Rock Star (34 page)

‘It’s only fair.’

‘To whom?
You’re
the main talent.’

‘We’re a group.’

‘Listen to what I’m saying, Kris.
You’re
the star.
You
write the best songs.
You
sing them, Really it should be Kris Phoenix and the Wild Ones.’

He grinned, liking the thought, but knowing they’d all freak. ‘Sure, Buzz would
really
love that. It’d go down a treat.’

Mikki wasn’t about to quit. ‘Remember Diana Ross? Originally she was just a Supreme. Teddy Pendergrass was one of Harold Melvin’s Bluenotes. Rod Stewart was a Small Face, and David Ruffin a Temptation. You want me to go on? Or are you getting the message?’

Yes. He was getting the message – loud and clear. And quite frankly, by the time they reached L.A., he realized she did have a point. Kris Phoenix and the Wild Ones. It sounded good, and maybe he deserved it. After all, he
was
the one doing most of the work,
and
receiving the bulk of the fan mail. Buzz was out of it most of the time, too stoned to take anything seriously. Rasta played his drums with no great outstanding talent. Fingers was good, excellent in fact – but they weren’t screaming and yelling for Fingers. The truth of the matter was Mikki happened to be right. And when they got back to New York he was going to insist that his name preceded The Wild Ones.

‘If they don’t like it you can always leave and become a solo artist’, Mikki suggested slyly.

He’d never thought of that before . . .

*    *    *

At Nichols Kline’s wedding, Bobby Mondella fired Kris with enthusiasm. The guy was the greatest, they had so much in common, and although their styles were completely different it would be a real blast to try something together one of these days.

‘Where’s your base?’ Kris asked.

‘Here in L.A.,’ Bobby replied. ‘I’ve got me a little shack over in Hancock Park. Maybe you and your lady would like to drop by later.’

‘We’d love it,’ Kris replied, looking around for Mikki, who appeared to be on the missing list.

‘She’s talkin’ to Del Delgardo,’ Zella offered. ‘Shall I get her for you?’

Del Delgardo. The enemy. Del Delgardo, who’d dumped the Nightmares quite some time ago and was now a big solo artist. Fucking poxy-faced wanker. Kris felt the burn. After Willow, he’d promised himself he would never get jealous over any woman again.

Too late. Mikki had him. She was addictive.

He wondered if Del Delgardo was part of her past, or maybe she had him in mind for her future. Goddamn!

Zella unwound her rangy body from the chair. ‘I’ll tell her we’re splitting.’

‘Don’t bother,’ he said quickly. He had no intention of chasing. If she wants to come she will.’

‘Yeah, but how’s she gonna know we’re leaving?’ Zella asked logically.

‘She’ll know,’ he said, rising, just as Pammy Booser Kline grabbed him from behind.

‘Kris Phoenix,’ she slurred, rubbing herself against him. ‘One dance for the bride, huh, baby?’

‘I don’t do this sort of dancin’, luv.’

‘One dance,’ she insisted, giving him no further chance to get out of it as she dragged him towards the dance floor, where she ground her crotch against his and whispered suggestively in his ear.

He tried to distance himself, but she was having none of it. ‘I’ve always fancied you, didja know that?’

‘Leave it out, darlin’,’ he said firmly. ‘You only just got married, or did you forget?’

What a slag! A few whirls and he made his escape, said goodbye to Nichols, and found Mikki back at their table where she belonged. ‘Having a good time?’ he asked casually, waiting to see if she volunteered any information.

‘Not bad,’ she replied, hugging his arm. ‘Zella tells me we’re going over to Bobby’s.’

Why did he have to get involved with a girl who had once whiled away the years as groupie
numero uno
to the entire rock world?

Just lucky, I guess
, he thought grimly.

*    *    *

Bobby Mondella’s house was a revelation. Kris was impressed.

‘You mean people really live like this?’ he asked, after a tour of the mansion.

‘Remind me never to take you home to mommy and daddy,’ Mikki murmured, with a secret smile.

‘Yeah, man,’ Bobby replied. ‘It’s the rock star dream come true. You gotta get yourself the house, an’ the pool, an’ the cars. The whole bit. You can’t miss out.’

‘I still live in England,’ Kris reflected glumly. ‘By the time I’ve paid taxes, livin’ expenses, and slipped a few bob to my family, I’m broke.’

‘You’ve gotta be kidding.’

‘Don’t forget, what I make gets shared with the guys and Fingers. An’ what with road costs, lawyers, my ex-wife, my kid, accountants, our manager . . .’ He trailed off. ‘Life’s a bitch—’

‘And then you die!’ chorused Mikki, Zella and Bobby, breaking up.

They spent the rest of the night listening to soul and blues records while sharing a joint or two. Sam Cooke and Otis Redding, Chuck Berry and Jackie Wilson. All the old-time greats. Kris couldn’t remember when he’d had a better time.

‘I’m pleased to see you can relax,’ Mikki said during the limo drive back to the hotel.

‘Who, me?’ He laughed. ‘I’m always bleedin’ relaxed.’

‘No you’re not,’ she chided gently. ‘You spend your whole time worrying about something. It’s either Buzz, or your son, where your record is on the charts, concert dates, back-up musicians—’

‘Whoa! You makin’ me sound like a neurotic nut.’

‘Well, you are.’

‘No I’m not.’

‘Yes you are.’

‘Mikki, luv?’

‘Yes, Kris?’

‘Whyn’t you just shut up, an’ get down on your knees where you belong.’

She began to giggle. ‘I like a man with nothing on his mind but sex!’

‘On your knees.’

‘What about the driver?’

‘
Fuck
the driver. He can find his own blow job later!’

In the morning they had to leave the hotel at nine to fly back to New York in time for a limo ride to Philadelphia and a late concert. At exactly ten to nine Mikki dropped her bombshell. ‘I’m not coming,’ she said, wrinkling her pretty nose.

‘What are you talkin’ about?’ he demanded angrily.

She wouldn’t look him in the eye. ‘I’ve got business to do,’ she said vaguely.

‘
What
fucking business?’

‘Like family stuff. Trusts, investments. I really should take care of it while I’m out here.’

He threw her a disgusted look. ‘I don’t believe this crap.’

Smoothing down her skirt, she said, ‘I’ll meet you in Washington.’

He knew she was staying for Del Delgardo. This made him determined not to mention his name. Why give her the satisfaction? ‘Suit yourself,’ he said, switching to don’t-care tactics.

Women. Fuck ’em. He could live without their shit.

He returned to New York alone; performed in Philadelphia; partied with buxom twins; caught Buzz shooting heroin; told Doktor Head from now on it was going to be Kris Phoenix and the Wild Ones; ended the American tour in Washington – where Mikki never showed; and flew back to England.

Another change was in the works, he could feel it coming on.

Rafealla

1981

Within six months Rafealla was as settled in Rio de Janeiro as if she had lived there forever. ‘I
love
this place,’ she told Odile. ‘Love it, love it,
love
it! I
never
want to leave.’

Odile smiled wisely. She was pregnant with her first baby, and quite content and happy herself. ‘
Never
is a strong statement. I’ll tell you something – if it wasn’t for the dreadful poverty all around us, I wouldn’t want to leave here either.’

Rafealla nodded. It was true. Such an affluent society, living in such an exquisite city, ringed with the most appalling slums she had ever seen. They were called
favelas.
Muddy hillsides packed with ramshackle tin huts. Slum dwellings that housed generations of families living side by side in rat-infested hovels.

‘I know,’ she agreed. It’s shocking.’

‘But not our problem,’ sighed Odile. ‘So we mustn’t let it botherus.’

‘I guess,’ Rafealla said unsurely, although deep down she felt there must be
something
they could do.

When they first arrived in Rio, she and Jon Jon lived with Odile and Rupert in their comfortable house, but after six weeks she felt they were imposing, and began to look for an apartment of her own. By this time she had phoned her mother in England and told her she was staying, and was instructing her lawyers to begin divorce proceedings against Eddie.

Anna was more than relieved. ‘I sensed all was not well, my darling,’ she’d said sympathetically. ‘But why run so far? Couldn’t you have just moved back to the country with us?’

Rafealla decided it was too complicated to start explaining that she needed the distance, the breathing space. For once in her life she wished to be completely independent.

Money was no problem. At age twenty-five she was to inherit a large trust fund from her father, and even though she was only twenty-one it was not difficult for her lawyers in England to arrange for an adequate advance.

She found a modern, sunny apartment with a magnificent sea view near Copacabana beach, and she and Jon Jon, plus a stern English nanny Anna sent over, moved in.

Free at last! She hadn’t heard a word from Eddie, and was not surprised. What could he say? Getting caught in the act was hardly conducive to a long, meaningful discussion about their future together.

‘What actually happened?’ Odile kept on begging for information.

Rafealla merely shrugged. ‘I don’t know and I don’t care. I never want to set eyes on Eddie again.’

Hmmm . . .’ Odile said. ‘You’ll have to let him visit Jon Jon.’

Rafealla knew she would have to do no such thing. ‘We’ll see,’ she said mysteriously.

She did not reveal the discovery of her husband’s homosexuality to anyone. It was her secret, and as long as he caused her no trouble it would remain that way. For six months his silence had been constant. Their divorce was proceeding without any problems.

In Rio, she met a lot of new friends. At first she hung out with Odile and Rupert’s affluent group of young marrieds, fending off the advances of all the eligible bachelors Odile regularly produced. But she soon grew bored, and got herself a job in an art gallery – the same sort of job she had wanted in London. This led to her meeting a different mix of people – artists, designers, and art collectors. She found most of them interesting, in fact she even went out on a few dates. However, once a man wanted more than conversation, it was over.

The owner of the gallery, a soignee divorcee in her forties, suggested she try older men. ‘You’ll enjoy yourself
so
much more, my dear. A mature man
knows
how to treat a woman.’

Reluctantly she allowed herself to be fixed up with Jorge Maraco, a man old enough to be her father, and found him comfortable to be with. He didn’t jump on her at the end of the evening – which made a refreshing change. His conversation was interesting. And in his own rather staid way he was reasonably attractive.

On their second date she discovered he was a billionaire industrialist whose wife of eighteen years had tragically committed suicide four years earlier.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. It must have been a terrible ordeal.’

Six weeks later he announced that he wanted to marry her. ‘The time has come for me to start my life afresh,’ he said gravely. ‘And you – Rafealla, my darling – are the woman for me.’

Her refusal startled him – he was a man used to always getting his own way. Determinedly he began to pursue her in earnest, showering her with expensive gifts – all of which she returned – and dozens of red roses daily, giving the apartment a delightfully festive appearance.

‘What
is
going on?’ Odile asked, anxious for a full report. He’s a
very
important man, you know.’

‘And a very nice one,’ Rafealla replied truthfully. ‘Only not for me.’

‘Too old, I guess. I hear he has a daughter our age.’

‘Age doesn’t matter.’

‘Sure it does.’

A week later, Odile gave birth to her first baby, a ten-pound girl with blue eyes and no hair. Rafealla rushed to the hospital. Rupert needed her support. He was a nervous wreck, especially when they took the baby home and discovered that the young local girl they had hired to look after it didn’t have any experience.

‘What are we going to do?’ wailed Odile.

‘No problem,’ Rafealla said calmly. Jon Jon’s nanny will come and work for you, and I’ll take your girl. After all, Jon is at nursery school most of the day – so he doesn’t really need a proper nanny anymore.’

A very sensible solution. Everyone was happy, except Jorge, who kept on asking Rafealla to find out who this strange girl was she’d brought into her home to look after Jon Jon, with no experience and no references.

‘She’s okay,’ Rafealla insisted. ‘Her aunt works for Rupert’s partner.’

‘That’s not good enough,’ he scolded sternly.

The girl’s name was Juana. Small, slight and quiet, she worked hard, cleaning the apartment as well as taking care of Jon Jon, who took to her immediately. All week she lived in, and at weekends she went home, returning early Monday morning. As far as Rafealla was concerned it was the perfect arrangement. She loved being alone at the weekends with her son. It was fun to take him to the beach, swim, and play games.

Jorge Maraco hovered on the sidelines of her life, waiting patiently to be more than just a charming escort. She met his daughter, Cristina, and many of his friends. She spent time at his magnificent, heavily-guarded mansion – for Jorge had a morbid fear of kidnappers. Being with him was safe and unthreatening. He could protect her from the world, and maybe she
would
marry him when her divorce was final. Why not?

So far she had not slept with him, and he didn’t push. If nothing else he was a patient man, prepared to wait.