She often wondered how different her life would have been were he still alive. No England. No castle in the country. No stepfather. No Rupert.
Ah . . . Rupert. He truly was like the brother she’d never had, and she loved him very much. Right now he was travelling across America with a backpack and the daughter of an earl. Everyone hoped they would marry. Everyone except Rafealla – in her mind she was saving him for Odile.
L’Evier turned out to be a strict prison, with lights-out at ten, and a formidable headmistress. Rafealla took classes in English literature, languages, cooking, singing, social graces, and history of the arts.
She hated every minute. What kind of life was she preparing for? She had no desire to marry some rich titled man and live in luxury giving great charity.
Phoning Odile in Paris she complained bitterly. ‘This is a real crock.’
‘Leave,’ Odile said simply. ‘My design college is the greatest. Ask your mother if you can come here with me. You don’t learn much, but the male talent is vrrooooom!’
‘She’d never let me. Not after I made the mistake of telling her about that New York flasher in the South of France.’
‘Stupid old Marcus Citroen. He does it to everyone – including the maids. You should never have told your mother.’
‘I know. Now she thinks you’re all a bunch of perverts!’
‘How crazy. Maybe I’ll have mama telephone her and beg for your freedom.’
‘Would you?’
‘Why not?’
Isabella Ronet and Lady Egerton had a long chat, the result of which was that Rafealla stayed in Switzerland. Both mothers decided that the two girls – although lifelong best friends – were not always the best influence on each other.
So Rafealla slogged it out at L’Evier, loathing it more and more as each day passed, only enjoying her singing classes and choir practice. She had a strong, deep, voice, a talent obviously inherited from her father.
Some of the girls at school were unbearable little snobs who ostracized her because her skin was darker than theirs.
‘Touch of the tar brush, dear?’ Fenella Stephenson, one of the ringleaders, asked one day as they stepped out of the communal showers.
‘Sorry?’ said Rafealla,. reaching for a towel and tying it across her chest.
‘I thought they had a policy here’, Fenella sneered. ‘No blacks allowed.’
Rafealla felt a rush of colour sting her cheeks. Fenella was unpleasantly plump. ‘Funny,’ she said, keeping her voice nice, and even. ‘And I thought it was fatties they didn’t allow in.’
The ensuing fight would have thrilled any voyeur of young girls. They went at each other with no thought of modesty as their towels fell off and they rolled on the cold stone floor.
‘Black bitch!’ Fenella yelled.
‘Fat white tub of lard!’ Rafealla retorted, as they kicked and thrashed, pulling at each other’s hair.
A crowd of enthusiastic girls gathered, cheering them on with pithy comments. Nothing like a good fight to break up the monotony.
‘What is this fiasco?’ demanded the piercing voice of the principal as she pushed her way through to reach the scene of the crime.
Quickly Rafealla grabbed her towel. ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ she said, in spite of a split lip and a threatening black eye. ‘I slipped on the tiles, and Fenella was helping me up.’
‘Is this true, Fenella?’ thundered the principal, not believing a word of it.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Fenella, struggling to cover herself, obviously relieved at Rafealla’s discretion.
‘Golly!’ said Rafealla, innocently widening her eyes. ‘You should do something about these slippery tiles. Wouldn’t it be awful if somebody sued the school one of these days?’
The principal glared at her, pursing thin lips. She hadn’t liked Rafealla from the moment she’d arrived. She reminded her of another girl quite a few years earlier, a girl called Lucky Saint – or Santangelo as it turned out. A gangster’s daughter of all things, and a troublemaker from the beginning. Because of Lucky they’d had to have extra locks fitted on all the windows to curb any nocturnal wanderings.
Yes. Rafealla had that same dangerous quality. She’d probably end up getting expelled just like Lucky – in spite of being Lord Egerton’s stepdaughter.
As it turned out Rafealla lasted the term, gaining top grades in languages and English literature, and great praise from her singing teacher. She also became good friends with Fenella, and organized a diet for her that really worked. After their unfortunate introduction, they found they had mutual acquaintances, and that they lived quite near each other in the English countryside. With prejudice out of the way, they got along extremely well, although no one could ever replace Odile as Rafealla’s best friend.
When vacation time rolled around, Fenella invited her to spend a weekend in Oxfordshire at her family’s estate. Her father was a property tycoon, and her mother a society butter ball. Rafealla had to control her laughter when she met Lady Stephenson. The woman was outrageous, dressed in more frills and flounces than a drag queen!
On Saturday night Lady Stephenson had an invitation-only fancy dress ball for five hundred of her most intimate friends.
‘Mummy does this twice a year,’ Fenella disclosed. ‘She says she sees everyone in a different light when they’re wearing costumes.’
Rafealla dressed up as a Chicago gangster in one of Fenella’s brother’s suits which was several sizes too large for her, a black shirt, bold white tie, and beige fedora – under which she stuffed her long dark hair. With no makeup she looked like a beautiful, fierce young man.
When Eddie Mafair appeared – in costume as a pirate – she knew, with a deep sigh, he was never going to recognize her.
On the contrary. One look and he was by her side.
‘What a bore these things are,’ he muttered. ‘How about you and me taking off early?’
She could hardly believe her luck. ‘Yes,’ she said quickly.
Glancing around, he said, ‘Meet me here in an hour. I suppose I must be sociable. Bloody boring way to spend an evening.’
A cryptic exchange to say the least. No Nice to see you again, or How have you been?
With difficulty she managed to get through the next hour, checking her watch every ten minutes. It seemed like an eternity. At the allotted time she was ready and waiting.
Eddie Mafair appeared twenty minutes late, unapologetic and flushed. Taking her arm he guided her outside to an open sports car parked on the edge of the driveway. Hopping around to the driver’s side he failed to open the passenger door for her.
Opening it herself, she climbed inside, wondering if she should have warned Fenella of her adventure. Wouldn’t they worry when they couldn’t find her at the end of the party?
What the heck! She was past caring. She had thought about Eddie Mafair for almost three years and now the great moment was here. Nothing was going to spoil it.
Casually turning the ignition with one hand and reaching for a cigarette with the other, he said, ‘Eton or Harrow?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Which school do you go to?’
‘Oh. L’Evier in Switzerland.’
Pulling the car to a sudden halt he said in a surprised voice. ‘Isn’t that a girl’s school?’
‘Of course it is.’ With a gesture she pulled off the fedora, and her long hair tumbled loose.
‘Jesus Christ!’ he said.
‘What?’
Choking on his cigarette, he managed, ‘Nothing, nothing.’
‘You do know who I am, don’t you?’ she asked suspiciously.
Quite indignantly, his choking fit abated, he said, ‘I most certainly do.’
‘Rafealla,’ she reminded him.
‘I know,’ he said testily.
Eddie Mafair was a strange one. The sooner she gave him a blow job and got him under her spell, the better.
* * *
Two hours later they lay naked under tangled s
heets in Eddie Mafair’s mews house in Chelsea.
An hour to get there, driving at breakneck speed. A glass of neat vodka, and Billy Joel on the stereo repeatedly singing ‘Just the Way You Are’. And then sex. No kisses. No lingering buildup. No caresses. Just straight to it.
Inexperienced as she was, Rafealla soon realized something was wrong as he jabbed away with a soft penis. Eddie Mafair had what Odile crudely described as ‘two inches of cock and dynamic fingers!’ Only he didn’t have dynamic fingers.
Far from being dismayed, Rafealla knew she had to help him over his unfortunate hurdle. Instinctively she said what he wanted to hear. ‘I’m a virgin. I’ve never been to bed with a man before.’
Well, the virgin part was accurate. And she’d never actually been in bed with a man. The beach – yes. The woods – yes. And many other places. But never bed.
‘You’re so . . . manly,’ she breathed. ‘I love being with you.’
And that did the trick. Eddie Mafair performed like he hadn’t performed in a long time. And Rafealla let all thoughts of saving herself for a husband drift by the wayside. All she could think about was Eddie. She loved him. It was as simple as that.
Bobby Mondella
1977
‘Black,’ Nova Citroen said. ‘Silk.’
The tailor nodded.
‘And white. All white. Very clinging.’
‘I understand.’
‘A dozen shirts. A dozen pair of pants. No colours.’
‘Yes, Mrs Citroen.’ ‘Oh, and he dresses to the left.’
The tailor didn’t miss a beat. ‘Yes, Mrs Citroen.’
A flick of her elegant wrist dismissed him.
When he was gone she paced around the living room of the Century City penthouse with views stretching all the way to Catalina. Picking up a cigarette, she didn’t light it, merely held it thoughtfully between her manicured fingers.
Today was the day.
She had waited long enough.
* * *
Bobby, sweat dripping from his body, begged for mercy. ‘Enough,’ he pleaded.
‘More curls,’ his personal exercise instructor insisted. ‘Those arms need it.’
‘Nothing else needs it’, Bobby gasped, dropping the weights and flopping on his back.
‘Tomorrow,’ said his instructor, a short man with formidable muscles and torturous smile. ‘Can’t wait!’
So . . . Bobby thought. This is what it’s like to be number one. Hell – he’d had more fun when he was fat and a men’s room attendant.
Life, at the moment, was nothing but work. And not the real thing: preparation – back-breaking, gut-busting, getting-ready preparation.
His daily grind included dancing, voice practice, movement, and weight training for the ultimate body.
Then there were publicity photos to do, hair stylists to see, nutritionists to consult, and daily jogging for hours on end.
And then, of course, there was Nova.
Nova Citroen.
What an incredible woman!
Closing his eyes, he thought about the past year.
He’d shaken hands with the devil, and his whole world changed overnight.
* * *
Amerika wasn’t pleased when she heard about Bobby’s defection. She was angry and hurt – and above all incredulous. ‘How can you do this to yourself?’ she asked, her lower lip quivering with emotion. ‘Don’t you have any black pride? Marcus Citroen is a killer. He’ll own you, exploit you, then drop you.’
‘No way,’ Bobby argued.
‘What makes you think you’re so different?’ she spat, her voice shaking. ‘Arid how can you walk out on me?’
‘Blue Cadillac are willing to pay you a lot of compensation.’
Her eyes flashed. They’d better.’
He didn’t know what else to say. Light conversation was out of the question, and he couldn’t explain about Sharleen.
‘I suppose it has something to do with that tramp’, Amerika said icily, reading his mind.
Springing to her defence, he said, ‘C’mon. Don’t call Sharleen names just ’cos you’re mad at me.’
‘Hey – Bobby,’ Amerika jeered. ‘Why don’t you admit she’s got your balls in her pocket, and be done with it?’
He’d shown her the courtesy of telling her himself. Now he walked out with a clear conscience.
Sharleen bubbled with joy when he gave her the news.
‘Oooh, Bobby, Bobby, Bobby! You’re wonderful! The best!’ She hugged him tight. ‘An’ it’ll be good for you too, honey. Just wait. If Marcus says he’ll make you number one – well, baby, he’s gonna do it.’
‘I just want to be certain you’ll be all right,’ he said, full of concern.
Kissing his cheek she murmured, ‘I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t make a mistake again.’ A pause. ‘Do I get my apartment back?’
‘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.