Rock Star

by Jackie Collins

  Married for the first time at nearly fifty, Nichols proceeded to get well and truly drunk. The many guests had now taken over the tented reception area of Arnie Torterelli’s large house. Seated at round tables, they dined on lobster cocktail, and veal in a rich cream sauce. Bobby found himself at the top table, with Arnie’s large wife on one side and Zella on the other. Beside Zella sat Arnie himself, and then Pammy, with a proud and flushed Nichols next to her. Her maid-of-honour, a fading beauty with stoned eyes and slack lips, kept Nichols’s other side warm, while the sinister-looking Carmine Sicily patted her on the knee with less than fatherly intent. Rounding out the table of twelve was a sexy female singer with enormous breasts and a voice to match, her manager husband, and Kris Phoenix, star of Nichols Hit City’s premier recording group, The Wild Ones. He was with a girl called Mikki.

  Zella was more than pleased to be seated beside Kris Phoenix, but she couldn’t wait to inform Bobby that Mikki was an infamous super-groupie. ‘I’m real surprised she hasn’t given you a whirl,’ Zella drawled.

  ‘Maybe tonight I’ll get lucky,’ Bobby commented dryly, motioning for the waiter to refill his glass of bourbon.

  ‘Over my dead tits an’ ass, baby!’ joked Zella, threateningly.

  After dinner there was dancing. And in between there were speeches. Arnie made a lengthy speech, followed by his wife, and then Carmine Sicily – whose ponderous voice nearly sent everyone to sleep. Pammy stood up next – cloying insincerity at its very best. And finally Nichols – a drunk, sentimental, and genuinely happy man. ‘To my lovely bride,’ he said, raising his glass in a final toast.

  Both Bobby and Kris Phoenix observed Pammy surreptitiously grope Carmine Sicily under the table. They caught each other watching and laughed.

  Kris leaned across and shook Bobby’s hand. ‘S’good t’meet you, mate. I’m a fan.’

  Bobby smiled. ‘Hey – that’s fine t’know, because it’s mutual. I really like your songs, in fact I wish I’d written some of them myself.’

  Pleased and flattered, Kris said, ‘Yeah? Which ones?’

  ‘“Skinny Little Slider” is a big favourite. Oh yeah, and “Lone-some Mornin’”. I’m into those words, man. Shades of early Otis Redding.’

  ‘I wish,’ Kris said ruefully.

  ‘No – I mean it.’

  Kris couldn’t hide his delight. This was the kind of recognition he really appreciated. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You got it, man, you got the talent.’

  ‘That’s somethin’, comin’ from you.’

  As soon as Zella and Mikki went off to find the ladies’ room, Kris moved over next to Bobby. Soon they were talking in earnest, about writing and songs, early influences and the magic of the late, great Sam Cooke and other legends. By the time the girls returned they were too interested in each other to stop.

  ‘Wonderful!’ sighed Zella, turning her attention to Arnie, who, if he could shake his plump wife, would be hers forever.

  Mikki spotted Del Delgardo across the room, and sidled over.

  Pammy hit the dance area with Carmine. His bony hands dug into not-so-firm flesh beneath tight white lace.

  Nichols danced with every one of Pammy’s sad-sack girlfriends, including her maid-of-honour, who whispered in his ear that if he was ever lonely, unhappy, or merely horny, he should call her, as she had the perfect cure for such maladies.

  Looking around, Bobby decided if he ever got married it would be a strictly private affair. Then again, who needed marriage anyway?

  ‘You ever bin’ married?’ he asked Kris.

  Kris grinned. ‘Once, mate. Once was enough. Y’can take it, an’ shove it. That’s what I think of the whole bleedin’ institution.’

  Bobby laughed. ‘Right on!’

  They cemented their newfound friendship with a conspiratorial wink in each other’s direction.

  Kris Phoenix

  1981

  To everyone’s great surprise Michelle Hanley-Bogart became a fixture in Kris’s life. It happened after Chicago. And by the time the tour reached New York City, where The Wild Ones were due to play two sold-out performances in Madison Square Garden, they were inseparable.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Buzz complained jealously. ‘She’s a friggin’ slag. She’s gotta bead on everyone’s friggin’ dick except the Pope. An’ if ’e sang, she’d ‘ave ‘im too!’

  ‘Very funny,’ Kris replied. ‘You’re just pissed because she doesn’t want to know about you.’

  ‘Yeah. Fuckin’ her must be like doin’ it with the rock ’n’ roll hall of friggin’ fame. You’re welcome, mate. She could suck the chrome right off the bumper of a 1958 Cadillac!’

  In New York Mikki introduced Kris to her disparate circle of friends. They included a tall gay clothes designer of international repute, a wild-eyed cabaret singer with spider eyelashes who snorted cocaine for breakfast, a decadent European princess who lent her name to a line of expensive cosmetics, and China Wallineska – Mikki’s best friend – a short girl with a wiry mass of frizzy hair and generous curves. China was an artist, and lived untidily in a Greenwich Village loft.

  ‘She gives great parties,’ Mikki informed Kris. ‘And if she likes you – she’ll paint you.’

  ‘What makes you think I’d fancy being painted?’ he asked warily.

  ‘Because it’s an honour,’ Mikki replied, adding casually, ‘China’s quite famous, you know. Kind of an Andy Warhol for the eighties.’

  Madison Square Garden was the thrill of a lifetime. Their latest single, ‘Dirty Bits’, was number one, and the album of the same name was just entering the stores in huge amounts. Nichols Hit City were doing the job. Kris couldn’t help being pleased with their distribution and sales, but deep down he wished The Wild Ones were with one of the giants. Blue Cadillac for instance.

  When he mentioned his thoughts to Doktor Head, the man laughed. ‘You can’t get any higher than number one,’ he said. ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘I think it’s the difference between driving a Ferrari or a Ford,’ Mikki joined in. ‘They both get you there, but only one gets you there in style.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ Kris agreed. ‘Exactly what I was tryin’ to say.’

  Doktor Head glared at Mikki. He’d had enough trouble with her when, at the tender age of sixteen, she’d attached herself to Michael Hollywood. They’d had five months together, breaking up a few weeks before his death.

  At sixteen she’d been a pain. At twenty-four she was impossible. There was nothing worse than a rich groupie with connections.

  ‘I know Marcus Citroen, the President of Blue Cadillac, very well,’ she said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Why don’t I set up a meeting?’

  ‘No,’ Doktor Head replied, vehemently. ‘Any setting up I can do myself.’

  ‘Hey, listen, if she knows Marcus Citroen—’ Kris began. ‘As a matter of fact I met him myself once.’

  ‘Forget it,’ Doktor Head snapped, grimacing wildly. ‘You think I just came over on the banana boat? I can get to Marcus anytime I want. Right now we’re with Hit City. Our record’s number one, and we are staying right where we are.’ He glared at Mikki, who glared back. ‘And another thing, don’t forget you promised to show your ugly face at Nichols’s wedding tomorrow. I’ve booked you on a Pan Am flight first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Mikki too?’

  ‘Considering you’re joined at the hip,’ he said sarcastically, ‘would I do anything else?’

  ‘How about Buzz?’

  ‘He won’t go.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Ask him.’

  ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘It’s a twenty-four-hour trip. Do you really need me to hold your hand, or can I stay here and take care of business?’

  ‘You can go fly a fuckin’ kite for all I care.’

  * * *

  On the plane Mikki started. She had been leading up to it for some time.

  ‘How come you let your manager tell you what to do?’
<
br />   Kris shrugged. ‘It’s what a manager’s for, ennit?’

  ‘A manager is supposed to do what you want him to do.’

  ‘It’s not just me. There’s the rest of the group.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I forgot,’ she said sneeringly. ‘Everything you make has to be split four ways. Very smart.’

  ‘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 he
r 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.’