Rock Star (16 page)

Nova decided to greet them all personally.

*    *    *

One of the things Vicki Foxe enjoyed as she play-acted at being a maid was the downstairs gossip. Boy! What scandal and rumour. It made the
Enquirer
seem positively tame!

Everyone loathed Nova Citroen. The Iron Cunt was her nickname. ‘She makes Imelda Marcos look like a pussy,’ was the general opinion of her loyal staff.

Marcus Citroen was regarded with a sort of grudging admiration. ‘At least he says please an’ thank you once in a while,’ was Bertha the chief cook’s opinion.

Talk was rife of the Citroens’ bizarre sexual practices. ‘There’s handcuffs in his bedside drawer,’ revealed one maid.

‘And a closet full of kinky outfits,’ said another.

Vicki had personally found a concealed cupboard with whips and chains and all the paraphernalia of sexual perversions. She couldn’t care less. Her years as a professional had taught her many things, and one of them was never to be surprised. The thought of either Nova or Marcus Citroen trussed up and ready for action amused her. Sado-masochism wasn’t her kick. But each to his own. Vicki Foxe never judged anyone.

She often wondered what turned Maxwell Sicily on. He certainly hadn’t given any hint. Most men, faced with her lethal charms, started drooling on the count of three. Maxwell had stayed cold as an ice-pick. That kind of disinterest intrigued her. Where was he going after tonight? What did he have planned? Was there another woman in his life?

So far he’d only paid her a quarter of the money she was supposed to get. The deal was he would contact her twenty-four hours after the caper and tell her where she could pick up the rest.

‘Yeah? An’ what makes you think I’m gonna trust you?’ she’d asked suspiciously.

‘We do it my way. Are you in or out?’ he’d replied icily, without so much as a moment’s pause.

She admired a man who didn’t waver. ‘I’m in,’ she’d said, and set about finding out exactly who George Smith
really
was. Not so difficult. Vicki had her ways.

‘I’ve been lookin’ for you.’ Tom, the chief of security, startled her as he came up behind her in the front hall of the main house.

She held her shoulders a touch straighter and thrust her bosom forward, straining the limits of her drab uniform. ‘And you’ve found me,’ she answered sassily. ‘What’s up?’

He edged close to her, his bad breath offending her nostrils. ‘How about you an’ me watchin’ the concert together like you suggested?’ he asked with a knowing leer.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said guilelessly. ‘You’re working, and so am I. It’s not possible.’ Softening her voice she added, ‘Much as I’d love to.’

His eyes dropped to her breasts, big balloons just straining for his touch. Tom knew when a tootsie wanted him, and this broad had been giving him the eye for weeks. Now he’d finally figured out a good time to get her to himself. ‘I got a place for us to see it,’ he said.

Looking surprised she cooed, ‘
Oooh,
Tom, you’re so smart! How exciting!’

‘It will be, honey,’ he said, managing to brush against her. ‘Just keep everything hot.’

With one deft movement her hand slid across the telling bulge in his pants. ‘It’ll take a
real
man to cool
me
down,’ she whispered. ‘See ya later, big boy!’

*    *    *

Marcus curbed his desire to visit Rafealla at her hotel. He had to be so careful. The girl reminded him of a horse he’d once owned, a magnificent Arabian filly which allowed nobody close.

Marcus had tamed the excitable, exquisite animal. It had taken him many months of discipline and extreme patience.

He planned to do the same with Rafealla. Only this time he was running out of patience.

Kris Phoenix

1975

The baby was whining – some might say it was crying, but Kris knew a whine when he heard it.

He wasn’t good with babies, couldn’t quite get the hang of them. And he knew for a fact that it wasn’t
his
job to be watching over some smelly little sod with a nappy full of crap, even if it
was
his.

Putting down his pen, he picked up a newspaper. Writing songs was a kick, but only when he could concentrate, and who could concentrate with a whimpering baby making distracting background noises?

Willow was going to have to give up her job, there was no other answer. They’d just have to manage without her salary. Screw it. He needed peace and quiet to create, and he sure as hell wasn’t getting it at home.

Home was a basement flat in Kilburn – was he ever going to get out of there? It had a tiny, dark bedroom, matching bathroom, a cramped kitchen, and a dreary living room, which led out to a seven-foot patch of weeds, where they kept two rusting deck-chairs and the baby’s pram – a rather fancy gift from Willow’s uptight parents.

Kris thought for a moment of Willow’s formidable mummy and daddy. Mr Wigh, a bank manager in Esher, and his neurotic wife, a raging snob with delusions of grandeur. No wonder Willow had run away from home twice before she was sixteen, finally moving out on her nineteenth birthday to attend secretarial college in Hampstead. Her parents sent her such a paltry allowance she was forced to get a part-time job working in a dress shop with Flower. Flower, of course, introduced her to Kris. Before he could turn around she was pregnant, and he – suburban schmuck that he was – had married the girl.

Kris Phoenix – rock star. Forget it. Let’s all give a big hand to Kris Phoenix, husband, father, jerk of the year.

He threw the newspaper down in disgust, not even bothering to study the naked page three girl with tits you could balance a mug of beer on.

‘Shit!’ he said aloud, and the baby shifted from a whine to a hearty wail.

Nothing was going right for him, not one damn thing. Eighteen months ago The Wild Ones had cut their first record, ‘Lonesome Morning’, and everyone had been so high on it. Kris hadn’t doubted that success and all that went with it was just around the corner.

‘Lonesome Morning’ descended on an uninterested public, and got no radio play. ‘How can people buy it if they’ve never heard it?’ he’d demanded of anyone who would listen.

‘You’re not on any of the play lists,’ Sam Rozelle told him regretfully.

‘So tell the fucking record company to
get
it on. That’s their job, isn’t it?’

‘Everyone’s doing their best,’ Sam replied, not looking him in the eye.

Kris suspected otherwise. He went into six record stores, and not only were they completely unaware of the record’s existence, but after searching, found they didn’t even have it in stock.

‘There’s somethin’ funny going on,’ he complained to Mr Terence, who took absolutely no notice.

‘Nonsense!’ Mr Terence said. The time isn’t right for you. You all need more experience.’ And he promptly sent them back on the road. Back to the one-night stands, greasy roadside cafes, groupie slags, and sleeping in the back of the clapped-out Volkswagen bus.

Back to square one. Do not pass Go. Do not collect a fucking thing.

In London, Willow’s pregnancy progressed. Flower relayed news bulletins when she arrived to visit Buzz.

‘Her father’s furious.’

‘Her mother’s having a nervous breakdown.’

‘Willow moved home last week.’

And finally: ‘Her old man’s making her have an abortion.’

‘What?’ Kris shouted, the blood draining from his face. ‘No fucking bank prick’s gettin’ rid of
my
baby.’ And before anyone could stop him, he was on a train.

He turned up at Willow’s parents’ house in the middle of the night. A frightened au-pair let him in and immediately shouted for Mr Wigh, who came downstairs and attempted to throw him out. Mrs Wigh appeared next, and feigned a fainting fit. And then Willow, scrubbed and clean, with just the hint of a tiny belly beneath her robe.

‘I’m gonna marry you,’ Kris blurted.

‘No you’re not,’ stormed Mr Wigh.

‘Just watch us, mate,’ retorted Kris. And he took her back to Leeds, where they got married in the local register office with Buzz as best man, a stoned Flower, Ollie, Rasta and an assortment of teenage groupies in attendance.

The wedding ceremony took less than ten minutes, and after it was over they all went to a local cafe and got well and truly pissed.

In the heat of the moment it was an exciting time. After that it was downhill on a fast sled. What was an aspiring rock star supposed to do with a wife, let alone a pregnant one?

Mr Terence went ape-shit when he found out, ranting and raving, threatening to tear up their contract, swearing them all to secrecy. ‘Nobody is to know about this. Absolutely no one,’ he said severely. ‘And if anyone finds out – deny it. Do you hear me? It never happened, she’s just a girlfriend.’

Apparently, in their quest to become rock stars, girlfriends were acceptable, wives were not.

Willow agreed she wouldn’t wear a wedding ring. Not that Kris had bought her one. Who had the money?

When Mr Terence calmed down, he took the situation in hand, finding them the furnished flat in Kilburn, and advancing Kris the cash to pay for it. ‘I’ll deduct this from your song-writing royalties,’ he’d said testily.

‘What royalties? I haven’t
had
any bleedin’ songs published yet – only ‘Lonesome Morning’, an’ that’s dead in the fuckin’ water,’ Kris replied.

Didn’t I tell you?’ Mr Terence said vaguely. Del Delgardo and the Nightmares heard it, liked the song, and cut their own version. It’ll be out in America next week.’

‘No, you didn’t tell me,’ Kris was furious. He felt betrayed.

‘Lonesome Morning’, the Del Delgardo and the Nightmares cover, was a smash, reaching number three in the States, and a healthy number two in England.

Proud as he was of the song, Kris would sooner the hit belonged to The Wild Ones. Still, after he got over his initial anger, it was a satisfying feeling for both him and Ollie – who had written the music to his lyrics. It would have been nice if Mr Terence had asked their permission before handing their song over to someone else, but at least it was a hit.

The most annoying thing of all was that when they performed the song on stage everyone thought they were covering Del Delgardo and the Nightmares’ smash single, even though Kris announced that they could go out and buy The Wild Ones’ original recording. Big deal. Nobody did. Or maybe they just couldn’t find it.

With Willow installed in the flat, Kris at least had somewhere to go on the one weekend a month he managed to get back to London. It made a pleasant change from being constantly on the road. Willow could cook, and she cared about him. She was pretty, clean and loving. What more could any man ask?

She was also getting bigger every day, her stomach swelling like a large ripe watermelon preparing to burst.

Naturally he had to introduce her to his family. Mum acted okay, but his two sisters carried on alarmingly, telling her every embarrassing story they could think of about him. Brother Brian sneered derisively. ‘How did
you
get to marry the daughter of a bank manager?’ He was impressed, in spite of himself.

‘Just a big cock, I guess’, Kris replied nonchalantly. ‘Shame it doesn’t run in the family.’

‘You’re no good at anything you do’, Brian hissed with a baleful glare. ‘Why don’t you pack this stupid singing lark in, and get yourself a proper job with a future?’

‘Why don’t
you
shove it up your arse?’ Family. He tried to stay away from them.

When Willow gave birth he was on stage in Glasgow playing to an audience of appreciative, squealing girls. The Wild Ones had quite a following in spite of no record deal, no publicity agent, and no-hope venues.

Avis took Willow to the hospital in a taxi. She phoned the uptight Wighs, who drove down from Esher the following morning. By the time Kris arrived from Scotland he was the father of a seven-pound-six-ounce baby boy. Willow sat in her hospital bed surrounded by a loud-mouthed Avis, a stoned Flower, and a tight-lipped Mr and Mrs Wigh. The perfect group. From that moment on he felt completely trapped.

They named the baby Peter (after Willow’s grandfather), John (after Kris’s father) and Buddy (a respectful gesture to the late Buddy Holly – one of Kris’s personal heroes). Somehow Peter John Buddy never got called any of those names. Bo was his nickname. Baby Bo.

He’d been with them for fourteen months, and in that time The Wild Ones split up – temporarily. Rasta went on a tour of Europe with a German rock and roll band who made him an offer he didn’t want to refuse. Buzz took off with Flower to Ibiza, where he got a job as a waiter and resident guitarist in a local restaurant. And Ollie concentrated on composing new songs, while Kris settled down to supplying the lyrics.

They sold a few of their songs, causing Mr Terence to grab a hefty percentage. But their best compositions they saved for the re-forming of The Wild Ones.

Mr Terence was furious with the group for splitting up, but as they straggled off the road he could see they were all burnt out and needed to do other things for a while, so he didn’t put up too hard a fight.

‘When we get back together,’ Kris informed him, ‘We’re goin’ to do if properly. No more screwin’ around. An’ if
you
can’t do it for us, we’ll find someone who can.’

‘Let us not forget that we have a contract,’ Mr Terence said waspishly. ‘A
legal
contract.’

‘Fuck the contract an’ fuck you,’ Kris fumed. ‘You sold us down the river with ‘Lonesome Morning’, and it
ain’t
happenin’ again.’

‘How
dare
you! I’ve supported you boys through thick and thin. Given you money, a roof over your heads, looked after your personal problems. I’ve—’

Kris held up a commanding hand, stopping the fussy Mr Terence in his tracks. ‘I know all that,’ he said. ‘An’ believe me – we’re grateful. But we’re
not
goin’ to waste any more days bustin’ our arses in deadbeat cities performin’ to crummy audiences who don’t know shit from chocolate. We want the big time.’