Rock Star (47 page)

She’d attended local high school, gone steady with the boy next door, kept two dogs and a pony, and been an A-plus student. When she was sixteen her boyfriend entered a photograph he’d taken of her in a ‘model of the year’ magazine contest. She won a trip to New York and an introduction to one of the best model agencies in town. A year of training. A year of learning on the job. And then she hit it. Along the way she’d broken up with her boyfriend and dated a variety of men. Nothing serious.

Kris decided he would be her first something serious.

*    *    *

Antonio was a famous photographer. Italian by birth, American by choice, he practised his craft with impeccable style. He’d recently had a book of his work published – a weighty tome of portraits entitled
Antonio – The Face.
On the cover was a glorious shot of glamorous television star Silver Anderson in a dramatic pose. The book lay casually in the dressing-room, awaiting inspection.

Cybil arrived at the studio first. Scrubbed and shining she could easily be mistaken for a teenage cheerleader.

‘Hmmm . . .’ Antonio inspected her, hands on hips, a critical look in his beady eyes. ‘Antonio think
mebbe
the raw material okay.’

Cybil twinkled – she’d been warned what a pain in the ass the temperamental little photographer could be. ‘Only maybe?’ she asked nicely.

‘Fernando!’ – Antonio snapped his fingers for the hairdresser. Jose!’ – another snap to summon the makeup artist. ‘Paulette!’ – the stylist came running. ‘What we do weeth thees plain leetle creature?’ The three of them waited for Antonio to answer himself. Which he did. ‘We make her
bellissima
, no?’

‘Yes’, they dutifully chorused.

‘Bene, Bene,’
Antonio said, with a satisfied clap of his hands. ‘Go to work. Make the child
deevine. Pronto
!’

Kris arrived a couple of hours later, by which time Cybil was certainly divine, although closeted out of sight with Fernando, Jose and Paulette.

‘How’re you doin’, mate?’ Kris asked, casually putting an arm around the diminutive photographer’s shoulders.

‘Kreees,’ purred Antonio, becoming quite skittish. ‘How
sexy
you are. I
looove
your leetle tight ass!’

Antonio had photographed Kris for his last two album covers, and the two of them had a playfully wary relationship.

The famous Phoenix grin. ‘Yeah, well,
you’re
not gettin’ any.’

Antonio pursed his lips. ‘You have no idea what you miss, dear boy.’

‘Let’s just keep it that way, mate.’

‘As you weesh,’ Antonio said, lascivious eyes roaming over his favourite rock star, who stood before him in jeans and a sleeveless black tee-shirt with
GOLDS GYM
emblazoned on the front. ‘You seem to be so . . . hmm . . . how I say it?’ A meaningful pause.
‘Strong.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ve bin’ workin’ out, haven’t I? It’s my new thing. Good for the old muscles, huh?’ He flexed an arm, just to get the randy little photographer going.

‘Bene!’
exclaimed Antonio admiringly.
‘Sooo
athletic’

‘All the better to beat you up with if you ever lay a finger in my direction,’ Kris joked. ‘Not that you ever would, of course.’ Plucking an apple from a nearby bowl he crunched into it. ‘Is the girl here yet?’

Antonio sighed. ‘We
try
to make her into sometheeng.’

Spud, Kris’s English hairdresser – brought over for every important photo session – whistled as Cybil emerged from the dressing room flanked by Fernando, Jose and Paulette.

Looking sensational in a cutaway yellow swimsuit, with her hair styled into a wild mane and a startling-makeup on her face, she smiled.

The all-American teeth attracted Kris like a flash of lightning.
All the better to eat you up with!

‘Hello, darlin’,’ he said. ‘How do you feel about moving to L.A.?’

*    *    *

Cybil was no pushover. He had to work on her. He had to turn on the charm. He even had to follow her back to New York.

‘I don’t like rock stars,’ she announced.

‘What kind of stupid remark is that? You might just as well say you don’t like policemen or kids or any sort of group. What’s a rock star, anyway?’

‘A guy who thinks he can get anything he wants just by winking.’

‘I winked. I didn’t get
you
, did I?’

Gradually he won her over, and within several weeks convinced her that life in his Bel Air mansion was exactly what she wanted.

She came to stay. Georgeous Cybil – with the hair and the teeth and the body. It was fun having her around – she was a real upper, full of enthusiasm and high spirits.

What with Astrid – no slouch in the looks stakes herself – stashed safely in England, and Cybil, the lady of his Bel Air mansion, he felt pretty settled. Not bad for a working boy who started out with zilch.

Kris Phoenix. Rock superstar.

He’d been on his own for three and a half years. Long enough to have had three smash solo albums – each one breaking records and outselling the last. First there was his debut album
Erotic
in 1984, followed by 1985’s
Gettin’ Down
, and later in the year
Busted!
, a real breakthrough, putting him up there with the best-selling albums of all time. And now
Poor Little Bitch Girl
, which he was just putting the finishing touches to. One of the finishing touches was having the luscious Cybil Wilde on the album sleeve. She was an asset, no doubt about
that.

He didn’t love her.

He didn’t love Astrid either.

He was thirty-seven, would soon be thirty-eight, and he had no idea what being in love was all about. Oh, he’d been in lust many times, but love – no – he’d never had that insane, urgent longing to spend the rest of his life with one woman.

And yet he knew it existed. He could write about it, think about it. Probably it was something that was never going to happen to him. He had his music, his guitar, his creativity. It was enough. Or was it? Sometimes at night he’d lie awake and think of all the things he’d achieved, and it was those times he wished he had someone to
really
share it with. Often he thought he might have quite fancied having more kids. Bo had a stepsister – courtesy of Willow and her stockbroker husband. What could have been if he hadn’t discovered Willow cheating on him?

No – that wouldn’t have worked either.

Deep down, he had to admit he missed Buzz. They’d grown up together, shared each other’s lives – including the back of that horrible Volkswagen for months on end. Buzz had been closer to him than a brother could ever be. They’d had some good old times together. One of his favourite memories was their early sessions in the dusty garage – with only Buddy Holly and Otis Redding for company. And with a great deal of nostalgia he remembered travelling through Europe screwing everything that moved – and even a few who didn’t!

Finally success, and all that came with it. After that things began to change.

Not only did he miss Buzz as his closest friend, he missed performing on stage with him. God! They’d had some great times, writing their songs, hanging out, just being together.

Now it was all over. Their past was gone. Recently Buzz – who’d formed another new group, his fourth since The Wild Ones split – had been interviewed for
Rolling Stone. Kris Phoenix is a wanker
, he’d said.
All he ever wanted was the money and fame. Look at him now, with his big mansions and Hollywood lifestyle. He’s success crazy. As far as I’m concerned his music is bubble gum pop shit. The wanker sold out.

When Kris first read it he’d been angry and then hurt. The Hawk had advised him to take no notice. ‘Everyone knows Buzz Darke is a burned-out junkie and just about finished,’ he’d said. ‘Ignore it. Don’t dignify his jealousy of your success with any comment at all.’

So he hadn’t. But it still hurt.

Occasionally he saw Rasta – the same good-natured joker. Rasta had weathered his bad publicity, married a pretty German actress, and bought a song-publishing company which kept him busy.

‘Don’t you miss being up on stage?’ Kris often asked.

Rasta always came out with the same stock reply. ‘When you’ve had the best, why go for seconds?’

Rasta was right. Kris realized how lucky he was to have made it twice. No wonder Buzz was bitter – every group he’d put together had turned out to be a dismal failure. Mainly because the majority of the time he was so stoned he had no idea what he was doing. Plus he couldn’t get back into America due to his drug bust. Strangely enough he was still with Mikki – his partner in crime. Whenever Kris read about their public antics he felt sorry for both of them. A couple of losers.

Shortly after Cybil moved in, he persuaded Willow to let Bo make his first trip to America. She said no at first, having returned to her usual mean-spirited self six months after their son’s accident was history, but Kris was insistent. The boy was twelve, hardly a little kid anymore.

Bo arrived, very much the proper English schoolboy with a posh accent to go with his neat appearance. Willow was doing a great job of squeezing out any individuality the kid might possess. Kris remembered himself at the same age – a right little tearaway, guitar crazy with the rock star dream.

‘Well, son, how’s it going?’ he asked, strangely uncomfortable.

‘Fine, thank you, sir’, Bo replied stiffly.

Sir! What was this sir shit? Three years ago they’d shared a wonderful time together at his house in the South of France. They’d swum and snorkelled and done all the good father-and-son things. Then Willow had insisted on enrolling Bo in a strict naval academy, and look at the little wanker now.

‘Don’t call me sir’, he said tightly. ‘Don’t call
anyone
sir.’

‘Yes, si . . . er . . . dad.’

The visit was not a success. Bo was uncomfortable and ill at ease, especially with Cybil. When she was around he withdrew completely, and Kris could not get through to him, however hard he tried. When the boy finally left, he blamed himself for their lack of communication.

‘Don’t worry’, Cybil said comfortingly. ‘When I was thirteen I didn’t even
speak
to my parents. They were like the enemy, y’know?’

‘Yeah, but at least they were together. I never get to see Bo. An’ that’s the way Willow likes it. The only contact she wants me to have with him is to make sure I pay the bleedin’ bills!’

‘Poor baby.’ Nineteen-year-old Cybil wrapped her golden curves around him, making him feel a lot better. Cybil was good at that. So was Astrid.

His two blondes . . . Fortunately they didn’t know about each other, although he realized it was only a matter of time.

One day he might have to make a choice.

Rafealla

1986

‘Mama! You look marvellous! Oh, and the house is so festive with the Christmas tree and the decorations – I remember every single one.’

Anna Le Serre Egerton smiled as her beautiful daughter ran around the house, followed by Jon Jon, who, at nine, was quite the best-looking boy she’d ever seen. ‘It’s a shame you weren’t here for Christmas,’ she scolded. ‘I don’t understand why you couldn’t have managed it.’

‘Mama,’ Rafealla explained patiently. ‘I told you a hundred times, we were working. There was a New Year’s Eve booking that was impossible to cancel.’

‘Yes, dear. However—’

‘It’s January the fourth,’ Rafealla interrupted gently but firmly. ‘And we’re here. Let’s not have an inquest on why we missed Christmas. We’ll celebrate our Christmas now, won’t we?’ She rushed over to the big leather bag she’d carried on the plane. ‘Look,’ she said, pulling out several gift-wrapped packages. ‘Peace offerings!’

‘Yeah, yeah! Presents, gramma,’ encouraged Jon Jon. ‘Shall we
all
open presents, gramma?’

‘What makes you think you got any, kid?’ Rafealla said sternly, ruffling his spiky hair.

‘Aw, come on, mom.’ He grinned, squirming away from her touch.

‘Get lost, small stuff. We’ll open presents later.
If
there are any for you. Which I seriously doubt.’

‘Would you like to explore outside, Jon Jon?’ suggested Anna. ‘We have horses and dogs—’

‘Fierce dogs?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Not exactly fierce,’ she replied. Then, noting his disappointed face, she added matter-of-factly, ‘They’ll kill a burglar, of course. Maul him to death.’

Rafealla laughed. ‘Mama! What kind of talk is
that
?’

‘Small boy talk, dear.’

One of the stable lads was summoned, and an excited Jon Jon was taken off on a tour of the grounds.

Rafealla embraced her mother. ‘It is
sooo
good to be home,’ she sighed. ‘You just don’t know.’

Indeed I do,’ replied Anna. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this moment for five years. Do you realize that’s how long it is since I’ve seen you?’

‘I know. I plead guilty.’

‘Well, dear, and what exactly is your excuse?’

‘What’s
yours
? You could have visited
us
, you know.’

Anna lowered her eyes. ‘I didn’t want to worry you, not until I could tell you face to face.’

Rafealla felt panic. ‘What?’ she insisted. ‘You’re not sick are you?
Tell
me.’

‘I will when you give me the chance. Cyrus had a mild stroke shortly after you left. Nothing serious, but the doctors felt he shouldn’t make any long journeys.’

‘Why didn’t Rupert tell me?’ Rafealla demanded.

‘Because he didn’t know,’ Anna replied patiently. ‘When he and Odile came back, I made them promise
not
to tell you.’

‘Oh, God, mama. Why?’

‘He’s fine. Really he is,’ Anna reassured her. ‘You’ll see.’

Cyrus, her stepfather, was not as fine as Anna seemed to imagine. For one thing he had a limp and difficulty with his speech, and for another he’d aged twenty years.

Rafealla was consumed with guilt – and then anger, for she should have been informed. While Cyrus was not her father, and could never have replaced Lucien in her heart, he’d been an excellent and caring substitute, and she loved him.