Rock Star (24 page)

‘Who cares? It’s better you stay here where I can watch out for you.’

‘You’re right,’ she agreed demurely.

A week later came the bombshell. Blue Cadillac wanted him in L.A. where he would undergo intensive training for major Stardom.

He burst into Marcus’s office. ‘What is this shit? I don’t wanna go to L.A.’

‘Insurance’, Marcus said mildly.

‘For what?’

‘For both of us. Like a world-class fighter you have to train to be at peak performance level. In September of next year we present you to your public at the Hollywood Bowl. Bobby Mondella. In concert. A three-night sold-out engagement. Rave reviews. A television special. All
you
have to do is deliver.’

Marcus Citroen seemed to have it all planned out. He wanted Bobby to drop out of sight, and reappear like the brightest meteor in the sky.

‘Your album will hit in the stores that same week. A single from it will already be a smash,’ Marcus assured him.

‘What album?’ Bobby asked, perplexed.

‘The one you’re going to write and record in L.A. You have a year to do it. And a magnificent penthouse apartment in Century City ready for your arrival.’

‘How about Sharleen?’

‘She stays here.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she wants to.’

‘And if she doesn’t?’

Marcus did not waver. ‘Nobody’s stopping her from doing anything she cares to do.’

‘You mean if I persuade her to come with me, you won’t object?’

‘Absolutely not.’

The choice was Sharleen’s and she wouldn’t budge. She had a new single to record, a video to make, and a hundred and one interviews. Her career was back on track and she was happy.

‘Be careful,’ Bobby warned. ‘Stay away from Marcus Citroen.’

Indignantly she said, ‘You really think I’d ever get involved with him in a personal way again? Are you nuts? After what I went through.’ Dancing around the apartment she added, quite sternly, ‘Now, Bobby. I want you to take off an’ stop worrying about me. Think about yourself for a change. Promise?’

There was no point in fighting it. Deep down he knew the best thing was to get away. Sharleen was becoming an obsession, and now that he’d helped her straighten her life out there
should
be space between them. Only then could he put their relationship in proper perspective.

Los Angeles was a revelation. The wide, clean streets. Sunshine and palm trees. Friendly people and a kind of laid-back ambience he wasn’t used to after the frenetic activity of New York.

Walking into the apartment Blue Cadillac had rented for him, he couldn’t believe it was his. After all, he hadn’t done anything to deserve it. But he would. Their confidence in him was going to pay off.

The months spent recording an album with a top producer and great musicians in a first-class studio were the most exciting of his life. There was no watching the clock because studio time was so expensive, just an easy, relaxed atmosphere – with plenty of good-natured banter, and a certain amount of pharmaceuticals passed around. Usually Bobby didn’t approve of drugs, but recording late into the night it made sense to get a little high – keep the energy level really up.

The album material he had written worked. The songs, arrangements, everything, came together perfectly.

In New York, Marcus decided to combine the talents of Bobby and Sharleen in a duet. Bobby wrote a song called ‘Baby – I Care About You’. And Sharleen arrived in L.A. to record it with him.

She looked spectacular, glowing with success. Accompanying her was a female bodyguard who never left her side.

‘Don’t I get to see you alone?’ he joked.

‘Why, honey,’ she replied, affecting a heavy Southern drawl. ‘You’re so
biiig
an’
baaad
an’
haaan’some.
I don’t think I’d trust myself alone with you at
all!
’

She stayed three days, gave an impeccable performance – her vocals weren’t great, but what she lacked in voice she made up for with sensational style – and flew back to New York.

And then Bobby met Nova Citroen. The kind of woman he had never encountered before.

Nova Citroen travelled in a chauffeured Rolls-Royce, wore only the most expensive designer clothes and real jewellery, and smelled of big bucks. Bobby was dazzled.

She arrived at his apartment one afternoon, unannounced, with an executive from Blue Cadillac Records who jumped nervously at her every command.

‘I’m Mrs Citroen’, she said, a slight accent colouring her speech. ‘I hope you’re comfortable in this apartment. I chose it from several. I meant to visit you before, but I have only recently returned from Europe.’

‘
You
found me this apartment?’ he asked, surprised.

She smiled faintly. ‘The apartment, the body expert, the nutritionist – all of them. I hope they’re doing a good job. Hmmm . . .’ She narrowed her quite amazing violet eyes, allowing them to sweep over him from head to toe. ‘Yes. I can see they’re doing an
extremely
good job, Mr Mondella – or may I call you Bobby?’

In spite of his nine-year crush on Sharleen, he was not exactly inexperienced when it came to women. They hit on him all the time, and he knew how to handle any situation.

This one was different. This one was a lady. She was also Marcus Citroen’s wife, and therefore untouchable.

In spite of that he found her powerfully attractive.

‘Yeah, please do,’ he said, meeting her direct gaze with one of his own.

‘Thank you.’ Amusement glinted in those mesmerizing eyes.

The executive from Blue Cadillac Records said, ‘Mrs Citroen was anxious to meet you, Bobby. Word has it everyone loves the album material in New York. Are you nearly finished?’

‘Two more tracks to go.’

‘Perhaps I can come to the studio,’ she said. ‘I always enjoy watching the creative process.’

He enjoyed watching her, with her drawn-back white-blonde hair and slim figure. Nova Citroen represented class with a great big capital C.

‘It gets kinda rough in the studio,’ he said.

‘Really?’ Holding him a tight captive with her eyes, she allowed too long a pause before saying, ‘Well, Bobby, if things get
too
rough I’ll just have to leave, won’t I?’

She turned up on two successive nights, each time with a different male escort. She stayed fifteen minutes in the recording booth watching him intently through the glass, and left before he took a break.

It was annoying. He wanted to talk to her, find out more about the mysterious Mrs Citroen. For she was mysterious – nobody seemed to know much about her, except that she moved in high society, and had been married to Marcus for a long time.

She vanished after that, and did not reappear until six weeks before his Hollywood Bowl debut.

By this time his duet with Sharleen was number one on the soul charts, and steadily climbing the mainstream list. Things were going as planned.

He couldn’t help being in a nervous sweat, even though he’d never looked and sounded better in his life. The Hollywood Bowl concert was make-or-break time. He knew he could perform on record, but a stage performance was a whole other deal.

No one could say he wasn’t prepared. He was at fighting weight and raring to go.

Nova arrived at his apartment one morning – again unannounced, and this time alone. She wore a white silk suit, green blouse, and crocodile accessories. ‘What are you planning to wear?’ she asked coolly, as if they had just paused in the middle of a conversation.

‘Huh?’

‘At the Bowl.’

‘Uh . . . the stylist has a selection of leather suits for me.’

‘Leather?’ She raised an elegant eyebrow.

‘It’s sexy.’ He laughed; sending himself up. ‘Or so they tell me.’

‘It’s sweaty.’

He challenged her. It’s what I’m wearing.’

A faint smile. ‘I don’t think so.’

*    *    *

Bobby stretched, and slowly sat up. The workouts were hard, but the rewards were worth it. In fact, the entire year had been quite something. And now Nova Citroen was in his living room instructing her own personal tailor to measure him for size.

He would wear whatever she wanted. Instinctively he knew her choice would be the right one.

The tailor entered the mirrored workout room armed with a tape measure and a determined expression. ‘Mrs Citroen knows exactly what you want,’ he said, busily unrolling the measure.

‘Yeah, an’ I know exactly what
she
wants,’ Bobby muttered under his breath.

Kris Phoenix

1977

The cavernous dressing room was filled with people all milling around a long wooden trestle table piled high with cans of beer, paper cups, dishes of crisps, and several plates of stale sandwiches. Hardly luxury, but The Wild Ones were finishing their first tour and had not yet learned to make demands.

Buzz had his own bottle of scotch, given to him by an admirer. He sat in a corner swigging blissfully.

‘He’ll get drunk,’ Mr Terence fussed.

‘No way,’ argued Kris. ‘It’ll improve his voice.’

Mr Terence raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘Go and talk to that girl over there. She’s from the
Evening News.
Say something witty.’ He mopped his forehead with a polka-dot handkerchief.

‘Shit!’ muttered Kris. He hated this socializing bit before a concert. Why did he have to make nice to reporters and other assorted hangers-on, when all he wanted to do was concentrate on the performance ahead of him? He’d tried to explain to Mr Terence on numerous occasions, but Mr Terence insisted that the press were too important to shut out. How come everyone expected
him
to do it, and not the rest of the band?

‘Kris!’ The girl from the
Evening News
had lank hair, buck teeth and an upmarket accent. ‘
Do
tell me how it feels to be number one.’

‘Bloody marvellous’, he replied.

‘Super!’ She jotted something down in a loose-leaf notebook. ‘And
do
tell me, when the critics knock your music, does it upset you
terribly?
’

‘I didn’t realize we were bein’ knocked’, he said, helping himself to a soggy potato crisp.

‘There’s a review of your Manchester concert in the current issue of
New Musical Express.
Let me see . . .’, Cocking her head on one side, she sucked on her pencil. ‘I think it said something like, Kris Phoenix sounds like a cross between a sore throat and a foghorn in a bad storm.’

‘Charming!’

Pencil poised, buck teeth facing him like a firing squad, she said, ‘Any other comment?’

‘Fuck ’em. It’s not the bleedin’ critics who are buying our records.’

Scribbling furiously, she agreed with an enthusiastic ‘Quite. I like your attitude.’

He wandered off, looking for mum and the rest of his family. They were all supposed to be here tonight, the lot of them – including dear old brother Brian. He’d given Avis backstage passes and told her exactly where to go, but he couldn’t spot any of them.

Rasta rushed over. ‘You see those two little darlin’s over there,’ he said, pointing out two girls hovering on the edge of the crowd. ‘How about one for you an’ one for me – I’ll book ’em in now, while I can. If Buzz spots ’em, it’s all over.’

Kris glanced across the room, checking out two very attractive but extremely young females. ‘Juveniles,’ he said dismissively.

‘Leave it out,’ Rasta complained. ‘I bet they’re at least sixteen. That’s old enough.’

‘I like ’em over twenty, and smart,’ Kris said firmly. No more Willows in
his
life. For the last year he’d bedded a variety of girls, scrupulously steering clear of teenagers, or any girl who didn’t look like she knew what she was doing. His opening line was always, ‘Are you takin’ precautions or shall I?’

It got the ball rolling nicely, in more ways than one.

Willow was behaving like a right cow. When he was nothing she’d been only too happy to agree to a quickie divorce. But as soon as he started to make it, she was there with a sharp lawyer and a suitcase full of demands. Bitch! What had
she
done to deserve any of his hard-earned money? He didn’t mind supporting Bo, but Willow’s demands were ridiculous. Even his lawyer agreed. It wasn’t as if he were making a fortune. Everything he earned – except the publishing – had to be split four ways, and that was after Mr Terence had taken his fat thirty-five per cent. And then there were all the expenses – including travel, roadies, a sound man, lighting, publicity, clothes, a secretary, bodyguards, et cetera, and finally, the dreaded tax.

As a matter of fact he was almost as broke as he’d ever been.

Every day he realized more and more that if they wanted to score big – America was the place.

Tonight Mr Terence had promised that several hot-shots from American recording companies would be in the audience.
Okay, we’re gonna show ’em what we can do
, Kris decided.
We’re gonna really rock ’n’ roll!

‘Christopher!’ shrieked a fat butterball of a woman in a flounced lavender dress. ‘Your music sends me!’

‘Kris,’ he corrected, backing away from her over-zealous approach.

‘Ah . . . but short for Christopher, dear boy. Am I right?’

Who the fuck was this weird old bird? ‘No,’ he said, looking round for someone to rescue him.

‘We’re having a little thingy at Annabel’s later. Simply marvellous fun. Can you join us?’

Annabel’s. He’d heard of it. The poshest nightclub in London, where all the chinless wonders and their birds hung out. Royalty, too.

Annabel’s. Yeah! But not with this apparition, who was old enough to be his mother.

‘Can’t make it, luv,’ he said, trying to sound regretful. ‘Sorry. Gotta take me mum out.’

‘Shame!’ brayed the fat lady. ‘Fenella is
dying
to meet you.’

‘Well, she’ll just have to wait, won’t she?’ Edging away he bumped into a red-faced Mr Terence. ‘What did she say?’ Mr Terence hissed anxiously.

‘Who?’

‘Lady Stephenson.’

Is
that
who she is when she’s at home.’