Rock Star

by Jackie Collins

  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.

  Both Odile and Rupert were fiercely against it. ‘He’s much too old for you,’ they both said. ‘Are you mad? You don’t need his money. What’s the big attraction?’

  Ha! Big attraction. She’d had that with Eddie, and look where it got her.

  One Monday morning Juana didn’t show up. By Wednesday Rafealla was worried, for she had no idea how to contact the girl, she only knew that her family lived in the notorious favela.

  ‘You’re lucky she’s gone,’ Jorge said, in an I-told-you-so voice. ‘What did she steal?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Rafealla replied hotly. ‘Don’t be so quick to judge.’

  ‘You, my dear, do not understand,’ he said pompously. ‘Stealing is a way of existence for the slum people. It means nothing to them.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘Because I have lived next to these peasants all my life.’

  ‘Then it’s a shame you haven’t done anything with all your money and all your power to help them. I think the contrast between the very rich and the very poor in this country is disgusting.’

  ‘Oh, do you, young lady? And I suppose you think you know exactly what you are talking about.’

  ‘I know what I see.’

  ‘Perhaps you only see what you want to.’

  Soon they were embroiled in a fierce argument, with Jorge finally stalking from her apartment.

  She made Jon Jon dinner, bathed him, and tucked him safely into bed, her little spiky-haired boy with the bright blue eyes. He was her life, her future. And whatever she did had to be the very best for him.

  For a moment her mind drifted back to that cold London night four years ago. Kris Phoenix, brash and cocky – a typical rock star without a care in the world except himself. A ride around Berkeley Square in a chauffeured car. Hot, sticky, fast sex, and everything changed . . .

  Perhaps marrying Jorge Maraco wasn’t such a brilliant idea. Maybe she should try having a life first.

  The doorbell rang, and thinking it was probably Jorge returning to apologize she did not bother to check the peephole.

  Upon opening the door, she came face to face with the best-looking male she had ever seen. He was Brazilian; about her age, with long, black curly hair, green eyes, and a mouth she wanted to touch. He wore blue jeans, a workshirt and sneakers. With a jolt she realized their outfits were matching.

  For a moment there was silence as they both checked each other out. He was obviously as struck by her looks as she was with his. Instinctively she touched her hair, tied back in a ponytail.

  ‘Uh . . . are you Mrs Le Serre?’ he asked at last.

  Recovering her composure, she nodded. Mrs Mafair was a name she’d dropped as fast as she could.

  He smiled. White, even teeth. A devastating smile.

  Once she had thought Eddie handsome. He was nothing compared to this man.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, trying not to stare.

  ‘I’m Juana’s brother.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Juana. Your girl. She work for you.’

  ‘Oh, Juana,’ she said, sounding like an idiot.

  ‘Maybe you are wondering why she hasn’t come in this week.’

  ‘Is she sick?’

  ‘Food poisoning.’

  ‘How awful.’

  ‘Shrimp. She eat the shrimp and swell up like a basketball.’

  They were having this perfectly simple conversation about Juana and her problem, but really they were having a completely different conversation as their eyes met and spoke their own secret language.

  Rafealla felt uncomfortably warm. Her eyes darted down to his jeans and quickly observed that he felt as hot as she did.

  ‘Wo
uld you like a cold drink?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘Maybe a beer,’ he replied. ‘Before I go to work.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a musician.’

  ‘How interesting. What instrument do you play?’

  ‘Many things. Guitar, drums, flute, and I sing.’

  She grinned. ‘Multi-talented, huh?’

  He grinned back. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I’ll get your beer,’ she said, wondering why her heart was pounding so fast. ‘Please come in.’

  He followed her into the apartment, looked around and gave a low whistle. ‘Nice.’

  ‘I like it,’ she said, going to the fridge. ‘Is American beer okay?’

  Nodding, he walked over to the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room.

  Clumsily she pulled the ring on the can, and before she could prevent it, the beer frothed over the top. They both reached for a nearby box of Kleenex, and felt the burn as their hands touched. Hastily she pulled away, pouring the golden liquid into a glass which she passed to him.

  ‘I tell you something, you’re not like I expected,’ he said, sipping his drink.

  ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘Juana, she always talk about the grand English lady she work for. I imagine you older. Another thing – you don’t look English to me.’

  ‘A quarter. My mother is half English and half French, and my father was half American and half Ethiopian. He died when I was seven. We lived in Paris, and then London.’

  Why was she telling a complete stranger her life history?

  Gazing at her with disconcertingly direct green eyes, he said, ‘Juana will be back next Monday. Fine for you?’

  She nodded, remarking, ‘Your English is perfect.’

  ‘Not bad. I taught myself.’

  ‘Was it difficult?’

  Shrugging, he said, ‘Sometimes. But nothing good come easy. Right?’ Finishing his beer he walked towards the door. ‘So I say goodbye, Mrs Le Serre.’

  ‘Goodbye’, she said, breathlessly flustered.

  When he’d left the apartment she realized she didn’t even know his name.

  * * *

  ‘God!’ exclaimed Odile. ‘What a fuss! Why do we have to go to this funny little nightclub? It’s not one of the in places, you know.’

  ‘Don’t be such a snob,’ Rafealla replied. ‘I’ve heard it’s great.’

  ‘From whom?’ Rupert enquired. ‘Not Jorge, I bet.’

  ‘She’s put Jorge on hold, thank goodness,’ said Odile. ‘Her apartment looks like a florist’s shop. The poor man is obviously distraught.’

  ‘Oh, it’s the poor man now, is it?’ Rafealla said tartly. ‘Make up your mind. Last week you thought he was the worst thing that ever happened to me.’

  ‘He is one of the richest men in South America,’ Rupert remarked.

  ‘So what?’ Rafealla replied defiantly. ‘I’m fed up with you two. One minute he’s right for me, the next he’s wrong. And you’ve both said I don’t need his stupid money.’

  ‘True,’ said Odile.

  ‘Very true,’ agreed Rupert.

  ‘Can we go now?’ Rafealla asked impatiently.

  With a touch of clever detective work she had found out Juana’s brother’s name – it was Luiz Oliveira – and where he worked, a club called Pussy Satin. Further enquiries revealed that it was a tourist joint, featuring nude dancers and gambling in the back room. Hardly a place she could take Jorge to, which is why she had conned Odile and Rupert into going with her.

  The Pussy Satin club lived up to its name. Gaudy and noisy, it was a beehive of frantic activity. Colourfully-dressed hostesses were scattered around the place in scanty, body-hugging clothes. There was a long, crowded bar, and up on a small stage a combo of musicians played lively samba music. On the dance floor, sweating, happy bodies swayed to the beat.

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Rupert. ‘Some dive!’

  ‘Hiya, honey,’ greeted a comely woman in red ruffles and a turban, her tanned plump midriff temptingly exposed. ‘Wanna table?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Rupert replied gruffly.

  ‘For three’, added Odile, trying to avoid the eye of a fat man who leaned against the bar winking suggestively at her.

  The woman in red ruffles passed them over to a young, undersized waiter. He led them to a table at the front, demanded an exorbitant cover charge, and asked Rupert if he required a hostess.

  ‘Certainly not!’ Rupert snapped, quite affronted.

  The waiter shrugged. What did he care as long as they tipped well? ‘Champagne?’ he asked automatically.

  ‘No,’ said Rupert.

  ‘Yes,’ said Odile. She turned to her husband with a winning smile. ‘Let’s enjoy it now we’re here. At least it’s different. I’m so fed up with all those boring business dinners we have to go to.’

  ‘All right,’ said Rupert, relenting. ‘Bring us a bottle of Dom Perignon.’

  ‘House champagne only,’ the waiter said stoically.

  ‘Bring it anyway,’ Odile said.

  Casually Rafealla glanced beyond the milling bodies on the dance floor to check out the musicians. There were five of them, and none of them was Luiz. Concealing a sharp stab of disappointment she turned to Odile. ‘I told you it was different,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful.

  ‘You don’t have to convince me,’ Odile replied enthusiastically. ‘I adore the place. It’s got such atmosphere, and the music is wonderful.’

  ‘Wanna dance, handsome?’ A frizzy-haired hostess in a blue fish-net dress approached their table, her flashing eyes settling on Rupert.

  He pursed his lips. ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Go on. Live dangerously,’ laughed Odile.

  ‘Yes. Do it!’ encouraged Rafealla. ‘I can remember when you used to be fun. Now you’re becoming like a boring old fart!’

  ‘Thanks a lot, little sister.’

  ‘Go for it,’ urged Odile.

  ‘I dare you!’ added Rafealla.

  ‘Right!’ Rupert said, jumping up. ‘You asked for it, you two nags.’

  The woman in blue fish-net beamed, revealing a single gold front tooth in a sea of crooked white ones. ‘C’mon, honey-pie,’ she tempted, wiggling her fat bottom. ‘Let us go shake it out!’

  Without further hesitation Rupert hit the dance floor, his English manners loosening up considerably as the samba beat enveloped him.

  ‘Come on,’ giggled Odile, leaping to her feet. ‘We’d better join them before he gets into trouble!’

  Unable to resist the sensuous rhythm, Rafealla rose also, and began to dance. It didn’t matter that she had no partner, the music was companion enough, the melodious Brazilian beat soon sweeping over her.

  Several glasses of champagne later the three of them were feeling no pain. Rupert was methodically dancing with each and every hostess at five bucks a throw, while Odile and Rafealla warded off the amorous attentions of several stray men who hovered near their table. When Madame Red Ruffles announced it was cabaret time, they were reluctant to settle down.

  ‘This is the best bloody night I’ve had in years,’ Rupert raved. ‘We’ve got to bring everyone here.’

  Rafealla collapsed in her chair, fanning herself with the drinks menu. When she looked up Luiz was sitting on a stool at the side of the stage tuning his guitar.

  ‘An’ now – ladies an’ gennelmen,’ said Madame Red Ruffles. ‘We are delighted to welcome MISS TOP OF PUSSY SATIN – the wunnerful EVE.’

  A tall, over-made-up woman, in a spangly outfit, descended from a suspended bird-cage. She was clad in silver from head to toe, including a cloche hat and very high-heeled shoes.

  While Luiz picked out a soulful rendition of ‘The Girl from Ipanema’ on his guitar, Eve, very slowly, began to take it all off. She started with her hat, from which she shook a mane of dyed silver hair, ending up in nothing but high heels, a minute G-string, and sparkling pasties covering each large breast.

&nbs
p; ‘What an amazing piece of crumpet!’ breathed Rupert admiringly.

  ‘Do shut up,’ scolded Odile. ‘They’re probably silicone.’

  Eve paused, striking a wide-legged pose, suggestively fingering the two pasties concealing her nipples from an expectant audience. And then, with a sudden flourish, she removed the stuck-on devices, exposing darkly swollen nipples.

  Rupert gulped, nearly choking on his drink.

  ‘Typical!’ Odile snorted.

  Eve smirked knowingly, flicking a hidden catch, allowing her G-string to fall away.

  Total nudity for several seconds, then the stage went black.

  When the lights came on again Eve was gone, but Luiz remained, singing of lost love and balmy nights in an appealingly husky voice.

  Rafealla’s heart went out to him. He looked so handsome, and his voice was so terrific, but who cared? Everyone was recovering from Eve – the big horse. He deserved better than this.

  Over the next few weeks she went back to the Pussy Satin quite a few times, dragging into service anyone who would go with her. Although she never got a chance to speak to Luiz, he was well aware of her presence. Their eyes conducted a private, intimate conversation, of which they were both excruciatingly aware. Seeing him made her happy and sad, crazy and calm. She was almost in love with a man she’d hardly spoken to. Oh God! It could never work out, they came from two different worlds. And yet . . .

  Jorge continued to pursue her hotly. He was determined they would be together, and she found it difficult deflecting his insistent attention, but right now she wasn’t ready to make any lasting decisions.

  Odile and Rupert were going on a trip to England with their new baby to show her off to the grandparents. Rafealla and Jon Jon were supposed to accompany them, but at the last minute she declined, finally allowing Jon Jon to go without her.

  That night she hired a car and chauffeur, and went to the Pussy Satin alone. Her heart was bouncing around like a ping-pong ball, but instinctively she knew he would never make the first move, and it had to be done.

  By this time they knew her in the club, and gave her a front table. Nervously she ordered champagne and waited.

  As soon as he was finished on stage he slid into the empty chair beside her. ‘It seems you like it here,’ he said. ‘I am sorry you do.’