Rock Star

by Jackie Collins

  And so Rafealla came face to face with Luiz once more. Three years after their last encounter.

  Holding her breath she stared straight at him.

  He stared back.

  The air was charged with electricity.

  Bobby Mondella

  1984

  The success trip. He’d climbed to the top of the mountain, taken a deep breath and found the air stank. Why wasn’t it cool and clear and pleasant? How come everything was such a fuck-up?

  Bobby Mondella stared at his photographic image on the cover of Rolling Stone and wondered why it didn’t thrill him. You’re a handsome son of a bitch, he told himself dispassionately, reaching for a drink.

  Zella Raven floated into the room, a black superwoman in leopard-print leather. Zella enjoyed the high life. Zella snorted coke for breakfast and finished the day with a touch of free-basing. In the back of his mind he knew he had to get rid of her, she was dragging him down.

  Once . . . long ago . . . he’d been anti-drugs. He, more than anyone, had seen how they destroyed people. Now he let it go on all around him, and he wasn’t averse to joining in occasionally, because drugs gave him even more power and strength. And fuck it – when he was high he owned the whole world, and nothing and no one could bring him down. Including Nova.

  Ah . . . Nova. His obsession. How come he had everything, and everything wasn’t enough, because he would give everything just to possess the one woman he couldn’t have? It didn’t make sense.

  When he was drunk or stoned it didn’t even matter.

  He knew one thing. Rolling Stone was correct when they said he couldn’t write any more. The songs stopped coming one day – just like that.

  No inspiration. No drive. No shit?

  Hey – Rolling Stone wrote that Bobby Mondella was not the talent he once was. What did he care? He’d reached the top and it was a long fall down.

  Zella liked to party. Every night they hit a new club or restaurant. They owned Las Vegas, where he regularly appeared – a favour for Carmine, his best friend Carmine – or was it Arnie? – good old Arnie.

  ‘How come y’alls lookin’ like you’re dead in the water?’ Zella asked, fluffing out a wild Afro wig which perched atop her head like a frothy cake. ‘An’ you’re not even dressed.’

  ‘Why should I be dressed? We’re not goin’ anywhere.’

  ‘Sure we are, sugar. You-all forgotten? It’s Arnie’s big party at the beach.’

  Another party. Another lousy time. And everyone would probably have read the put-down piece in Rolling Stone which he chose to ignore because who gave a shit? Fuck it! What did he care? They’d only remember seeing his picture on the cover. Another cover. More fame. And he was a handsome son of a bitch . . .

  Yeah . . . Mister Soul Superstar was a handsome son of a bitch . . .

  And so fuckin’ what?

  * * *

  Women always came on to him. It was a fact. They smiled and tried to act normal, but Zella had captured it like it was when she’d said, ‘Honey, they are creamin’ their scanty lace panties whatever damn stuff they’re talkin’.’

  Sex symbol.

  Black sex symbol.

  A double hit.

  ‘The storms were quite devastating,’ said a beautiful woman with a diamond the size of an acorn on her finger. ‘But we’d never sell.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, huh?’ commented Bobby, swaying on his feet.

  ‘Never,’ she replied, gazing at him steadfastly. ‘Malibu is the best.’

  Was she hot for him? Was she steaming?

  Oh yeah, he could tell.

  ‘Bobby, darling!’ Greetings from Poppy Soloman, the ebullient wife of a studio head. ‘How nice to see you again. Thank you, thank you for appearing at my charity. Everyone was thrilled.’

  Did she want him? Was she ready?

  A simple yes would do it.

  He watched Zella, taking off across the room. Ever since landing the villainess role in a Rambo-type film she was Miss Movie Star – playing the role on screen and off, and loving every minute.

  At least someone was happy.

  ‘Hey, man – long time, how’re ya doin’?’

  He turned to face his old friend Rocket. The same old scruffy Rocket, with his long, greasy hair and beat-up clothes. The same Rocket who last year had been nominated for an Oscar – honouring his fine performance in a stark movie about corruption in politics.

  Bobby was pleased to see him. They’d lost touch, and hadn’t run into each other for a long while. With genuine cameraderie they exchanged hugs.

  The beautiful woman with the diamond, and the wife of the studio head, waited anxiously to be introduced to the moody actor who was not known for his social graces. Since Bobby couldn’t remember either of their names, he didn’t bother. Instead, he grabbed a fresh drink, and walked outside with Rocket to the pool area.

  ‘Will ya look at this,’ Rocket said, exasperated, throwing his arms wide. ‘Whadda they need a pool for when they have a whole ocean?’

  ‘Hey, man.’ Bobby shrugged. ‘That’s show biz – if ya got it – put out.’

  Rocket wrinkled his face in disgust. ‘One hell of a philosophy. Whyn’t they jam some of their big bucks back where they belong – with the people?’ Taking a crumpled joint from his picket he lit up.

  ‘What are you doin’ in L.A. anyway?’ Bobby asked. ‘I thought you hated it.’

  ‘Another movie. It’s a true story about a Hollywood cocaine freak who snorts his life away. This guy has the world by the balls an’ screws everything up. Real powerful stuff.’

  ‘You get off on those kind of roles, huh?’

  ‘A lot of people out here are goin’ to identify with this one.’ He dragged on the roach, passing it to Bobby, who declined. ‘I forgot, this ain’t your thing, is it?’

  ‘I’ll take some blow if you got it.’

  Rocket raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t touch that poison for a million big ones.’

  Why did Rocket always make him feel like a loser? He was more famous than his actor friend would ever be. Or was he?

  ‘Didja see me on the cover of Rollin’ Stone?’ he found himself asking.

  ‘Why d’you do that stuff?’ Rocket said, his voice full of contempt. ‘You’re bendin’ over an’ beggin’ for the screwin’ they’re gonna give yuh. It don’t make no sense to set yourself up for it. Y’should do what I do. Nothin’. No press. No shit, Nada.’

  Before he had a chance to defend himself, Zella was upon them. She was all over Rocket like a sinuous, gleaming snake.

  Bobby left them to it. He’d had it with Rocket and his superior attitude. Who the fuck did the prick think he was anyway?

  Finding a group snorting cocaine in a bathroom, he joined them.

  It didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered. Being a star meant never having to explain anything to anyone.

  Kris Phoenix

  1985

  Bedding Mrs Citroen might not have been the greatest idea in the world, but he’d done it – once – and there was no going back.

  When Kris reflected on it – which wasn’t often – he realized it had not been his fault. After all, what was a guy supposed to do when faced with the wife of his new boss wearing nothing but stilettos and an icy smile? Sorry, no thank you wouldn’t have seemed polite – especially when she’d just given a dinner in his honour, and sat him next to one of the most sought-after personal managers in the music business.

  Once was enough, thank you. Kris knew a balls-breaker when he saw one.

  Mrs Citroen. She didn’t give up easily. She called him. Sent him presents via chauffeured Rolls-Royce. Tried to pressure him.

  He didn’t weaken. No way. In fact, what he did do, just to prevent any future complications, was tell Astrid as soon as he got back to England. She was cool, broke some furniture and chipped one of his teeth, but basically she took it well.

  This had all taken place a year ago, and a lot had happened in that year. The big news was tha
t he’d been forced to get rid of Doktor Head. It was a move he hadn’t been happy making, but it was inevitable once Doktor Head started drinking again – for when he drank he became an uncontrollable maniac, and Kris wanted none of it. As far as his career was concerned he had a killer instinct, refusing to allow anyone to fuck it up. He gave Doktor Head several chances and then fired him. Fortunately they had no contract. Theirs was a handshake arrangement – unethical, but that’s the way they’d both wanted it.

  Two days after the firing, Kris called Hawkins Lamont. ‘I need someone to take me higher,’ he’d said.

  ‘Come into my office and we’ll talk.’

  They met. They talked. They both had the same desire. To make Kris Phoenix into the biggest rock star in the world.

  A deal was set.

  ‘You’ll move to America,’ the Hawk had said. ‘If we intend to make you into an international star you have to be based in the States.’

  ‘Astrid’ll hate that.’

  ‘Don’t bring her. Leave her in England. It’s better for your image if you’re unattached and available.’

  An excellent solution. Astrid loved the English countryside – she’d be quite happy pottering about there. And he’d spend plenty of time visiting because of Bo.

  ‘Sold!’ he’d said.

  Six weeks later he said ‘sold’ again when he purchased a vast house in Bel Air.

  True to his word, the Hawk set about making Kris Phoenix into a major superstar. He renegotiated Doktor Head’s deal with Blue Cadillac. He put Kris in the hands of one of the hottest and most prestigious PR companies on the West Coast. He suggested a theme for the new album. And he planned a special tour across fifteen key cities to set America alight.

  ‘We have to forget The Wild Ones ever existed, and start afresh,’ he’d announced, with all the enthusiasm of a great general going into battle. ‘From now on it’s Kris Phoenix all the way. Go home, sit down, and write the best songs you’ve ever written. The theme is family. Don’t forget – family and roots and relationships.’

  Kris flew back to England, holed up at his country estate, shut off the phones and went to work – emerging, seven weeks later, with twelve gritty, truthful songs full of everything the Hawk had asked for.

  The new album was called Gettin’ Down. The tour was called simply KRIS PHOENIX ’85. Both broke every existing record.

  The Hawk had done as he’d promised. Within one year Kris Phoenix was the hottest name to hit the rock world since Bruce Springsteen.

  Rafealla

  1985

  There were moments when Rafealla couldn’t keep her hands off Luiz, and fortunately he seemed to feel the same way. Bumping into him by chance made her determined never to be apart from him again. A year had passed and she had her wish.

  At first they were both uncomfortable to see each other. After the initial shock, they were stiffly polite.

  ‘I didn’t know you sang,’ he’d said.

  ‘And I didn’t know you lived in São Paulo’, she’d retorted accusingly, longing to say – Why did you disappear? How come I never heard from you? How dare you treat me like that!

  They’d rehearsed with all the warm interaction of a suspicious Siamese cat and a fierce Doberman.

  ‘What’s the matter, Rafealla?’ Tinto had asked. ‘Do you two know each other?’

  ‘Yes,’ she’d snapped, at the same time as Luiz said a sharp ‘No.’

  ‘Ah . . .’ Tinto had sighed wisely, and known exactly what was going on.

  Finally, music brought them together. The caressing, insinuating strum of his guitar melded perfectly with her low, sensual voice. By the time they did the concert, they still weren’t friendly, but they were in tune.

  The next morning, shortly before she and Tinto were due to leave their hotel for the airport, Luiz turned up.

  ‘I think we must talk,’ he’d said.

  ‘A little late for that,’ she’d replied.

  Tinto had rolled his eyes and handed over her ticket. Rafealla was all work and no play. It wasn’t natural. ‘Yes, talk,’ he’d encouraged them, nodding understandingly. ‘Catch the later plane.’

  When he’d said that, he hadn’t meant two weeks later. But that’s the way it was. And when she returned, she was glowing – as only a woman in love can.

  Luiz, she had discovered, was a very intense and complex young man. His original disappearance was not because he didn’t like her, it was due to the fact that he liked her too much. ‘I had nothing to offer you,’ he explained simply. ‘We would not have been happy.’

  ‘Yes, we would,’ she argued.

  ‘No,’ he insisted. ‘I had to leave the city. For if I hadn’t, the temptation would have trapped me.’

  So he’d had his reasons. Pride and such-like. And in São Paulo his career progressed, and when they met again he felt ready to accept the challenge of a relationship.

  Within weeks of her return to Rio, he followed her, for Tinto had promised he could get them work together. It was an easy promise to keep. They had a magic between them that the public loved. Luiz settled into her apartment and her life as if it were destined, and they were inseparable. Soon, thanks to the success they enjoyed, he was able to afford his own place. Once again Rafealla gave up her independence, and along with Jon Jon, moved in with him.

  They made a beautiful trio. Rafealla and Luiz – both so dark, with their matching green eyes and jet hair. And Jon Jon – blond and tanned with his shining, innocent baby-blues.

  Now, for the first time in her life, Rafealla truly knew what happiness was. She had a career she loved. A man she adored. And Jon Jon.

  Odile phoned often. She was insistent. ‘You have to come home for a visit soon,’ she said firmly. ‘Or your mother will have a positive cow!’

  ‘Yes, soon,’ Rafealla promised, not meaning it at all. For one thing she had no intention of ever letting Luiz out of her sight again, and for another – the thought of him meeting her family was hardly one she relished. Not that they were snobs, the very opposite – but Luiz came from the favela, and it would be difficult for him to understand her beginnings, he would feel intimidated and out of place visiting her stepfather’s enormous country estate. Meanwhile she sent home her records and press clippings – first censoring the ones that mentioned she and Luiz were living together. Even though she was twenty-five, she knew her mother would be shocked. Especially because of Jon Jon.

  They lived an idyllic existence. Working together, playing on the white sandy beaches, enjoying their leisure time and work equally. Luiz was terrific with Jon Jon, just like the father he’d never had.

  Their singing success was particularly rewarding. Not only were they both doing something they loved, they were also getting paid for it – and handsomely so. In Latin America they were fast becoming famous, and had enjoyed several hit records.

  Tinto sat back like a proud father as he watched and helped their careers grow. When he’d first taken Rafealla on he hadn’t planned on handling her as a double act. But she and Luiz were perfect together. Their love shone through everything they did.

  ‘I think we might get married,’ Rafealla confided to Tinto one day. ‘Only don’t tell Luiz, he doesn’t know!’

  ‘My lips reveal nothing.’

  ‘Good. Keep it that way.’

  To celebrate Luiz’s latest composition hitting number one – a song they’d recorded together and their third consecutive hit – Tinto threw a big party. Rafealla sat back, allowing Luiz to bask in the limelight and enjoy most of the attention. He was so handsome and exhilarated. He deserved this success.

  Proudly she watched him circulate, charming press and guests alike. He never mentioned marriage, but lately it had been on her mind a lot. Oh, sure, she was happy just being with him, only marriage was a more permanent commitment, and since she never wanted to be apart from him again, it seemed like a good idea. Determined not to be the instigator, she’d begun to long for him to ask her. But he remained silent on th
e subject, obviously quite content with things they way they were.

  Other women threw themselves at him. During the course of the party Rafealla noticed several females coming on strong. Luiz had a way of deflecting their advances without hurting their feelings. He was studiously polite and well-mannered, which of course made him all the more interesting. Nothing turned women on more than a man they couldn’t get through to. Especially when that man was talented, young, and extraordinarily handsome.

  Rafealla couldn’t hold back. In the car on their way home she hugged him warmly. I’ve got a fantastic idea,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A sensational idea.’

  He smiled – white, even teeth, and emerald green eyes she couldn’t resist. ‘Tell me, my carioca, he encouraged, his hand lingering on her knee.

  ‘Let’s get married.’

  A silence. Too long a silence. A dangerous silence.

  Before he even spoke she knew something was wrong.

  He hesitated, and then falteringly said, ‘I was going to tell you.’

  She could hardly breathe. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Uh . . . how I say this? He paused again, and then, very slowly, ‘Rafealla, you know I love you . . . But, this is the thing. I am already married.’

  Bobby Mondella

  1985

  The crowd at Rio airport to greet Bobby Mondella was gratifyingly large. It took several bodyguards and security police to get him through safely. In the Rolls-Royce sent to meet him he sat back with a satisfied sigh. ‘Y’see, they still love me’, he said.

  Nichols Kline, momentarily unnerved by the massive crowds and roaring fans, said, ‘Sure. This is a foreign country. They’re a year behind.’

  ‘You’re a real downer son of a bitch,’ Bobby responded angrily. ‘One record doesn’t make number one, an’ in your book I’m finished.’

  ‘Your last three singles,’ Pammy corrected, with a toss of her dyed hair.

  Bobby couldn’t stand the phoney bitch. How come Nichols put up with her? She’d laid every one of his friends, and treated him like dirt. But Nichols hung in there, thinking he’d found himself some kind of English princess instead of dumb cunt of the year.