‘He’ll regret it all right,’ Kris said grimly.
Without hesitation he called a meeting, summoning Buzz and Rasta to his house. There he told them the truth, and that it was time to get rid of Mr Terence.
‘The old geezer’s done okay for us,’ Buzz argued. It don’t seem fair.’ He quite liked the fact that Mr Terence hero-worshipped him and treated him like a god.
‘He’s screwin’ up our chances of makin’ it in America,’ Kris pointed out. ‘We need someone who knows what it’s all about over there.’
‘Who?’ asked Rasta, casually lighting up a joint.
‘Yeah, who?’ Buzz joined in.
‘Doktor Head,’ Kris announced with confidence.
‘Fuck me!’ exclaimed Buzz. ‘An’ who’s ’e when ’e’s at ’ome?’
‘We gotta trust him,’ Kris said urgently. ‘He’s where we want to go. Believe me. I know when something smells good.’
* * *
After a long-drawn-out battle, Doktor Head took over the management of The Wild Ones, Fingers joined the group, and Mr Terence – unhappy with the financial settlement suggested – instigated a heavy lawsuit.
Kris didn’t care. He was positive they were making the right move, and within weeks Doktor Head had an American record deal for them with Nichols Hit City, a hot new company. The deal met all their requirements.
The night before leaving for New York to meet with producers and writers, Kris went over to his mother’s flat.
Horace was slumped in front of the television watching Charlie’s Angels. His sisters were out, and Avis sat in the kitchen drinking endless cups of strong, sugary tea. Smiling wanly at her youngest son, she imparted a few words of useless advice. She looked tired, and older than her fifty-one years.
Kris handed her a thousand pounds in crisp new ten-pound notes. He had planned the gesture for weeks.
She pushed it away, saying, ‘I don’t want your money, luv. Keep it, you’ll need it.’
Her words aggravated him. Why would he need it when he was on his way to making a fortune? Didn’t she have any faith in him?
‘Go on, take it,’ he insisted. ‘There’s goin’ t’be plenty more where that came from.’
‘Well . . .’ She hesitated, thinking it over. ‘Maybe Brian could use a little help . . .’
Fuck Brian! ‘It’s for you, ma,’ he said pointedly.
‘I’ll put it away for a rainy day,’ she decided at last, shuffling the money into a neat pile.
At least she’d accepted something from him. For a year now he’d been begging her to give up work. Avis didn’t want to know. ‘I can’t let my people down,’ she’d explained. He’d wanted to say Ma – you clean their bloody bogs, you don’t perform frigging brain surgery. But he’d refrained from doing so. She had her reasons. He respected that.
‘So . . . I guess I’ll see you in a few months,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek, anxious to get out of there before his sisters came home. He hated goodbyes.
‘America,’ Avis said with a sigh. ‘I stepped out with a Yank once. He was ever so nice. ’E ’ad lovely shiny fingernails.’
‘Sounds like a real winner.’
‘I fink ’e liked me too. Asked me to go an’ live in Nebraska.’ She gulped her tea. ‘Where’s that?’
He had no desire to listen to Avis’s true confessions.
‘I’ll have t’let you know, ma. Hang about – I’ll be in touch.’
And so he said goodbye to England with no regrets. Christ! He was twenty-nine. No time to waste. His future was America. And he was more than ready to ride the wave.
Rafealla
1979
‘I’d like to get a job,’ Rafealla said one day. It’ll help us out, and I’d enjoy meeting new people.’
‘What the hell do you think you can do?’ Eddie sneered derisively. ‘And who will look after the baby? If you’re thinking of my mother – forget it. She’s not the maternal type. Take it from me, I really know.’
‘Eddie,’ Rafealla said, very quietly. ‘I’m going crazy, stuck in this flat every day with only your mother to talk to. There’s an art gallery in Duke Street. The owner has a notice in the window for someone to work there. I know about paintings. I can easily do it.’
‘No.’
‘What do you mean – no?’
‘You happen to be my wife – your choice, I might remind you. And no wife of mine is going to take a job.’
‘I want to,’ she said stubbornly.
‘Too bad,’ he replied.
She stared at her husband. His eyes were too small, his cheeks sallow. Why had she once thought him so handsome?
Oh, God! What a trap she was caught in. Married to a man she didn’t love. Stuck in an apartment with his loathsome mother because he’d lost all the money her stepfather had given him at the gaming tables and they’d been forced to leave his mews house in a hurry. Eddie loved to gamble. It seemed to be his one and only true passion.
She was too ashamed to tell her mother. She even coloured her stories to Odile and Fenella, telling them that married life was great, and that they were only living with Lady Elizabetta while they looked for a house of their own.
Lies. All lies. Married life was abominable, and had been ever since the first night they spent together in their suite at the Grosvenor House Hotel after their lavish wedding party.
* * *
‘I feel so wonderful. This is like a marvellous dream, isn’t. it, Eddie?’ Rafealla floated around their honeymoon suite in a white lace peignoir, her long hair loose, a smile on her lips.
Eddie had already summoned room service, and when it arrived he managed to consume three neat vodkas before getting undressed.
Rafealla climbed into bed and waited for her husband. Legal sex. She could hardly contain herself!
Eddie stripped down to his shorts. He had a strangely hairless body, with a thin white scar running from below his breastbone to his navel.
‘How did you get that?’ she asked curiously.
‘One of these days, when you’re a big girl, I’ll tell you.’
She reached up her arms for him. Ignoring the gesture he grabbed a nearby newspaper.
‘Eddie,’ she murmured softly. ‘It’s our wedding night. ’
Carefully putting the newspaper down he stared at her with a cold expression. ‘Does that mean you want another fucking? Didn’t the first one get me in enough trouble?’
For a moment his words did not sink in. And then she could only imagine he must be joking. ‘Don’t be so nasty,’ she said.
‘Nasty, my sweet?’ His tone was pure acid. Is that what you consider being nasty?’
‘Eddie, I—’
Without warning he pounced on top of her, pinning her hands above her head, tearing her nightdress, exposing her breasts.
With studied cruelty he bent down and bit one of her nipples.
She screamed with pain.
‘Now that’s nasty’, he said, with a bitter laugh. ‘Isn’t it, darling?’
For a moment she lay there, too stunned to respond. And then with a supreme effort she brought her knee up, catching him firmly between the legs.
Swearing angrily, he rolled across the bed clutching his balls. ‘You little cow. ’
‘I thought we were playing nasty,’ she said innocently.
‘One of these days I’ll really show you how to play. You’d better watch out, bitch.’
Not the ideal start for any relationship.
Their honeymoon in Acapulco was a disaster. The surroundings were beautiful, but that was about it. Eddie drank all day and gambled all night, while Rafealla consoled herself with the thought that once the baby was born he would change.
Back in London things worsened, and by the time they moved into Lady Elizabetta’s flat she had grown to hate her husband, and yet she had no idea how she could escape.
* * *
‘Jon Jon doesn’t look like Eddie, does he?’ Odile said, bouncing her godson on her knee
. ‘And he doesn’t resemble you either. Who does he look like? Your mother? No. Your father? Hardly . . .’ She giggled. ‘Probably some sailor you forgot to mention, right?’
‘The entire merchant navy, actually,’ Rafealla replied casually, her heart beating fast.
Fortunately nobody knew of her one-night stand in the back of a chauffeured car with Kris Phoenix. Not even Fenella. She’d been so ashamed of her rash behaviour that she’d confided in no one. And quite honestly, when she discovered she was pregnant, it had never occurred to her that Kris Phoenix might be responsible.
Looking at Jon Jon now, there was no doubt in her mind. He looked exactly like the famous rock star. Same eyes, same nose, same stubborn little mouth. He even had the same spiky hair
God! What a bizarre twist of fate.
Odile glanced around the stuffy living room. ‘When are you moving out of here and getting your own place?’ she asked. ‘Isn’t it terribly awkward living with his mother?’
Rafealla shrugged. ‘Not too bad. It won’t be long now. We look at houses every week.’
‘I hope you find something soon.’
‘So do I.’
‘You’re too thin,’ Odile said, her eyes suddenly very concerned and knowing. ‘Are you sure everything’s all right?’
Rafealla stood up and smoothed down her blue cashmere dress. If only Odile could see the bruises covering most of her body, she would know that everything was certainly not all right. ‘Of course it is. I couldn’t be happier.’
‘Good,’ said Odile, also rising. ‘Whoops! I think dear little Jon Jon just peed on me. Do you want to change him or something?’
Rafealla took the baby into her arms, and hugged him tightly. She was glad he wasn’t Eddie’s. And one of these days she would tell the world.
Bobby Mondella
1979
The throb of Aretha Franklin filled the discotheque. Aretha singing ‘Respect’. Nobody did it better.
The dance floor was packed with couples in various stages of getting it on. Smoke filled the air, and champagne flowed freely.
‘Some place, huh?’ sighed Nichols, glancing proudly around his glitter palace of Art Deco and twirling mirrored lights. ‘Some classy joint, huh?’
‘Yeah’, Bobby agreed.
‘Beats the fuckin’ Chainsaw any day’, boasted Nichols.
Bobby drained his champagne glass and nodded. He was still thinking about Nichols Kline’s ridiculous offer. Well . . . jeeze . . . it had to be ridiculous. If he said yes to it, Nichols was offering him the earth and the sky, plus the moon and the stars. It was – as Nichols had said – Infuckin’credible.
Of course, he’d said no. Had to say no. After all, he had a contract with Blue Cadillac.
‘No problem.’ Nichols had seemed unperturbed when he’d turned him down. ‘My backers in the record company and the club, they’re good guys – businessmen. They’ll buy you out of Blue Cadillac. All you gotta do is give me the word.’
‘I’ll think it over.’
He’d left it at that.
Now Nichols was playing Mr Genial Host, catering to their every need, including trying to push a succession of available bimbos onto them.
‘The guy was a creep way back, an’ he’s still a creep.’ Rocket muttered irritably. ‘Exit time is comin’ up. Wadderya say, Bobby?’
‘Sure. Whenever you’re ready.’
But they were too late. A TV camera crew was upon them, with Nichols saying, ‘C’mon guys, do me this little favour for old times. Say tine place is the hottest club you’ve ever been in. Okay?’
Nichols was sweating profusely in a pink ruffled shirt and brown leather pants, worn with a selection of solid gold chains clinking around his neck. His once rust-coloured curls were dyed a dull auburn, and straightened. His once Captain Hook nose had been straightened too. He was forty-seven years old and still a stud, although he had swapped a different girl a night for a faded English bottle-blonde, with a dull Cockney accent and floppy tits.
‘This is Pammy,’ was his proud introduction. ‘We’re engaged to be engaged.’
Pammy Booser was a would-be photographer, former nude model (T and A only, dear, no bush shots) and all-round loser. She came on to every male in sight the minute Nichols’s back was turned – just as long as she thought they could do her some good.
Nichols liked her because he imagined he had found himself a classy English broad with brains. She called herself a writer, but all she had ever written was a pornographic piece on male prostitutes (she’d sampled three) for a cheapo girlie magazine. In her time she’d been into girls, guys, all together please, bondage, water sports, S and M, and now she’d decided to write a book about it. The only problem was she couldn’t write, so she latched onto Nichols to pay the bills.
Tonight she was having difficulty making up her mind whether to hit on Rocket or Bobby. She vacillated, finally centring her attention on Rocket, because in the long run a movie star was better pickings than a rock star.
While Bobby was being interviewed she whispered in Rocket’s ear, ‘I’m not Nichols’s private property, y’know.’
As if he cared. Her grating, whiny voice was enough to put anyone off. And she was no chicken – this one had been around the track and then some.
‘Back off,’ he warned in a low voice. ‘I’m not into used goods.’
‘Charmin’!’ she snapped.
He squashed her with a look, exchanging eye signals with Bobby that it was certainly time to beat it.
The television interviewer zeroed in on him the moment Bobby was through. ‘Please!’ she begged. ‘Just one comment – you don’t know what a coup it’ll be for me to get you on the programme.’
She was black and pretty, just his style. He acquiesced.
Grinning, Bobby headed for the men’s room, where he was surprised to discover Seymour. Good old Seymour. King of the VIP men’s room when the Chainsaw was at its peak. ‘Hey – how’re y’doin’, man,’ he greeted him with genuine pleasure.
Seymour, well into his sixties now, bobbed his head respectfully. ‘’Evenin’, Mr Mondella. Anythin’ I kin do for you – just say – just say, sir. I’m here for you.’
The old man didn’t remember him. And indeed – why should he? They’d hardly ever spoken – Seymour was once the King upstairs, and Bobby had just been the fat boy catering to the masses down below. He liked the fact that Nichols had hired Seymour all these years later. It indicated a certain loyalty.
After relieving himself, he slipped the old man a hundred-dollar bill, remembering how Jefferson Lionacre had once done the same thing, handing him the money when he was at a particularly low point in his life. He’d never forget that night, and Jefferson Lionacre’s encouraging words: ‘Today the crapper — tomorrow the world.’ How right the famous singer had been.
‘Thank you kindly, Mr Mondella,’ said Seymour, bowing and scraping a touch too much.
Outside the men’s room lurked Pammy Booser, trying to appear casual. ‘Bobby,’ she greeted him cheerfully, as if they were old and dear friends. ‘Why don’t you an’ I take off somewhere for a private nightcap, just the two of us?’
What a cheap and obvious bimbo she was. ‘How about Nichols?’ he asked, curious to hear what she’d say.
‘Him,’ she spat scornfully. ‘He can get along without me for one night,’ Throwing Bobby a coy, come-hither look, she added, ‘Or longer . . . depending.’
Women! This was a real douche bag.
‘I was just thinkin’ about loyalty,’ he said. ‘Nichols has it, why don’t you learn it?’
When he got back to the table, Rocket – true to style – had vanished with the television interviewer.
‘He says he’ll call you tomorrow,’ Nichols guffawed. ‘What an operator!’
‘He always was,’ agreed Bobby.
‘Yeah, remember him and Sharleen? Look what happened to her,’ Nichols said, plunging into an ice cream sundae with double chocolate sauce. ‘Y’know somethin
’? The Chainsaw was like a breedin’ ground for raw talent. You – Rocket – Sharleen – me. What a team!’
Bobby nodded, although he could hardly remember them as one big happy team.
‘I guess I inspired everyone to get their act together,’ Nichols bragged, with a sigh of satisfaction.
‘You fired me,’ Bobby reminded him.
‘Naw.’
‘Sure you did. Short memory, Nichols?’
‘Naw. Whatever I did was for the best. Look at you today.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘Sharleen’s the one I remember,’ Nichols said, lasciviously licking his lips. ‘Now she was one juicy piece of ass. Man, I’ll never forget givin’ her the jism for three solid hours.’
Bobby went cold. ‘What?’
‘I screwed that sexy piece for longer than I ever did any broad before. Holy shit! My pecker needed a fire hydrant to cool it down!’
‘When?’ Bobby asked, quite sure the creep had to be lying.
‘When? How do I know? Back when she first came to work for me.’ Shovelling more ice cream into his mouth, he added, ‘She was always an ambitious little lady, that one. I knew she’d make it.’ Ice cream dribbled from his lower lip. ‘Now I can’t even get her on the phone. I wanted her to fly out for tonight, make it a proper reunion.’
The thought of Sharleen with Nichols Kline turned his stomach. He had no wish to hear any more. ‘Listen,’ he said, getting up. ‘Tonight was uh . . . interesting. But right now I gotta date with my pillow. I’m recording tomorrow.’
Nichols looked dismayed. ‘You’re leavin’? So early? The place hasn’t even started to jump yet.’
‘It’ll have to jump without me.’
Abandoning his sundae, Nichols rose also, grabbing Bobby’s right hand in both of his. ‘Baby, you’re a real friend. I appreciate you comin’ by tonight. An’ don’t be a stranger. Wendy!’ He signalled a tall waitress in a skin-tight silver lame catsuit. ‘Go to the front desk an’ bring me Mr Mondella’s membership card. Number one. Make sure it’s number one.’