Rock Star (37 page)

Nobody, that’s who. Reliability was the key to success, and if he didn’t break out of this shit-palace soon, his reliability was about as hot as an Eskimo’s ass.

Sugarbush would love this. Sugarbush, his ex-wife – the ball-breaking Las Vegas tootsie roll, with knockers to send a man to heaven and back. She got off on watching him fail. This one would
really
be a crowd-pleaser.

‘Listen, I gotta make another call,’ he yelled, rattling the rusty bars of the holding cell.

Everyone ignored him.

So what else was new?

*    *    *

‘You
should
meet with the press,’ Sara insisted. ‘They’re here, and they’re on your side.’

‘What makes you think that?’ Bobby asked moodily. ‘I don’t think – I
know.
You’re a survivor. You’re right back at the top where you belong. Everybody loves a winner. Now go for it.’

‘Hey babe, I’m just not sure . . .’

‘
Trust me
, Bobby.’

It’s not you I’m worried about.’

‘
Pleeaasse.
’

‘I don’t want anyone feelin’ sorry for me,’ he warned.

‘Sorry for you!’ she shrieked. ‘Are you a crazy man? You’re tall, you’re handsome, you’re singing better than you ever did before. Honey – you are right up there.’

‘Well . . .’

She picked up the phone. ‘Mr St John. Bobby Mondella is ready to meet the press. Can we do it right now before he changes his mind?’

*    *    *

‘Who’s the fat ding-bat?’

‘Get away from me,’ Maxwell hissed.

‘Who is she?’ Vicki fumed.

‘Get the fuck away from me. Anybody could be watching.’

‘Not until I know who she is, and if she’s in on it.’

‘She’s not in on anything,’ he said, his eyes darting furtively around. ‘She works at Lilliane’s.’

‘So what?’

‘So she likes me.’

‘Can’t you dump her?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to do.’

Vicki chewed on her lower lip, automatically thrusting her breasts forward as far as her confining maid’s uniform would allow. ‘Shall I deal with her?’

His voice was a deadly whisper. ‘Just get back to doing what you’re
supposed
to be doing, and don’t bother me again.’

‘There’s nothin’ wrong with a maid talkin’ to a waiter.’

‘Get lost before you blow it.’

Reluctantly she moved away. There was zilch going on between Maxwell and her, but she certainly wasn’t going to stand by while some other bitch invaded what could be her future territory. After all, she was putting a lot on the line for Maxwell Sicily.

Walking away she came face to face with Tom, her own special security guard.

‘What are you doing down here?’ he asked.

Suggestively licking her lips she lightly touched his arm. ‘Lookin’ for you, sugar.’

He was pleased. A woman hadn’t paid this much attention to him in years. ‘Well,’ he said happily, ‘you’ve found me.’

‘Later, I’m
really
gonna find you,’ she said, with a promising nudge.

Taking a risk he patted her on the ass. ‘Who were you talking to?’

‘When?’

‘Just now.’

‘Was I talkin’ to someone?’ she asked innocently.

‘A man.’

‘Oh, him. Some wop waiter needing directions.’

‘Where to?’

‘The men’s room.’ She laughed aloud. ‘Do I look like an information booth?’

‘You look good enough to eat,’ he said, his eyes bulging.

‘Keep the thought,’ She winked. ‘I’ll catch ya later, lover.’

*    *    *

‘Welcome to Novaroen, my dear,’ Marcus Citroen said, taking Rafealla’s hand in a courtly, old-world gesture and kissing it. With a dismissive wave in Trudie’s direction, he said coldly, ‘You can go.’

‘Marcus, this is Trudie,’ Rafealla said quickly. ‘She works for you.’

‘Publicity,’ Trudie held out a hand to introduce herself – yet again – for she had met the great boss on countless occasions, although he never remembered her. ‘I handled Del Delgardo’s last tour.’

‘Did you?’ His interest was at zero level.

‘I heard you were very pleased.’

‘I’m sure I was. You’re still working for me, aren’t you,’ he stated flatly.

‘Trudie wants me to go to the press room,’ Rafealla announced, jumping up. ‘We were just on our way.’

‘Uh . . . yes,’ agreed Trudie, catching on quickly. ‘I know her sales are going great, but publicity never hurt anyone. Right, Mr Citroen?’

With an effort he concealed his aggravation. ‘I wish to talk to Rafealla now. She can go to the press room later.’

‘No can do,’ Trudie contradicted gamely, quite enjoying a chance to put Marcus Citroen in the back seat for once. ‘Governor Highland is giving a press conference at five o’clock.’ She consulted her watch. ‘Which allows us twenty-five minutes of fun and games before he takes over – just enough time to answer every question you’ve answered eight hundred thousand times before, huh, Rafealla? But these things have to be done. That’s the great old world of show biz.’

Happily Rafealla played along, gathering her purse, glancing in the mirror to check her hair and makeup.

Marcus was furious, hiding his anger because there was no way he was going to give the loud-mouthed publicity girl tales to tell.

‘I’ll see you later,’ he said tightly. ‘Do you have everything you need?’

‘Thank you, Marcus, yes,’ Rafealla replied. And without further hesitation she left with Trudie.

Marcus Citroen waited a few moments, his eyes scanning the room. He must be crazy, wasting his time pursuing this girl. What was the matter with him? He was Marcus Citroen. He could have any woman he wanted.

And yet . . . there was something about her. Something about the tilt of her head and the sway of her body that he simply had to possess.

Did the girl really think she was going to avoid him forever? Did she imagine he was a complete fool?

Ah . . . extreme youth . . . Rafealla had so much to learn. And he would teach her.

Yes. Eventually he
would
teach her.

Kris Phoenix

1983

For two years it had been Kris Phoenix and the Wild Ones.

For two years it had been war between Kris and Buzz
.

For two years the group had continued to grow and soar, with Kris at the helm.

Tensions simmered. Egos raged. Vicious fights and arguments were a daily occurrence.

Doktor Head had just about managed to keep it all together. With difficulty. Everybody wanted to take off on their own, but – as he’d patiently pointed out – they were The Wild Ones. One of the biggest rock groups in the world. And to break up would be sheer lunacy.

To add madness to madness, Buzz had recently taken up with the infamous Mikki – Michelle Hanley-Bogart – who had only just ricocheted out of a stormy on/off two-year liaison with Del Delgardo.

Kris still carried a slight grudge about the way she’d treated
him.
Having her hanging around with Buzz wasn’t the ideal situation.

Flower had finally been put out to pasture. An ageing child of the sixties, she wasn’t happy about being given the boot after fifteen years of togetherness with Buzz. Within weeks she proclaimed herself an expert on The Wild Ones and the early days, and proceeded to write a book about them. When it was finished, excerpts were headlined in a four-page story in a tabloid English newspaper. They were all dragged through the mud, especially Buzz and Kris, whom she labelled drunken, drugged sex fiends with nothing on their minds except groupies, orgies, and dope.

Kris read it with mounting anger. It was true about Buzz, but how had
he
managed to get in on the act? First of all he hardly ever doped. Groupies were out. And he’d only attended one orgy – and that was at Flower’s invitation – had hated it, and left immediately.

No. He was not at all like the crazed egomaniac Flower portrayed. Music was his main passion. He was a serious musician, and more and more people who knew what they were talking about acknowledged that fact. His guitar work was almost as acclaimed as Eric Clapton’s, and along with the young and very accomplished Eddie Van Halen he was becoming a guitar legend – much to Buzz’s fury. Buzz was brilliant, but sloppy. His work had a blurred edge, although sometimes – not often – he could take off into genius, playing a solo so wild and so perfect, nobody could match him.

Unfortunately his talent was not consistent. Heroin ruled his life. He seemed to like it that way, in spite of everyone’s efforts to wean him off the insidious killer drug.

Mikki was no help. Her stint with Del Delgardo had turned her into a doper herself. At twenty-five she looked years older, a brash, over-made-up woman of the world. Before taking up with Buzz she’d tried another shot at Kris. He’d brushed her off so fast it made Concorde seem slow. Somehow he knew she was only with Buzz in a pathetic attempt to annoy him. It was working, but not for the reasons she had in mind. Addictive as she’d been, it was a short-term addiction, and when she ran off with Del Delgardo he’d soon forgotten her.

Mostly he went out with an assortment of girls – usually models or actresses, because they looked good, loved the publicity involved and, like him, had no need of any heavy involvements, for they had their ‘careers’ to think of. Occasionally one came along who wanted more. Then it was
Wham Bam Thank You Ma’am
time. In and out and on to the next.

He was getting slightly paranoid about herpes – the latest sexual disease doing the rounds. Unlike the rest of the group he was lucky enough never to have caught anything, and he certainly didn’t plan to start now. Ladies of his choice were asked to submit to a quick visit to his doctor. Most of them agreed, and the ones who didn’t lost out.

‘You’re a fuckin’ chauvinist pig,’ Fingers informed him one day, as they all sat around in the studio.

‘Isn’t everyone?’ he asked, feigning surprise.

‘Well y’can count
me
in,’ Rasta laughed.

‘You – you’re just a slag,’ Fingers said, in her very direct way. If it can’t run fast enough, you’ll fuck it.’

Buzz surfaced. ‘I thought that’s what chicks was for.’

Fingers threw a glass of beer in his face.

Another normal day in the studio, where constant bickering was a way of life.

In spite of massive American success, The Wild Ones still lived in Europe, and all owned homes in England, registered under company names – as they were tax exiles, and only allowed to spend a certain amount of time a year there. Kris had purchased a large apartment in Grosvenor Square. When his mother saw it she almost fainted. Upon recovering, the first thing she said was, ‘It’s luverly, son. When can the others come over?’

The others meant Horace, his two sisters and their respective husbands – plus brother Brian, and his lot. Family never went away, it just got bigger.

‘I’ll arrange it,’ he’d said, with no intention of doing so.

As long as Avis was happy he had no particular interest in the rest of them. He sent over lavish presents – colour televisions, a washing machine, a dishwasher, even a car. He’d offered to buy his mum a house in the country, but she’d declined, saying, ‘I like me little flat, with all me friends nearby. It suits me nicely, lad.’

At least he’d persuaded her to give up work and accept a monthly sum of money from him. He suspected most of it went in Brian’s direction.

So what? He could afford it. Brian was still the world’s worst jerk – a fussy, bitter man, with never a good word to say about anyone or anything. Instead of being proud of his younger brother, he was pathologically jealous – belittling Kris and his career at every opportunity. Finally it got so bad that Kris was forced to tell Avis to keep Brian away from him. She wasn’t pleased, but she’d done as he asked, and he hadn’t had the pleasure of his brother’s company in over eighteen months. What a joy!

Apart from the Grosvenor Square flat he had a small farmhouse in the South of France, just outside Saint-Tropez. It was a good place to get away from everything, an enjoyable retreat where he could write with no interruptions, although the more famous he became, the more difficult it was to cut himself off.

Once a week, he took out his son, Bo, who now lived with Willow and her new husband – a chinless-wonder stockbroker – in a large house just outside London. Because of his limited time in England, it was not an ideal arrangement. His weekly outings with Bo were inconsistent to say the least, and Willow was being a real bitch, labelling him an uncaring father, when she knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it because of his tax situation. She would have made a perfect wife for Brian – two miserable human beings together.

Bo suffered. He was turning out to be a real sissy. At eight, he was frightened of everything, whined a lot, and ate too much. The kid was a right little pain in the neck. When Kris tried to talk to Willow, she laughed in his face. ‘Hah! The caring father. Where were
you
when he was growing up? Sleeping with slags, and making money.’ He’d written a song called ‘Making Money’, for the new album, and another called ‘Does Your Mother Know You’re Pregnant?’ They were both secretly dedicated to Willow. She wouldn’t even allow him to take the kid away with him to France for a few weeks. His lawyer had been working on it, but now, with Flower’s choice revelations in the newspapers, it didn’t seem likely.

*    *    *

The Wild Ones were making a video in Paris. They had taken over one entire floor of a hotel and Doktor Head was going crazy trying to keep everyone on speaking terms.

Buzz had his own press conference, with Mikki by his side. The two of them, in dusty black outfits, paraded in front of the press announcing their future plans. ‘I won’t be stayin’ with the group much longer,’ Buzz said, attempting to control a continual sniff with the back of his hand.

This caused much excitement, especially when the news reached the others. Kris and Buzz had their usual confrontation, with Mikki standing defiantly by and Doktor Head acting as mediator.

‘If you wanted to leave, why didn’t you have the balls to tell me before shoutin’ it out to the world and its bleedin’ mother?’ Kris demanded.