourite memories was their early sessions in the dusty garage – with only Buddy Holly and Otis Redding for company. And with a great deal of nostalgia he remembered travelling through Europe screwing everything that moved – and even a few who didn’t!

  Finally success, and all that came with it. After that things began to change.

  Not only did he miss Buzz as his closest friend, he missed performing on stage with him. God! They’d had some great times, writing their songs, hanging out, just being together.

  Now it was all over. Their past was gone. Recently Buzz – who’d formed another new group, his fourth since The Wild Ones split – had been interviewed for Rolling Stone. Kris Phoenix is a wanker, he’d said. All he ever wanted was the money and fame. Look at him now, with his big mansions and Hollywood lifestyle. He’s success crazy. As far as I’m concerned his music is bubble gum pop shit. The wanker sold out.

  When Kris first read it he’d been angry and then hurt. The Hawk had advised him to take no notice. ‘Everyone knows Buzz Darke is a burned-out junkie and just about finished,’ he’d said. ‘Ignore it. Don’t dignify his jealousy of your success with any comment at all.’

  So he hadn’t. But it still hurt.

  Occasionally he saw Rasta – the same good-natured joker. Rasta had weathered his bad publicity, married a pretty German actress, and bought a song-publishing company which kept him busy.

  ‘Don’t you miss being up on stage?’ Kris often asked.

  Rasta always came out with the same stock reply. ‘When you’ve had the best, why go for seconds?’

  Rasta was right. Kris realized how lucky he was to have made it twice. No wonder Buzz was bitter – every group he’d put together had turned out to be a dismal failure. Mainly because the majority of the time he was so stoned he had no idea what he was doing. Plus he couldn’t get back into America due to his drug bust. Strangely enough he was still with Mikki – his partner in crime. Whenever Kris read about their public antics he felt sorry for both of them. A couple of losers.

  Shortly after Cybil moved in, he persuaded Willow to let Bo make his first trip to America. She said no at first, having returned to her usual mean-spirited self six months after their son’s accident was history, but Kris was insistent. The boy was twelve, hardly a little kid anymore.

  Bo arrived, very much the proper English schoolboy with a posh accent to go with his neat appearance. Willow was doing a great job of squeezing out any individuality the kid might possess. Kris remembered himself at the same age – a right little tearaway, guitar crazy with the rock star dream.

  ‘Well, son, how’s it going?’ he asked, strangely uncomfortable.

  ‘Fine, thank you, sir’, Bo replied stiffly.

  Sir! What was this sir shit? Three years ago they’d shared a wonderful time together at his house in the South of France. They’d swum and snorkelled and done all the good father-and-son things. Then Willow had insisted on enrolling Bo in a strict naval academy, and look at the little wanker now.

  ‘Don’t call me sir’, he said tightly. ‘Don’t call anyone sir.’

  ‘Yes, si . . . er . . . dad.’

  The visit was not a success. Bo was uncomfortable and ill at ease, especially with Cybil. When she was around he withdrew completely, and Kris could not get through to him, however hard he tried. When the boy finally left, he blamed himself for their lack of communication.

  ‘Don’t worry’, Cybil said comfortingly. ‘When I was thirteen I didn’t even speak to my parents. They were like the enemy, y’know?’

  ‘Yeah, but at least they were together. I never get to see Bo. An’ that’s the way Willow likes it. The only contact she wants me to have with him is to make sure I pay the bleedin’ bills!’

  ‘Poor baby.’ Nineteen-year-old Cybil wrapped her golden curves around him, making him feel a lot better. Cybil was good at that. So was Astrid.

  His two blondes . . . Fortunately they didn’t know about each other, although he realized it was only a matter of time.

  One day he might have to make a choice.

  Rafealla

  1986

  ‘Mama! You look marvellous! Oh, and the house is so festive with the Christmas tree and the decorations – I remember every single one.’

  Anna Le Serre Egerton smiled as her beautiful daughter ran around the house, followed by Jon Jon, who, at nine, was quite the best-looking boy she’d ever seen. ‘It’s a shame you weren’t here for Christmas,’ she scolded. ‘I don’t understand why you couldn’t have managed it.’

  ‘Mama,’ Rafealla explained patiently. ‘I told you a hundred times, we were working. There was a New Year’s Eve booking that was impossible to cancel.’

  ‘Yes, dear. However—’

  ‘It’s January the fourth,’ Rafealla interrupted gently but firmly. ‘And we’re here. Let’s not have an inquest on why we missed Christmas. We’ll celebrate our Christmas now, won’t we?’ She rushed over to the big leather bag she’d carried on the plane. ‘Look,’ she said, pulling out several gift-wrapped packages. ‘Peace offerings!’

  ‘Yeah, yeah! Presents, gramma,’ encouraged Jon Jon. ‘Shall we all open presents, gramma?’

  ‘What makes you think you got any, kid?’ Rafealla said sternly, ruffling his spiky hair.

  ‘Aw, come on, mom.’ He grinned, squirming away from her touch.

  ‘Get lost, small stuff. We’ll open presents later. If there are any for you. Which I seriously doubt.’

  ‘Would you like to explore outside, Jon Jon?’ suggested Anna. ‘We have horses and dogs—’

  ‘Fierce dogs?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Not exactly fierce,’ she replied. Then, noting his disappointed face, she added matter-of-factly, ‘They’ll kill a burglar, of course. Maul him to death.’

  Rafealla laughed. ‘Mama! What kind of talk is that?’

  ‘Small boy talk, dear.’

  One of the stable lads was summoned, and an excited Jon Jon was taken off on a tour of the grounds.

  Rafealla embraced her mother. ‘It is sooo good to be home,’ she sighed. ‘You just don’t know.’

  Indeed I do,’ replied Anna. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this moment for five years. Do you realize that’s how long it is since I’ve seen you?’

  ‘I know. I plead guilty.’

  ‘Well, dear, and what exactly is your excuse?’

  ‘What’s yours? You could have visited us, you know.’

  Anna lowered her eyes. ‘I didn’t want to worry you, not until I could tell you face to face.’

  Rafealla felt panic. ‘What?’ she insisted. ‘You’re not sick are you? Tell me.’

  ‘I will when you give me the chance. Cyrus had a mild stroke shortly after you left. Nothing serious, but the doctors felt he shouldn’t make any long journeys.’

  ‘Why didn’t Rupert tell me?’ Rafealla demanded.

  ‘Because he didn’t know,’ Anna replied patiently. ‘When he and Odile came back, I made them promise not to tell you.’

  ‘Oh, God, mama. Why?’

  ‘He’s fine. Really he is,’ Anna reassured her. ‘You’ll see.’

  Cyrus, her stepfather, was not as fine as Anna seemed to imagine. For one thing he had a limp and difficulty with his speech, and for another he’d aged twenty years.

  Rafealla was consumed with guilt – and then anger, for she should have been informed. While Cyrus was not her father, and could never have replaced Lucien in her heart, he’d been an excellent and caring substitute, and she loved him.

  Thank God she’d finally come home. It was only for two weeks, but that was better than nothing.

  Luiz hadn’t come with her. They’d debated for months
about whether he should, and in the end they’d both decided it was best for him to stay in Rio putting the finishing touches to their second album. He wanted to do some remixing, and make sure everything was perfect.

  It hadn’t been an easy year. When Luiz first blurted out the news that he was married, Rafealla felt her safe new world collapse. The one person she loved and depended on had been lying to her all along.

  ‘I didn’t lie,’ he’d stated vehemently.

  ‘Of course you did. We’ve been living a lie.’

  ‘No, Rafealla.’ A Brazilian shrug. ‘You never asked me.’

  ‘Screw you, buster,’ She’d shouted, exploding with fury. ‘What do you think this is? A game? A joke? Well, it might be to you, but I don’t find it very funny.’

  She’d taken Jon Jon, and two hurriedly packed suitcases, and descended on Tinto, Maria, and their seven children.

  Tinto was philosophical. ‘Have you asked him to whom he’s married? Have you found out when this took place and why? Does he love the woman? And if so, why is he with you?’

  Good questions, every one of them. And she had a right to know. Storming back, she confronted him.

  Calmly Luiz explained things. Being born in the favela did not give one much hope for the future. Observing his brothers and sisters he realized he was caught in a trap, and there was hardly any chance of getting out. At fourteen he was roaming the streets with the rest of his friends, occasionally robbing a rich tourist, or stealing from one of the big hotels. At sixteen he was sleeping with the tourists – in the long run it was more lucrative than robbing them.

  ‘One day I met a woman,’ he shrugged noncommittally. ‘An older woman. She offered me an escape.’

  ‘And you took it?’

  ‘Yes, I took it.’ His handsome features darkened. ‘And so would you if you’d had my life. I was eighteen years old and she was fifty-seven. A Brazilian woman, not rich, not poor. She took me out of the favela. She bought me clothes, paid for my music lessons, and made sure I learned good English.’

  Rafealla felt a wave of nausea sweep over her. ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘In a nursing home. She’s been in this place for several years. Now it is my turn to take care of her. I won’t divorce her, she does not deserve that. She’s dying, Rafealla. When she goes I am free. Until then . . .’

  There was nothing she could do about it, except try to understand and reluctantly admire his loyalty. She moved back in with him, much to Tinto’s relief, for their career as a singing duo was really taking off.

  When the American soul superstar Bobby Mondella came into town and asked to meet them, Tinto was in heaven. Especially when they all hit it off so well and became friends. Tinto immediately imagined a glowing future in America.

  Rafealla loved Bobby. He was like a big brother – the other side of Rupert, who was so very English. Bobby represented the black side of her, and she could listen to his tales of Hollywood and New York and life in the fast lane forever. She sensed he was a troubled man finally coming to peace with himself. His music was sensational, and she was thrilled he enjoyed performing with them.

  When the accident happened she was as shocked as everyone else. She and Luiz rushed to the hospital as soon as they heard, but they were not allowed to see him – nobody was. Armed men guarded his hospital room, and one night he was secretly flown back to America.

  The headlines screamed the news:

  SUPERSTAR IN DRUNKEN FALL!

  BOBBY MONDELLA – BLIND DRUNK!

  Rafealla couldn’t understand it. Bobby hardly drank anymore, and he never went out onto his terrace, claiming a bad case of vertigo. She also wondered about the woman he’d said was staying with him. Where was she when it happened?

  Combing the newspapers, Rafealla could find no mention of her. The stories merely stated that Bobby was drunk and alone when the accident took place.

  Several times she and Luiz tried to contact him in America, but all they received in reply was a form letter – Bobby Mondella thanks you for your good wishes . . . et cetera.

  Eventually they stopped trying.

  * * *

  ‘Isn’t it odd,’ Odile said, after an enormous turkey dinner, ‘that Eddie Mafair has never tried to get in touch with you.’ They were sitting on the bed in Rafealla’s room, just like old times.

  ‘Why should he?’ Rafealla replied defensively. ‘We are divorced, you know.’

  ‘Really?’ Odile said sarcastically. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Shove it, missy.’

  ‘No, you shove it, star.’

  Rafealla giggled. ‘I’m glad you realize I’m famous.’

  ‘Sure. In bloody South America,’ Odile said good naturedly. ‘Nobody’s heard of you here, so don’t start getting big-headed.’

  ‘They will,’ Rafealla said confidently.

  ‘Yes, and then I bet Eddie Mafair will come running. He’ll probably sell his story to the News of the World – ‘My Life with Rafealla’. What a hoot!’.

  ‘You’re obsessed with Eddie.’

  ‘Merely curious. I know you too well, and there’s more to the Eddie Mafair story than you’re telling. For instance, how come he’s never tried to see Jon Jon? He’s his father. It’s not normal.’ She clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Holy shit! I’ve got it! After all this time I’ve got it!’

  ‘Got what?’ Rafealla asked warily.

  ‘You must think I’m the world’s biggest idiot!’

  ‘Only some of the time,’ Rafealla commented dryly, reaching for a cigarette even though she’d promised Luiz she would give it up.

  ‘Eddie,’ Odile half-whispered, ‘is not Jon Jon’s father, is he?’

  Rafealla felt the blush of truth suffuse her face. She fixed Odile with a steely glare. ‘Don’t ever say such a thing.’

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Odile persisted. ‘I know it’s true. You don’t have to confirm or deny, because I know. Your expression gives you away.’ She shook her head in amazement. Jon Jon doesn’t even look like Eddie. I can’t imagine why I didn’t guess before.’

  ‘If you say one word of this to another living soul, I will never speak to you again,’ Rafealla warned her fiercely.

  Odile’s blue eyes were serious for once. She took her friend’s hand in hers. ‘We’re almost blood sisters, aren’t we?’ she asked earnestly. ‘You can tell me anything and your secret is mine.’

  In a way it was tremendously therapeutic to confide in Odile. After all these years of holding everything in she let it all pour out. The hot, sticky night in the back of a limo with Kris Phoenix. Eddie’s lies and beatings, and finally her brutal discovery of his homosexuality. For good measure she even told Odile about Luiz’s marriage.

  Odile listened quietly, and when Rafealla was through she hugged her close. ‘You should have trusted me before,’ she said. ‘I might not have been able to do anything, but I could’ve helped you beat the stuffing out of that bastard Eddie.’

  ‘It’s not his fault. I forced him into a marriage he didn’t want.’

  ‘Listen to yourself. You’re always making excuses for people. You’ve got to stop it, and toughen up.’

  ‘Is that an order?’

  ‘You bet. Now I’m telling you, don’t go rushing into anything with this Luiz character.’

  He’s not a character, Odile,’ she corrected. ‘He’s a warm and caring man, and I love him very much.’

  Odile raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘Don’t forget, I’ve seen his picture on the album cover. He’s a good-looking, probably horny as hell, married man. So watch out – don’t go falling into any more traps.’

  Rafealla laughed. ‘You’ll have to meet him.’

  ‘I intend to. Rupert is getting his orders. No South of France this summer. We’re coming to Rio – I can’t wait to see you in action!’

  Two weeks with her family was enough. They were wonderful, but smothering. Her mother still treated her as if she were a scatty teenager, and Rupert drove her crazy with his t
easing.

  She was used to her independence – besides, she missed Luiz desperately. And at the end of the fortnight, Jon Jon was anxious to get back to his friends.

  Leaving Heathrow Airport was a wrench. Once they were on the way it was easy.

  * * *

  ‘Marcus Citroen is very interested,’ Tinto said excitedly, pacing around his office.

  ‘Who?’ Rafealla asked coolly, although she knew exactly who Marcus Citroen was – how could she ever forget?

  ‘Marcus Citroen owns Blue Cadillac Records in America,’ Tinto said, practically jumping with joy. ‘Blue Cadillac is one of the big fish.’

  ‘I thought it was a car,’ she said uninterestedly.

  Luiz glanced at her quizzically.

  ‘He’s coming into town for Carnival. He does so every . year,’ Tinto continued.

  ‘How nice,’ she murmured.

  ‘And he wishes to meet you.’

  ‘We’ll meet him,’ Luiz decided. ‘It is time we began to think of the American market.’

  Tinto cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. ‘I don’t know how to say this, so I will come straight out with it. Rafealla is the one he wishes to meet. Blue Cadillac are not interested in a duo.’

  ‘Well, then, I’m not their girl,’ she said staunchly. ‘They’ll just have to search elsewhere.’

  ‘Rafealla—’ Tinto began.

  ‘End of story,’ she said, imperiously tossing back her long hair.

  Tinto turned to Luiz for support. Luiz merely shrugged.

  ‘Is that all the business for the day?’ she asked briskly. ‘For if it is, we’re going swimming. Want to take the day off and come with us, Tinto?’

  The disappointed manager shook his head.

  Hand in hand they left his office, strolling along the street to Luiz’s red sports car, a present from her to him on his recent twenty-sixth birthday.