‘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.
‘So he’s tellin’ you now,’ Mikki said, glaring at him fiercely.
‘Yeah, man,’ Buzz agreed, all stoned, bloodshot eyes and snake hips, his dirty black hair pulled back into a scruffy pony-tail. ‘I’m tellin’ yer now.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ Kris said sarcastically. ‘The Wild Ones are breakin’ up after fourteen years together, and you’re lettin’ me know as an afterthought. Very nice.’
‘The Wild Ones don’t have to break up if Buzz decides to do other projects as well,’ Doktor Head said, still trying to keep the peace.
‘Aw, shit, leave it out,’ Kris said disgustedly. ‘It’s over, man. Me and Buzz started the group, an’ if he wants to go, it’s all right with me.’ Shaking his head he added, ‘I’m tired of pickin’ up after him anyway. Mikki, baby, he’s all yours.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Doktor Head said quickly. ‘The new album comes out in a few weeks. We have four live shows to do in Australia next month, and there’s the video we have to finish. Oh yes, and another album commitment to Nichols Hit City. He can’t walk.’
‘He can do what he wants,’ Mikki said grandly. ‘Del Delgardo did when he left the Nightmares.’
‘I don’t give a fuck about Del Delgardo,’ Doktor Head said, getting forceful. ‘Buzz has commitments, and if he doesn’t care to keep them, he’ll get the ass sued off him. Is that what he wants?’
‘I’ll finish the friggin’ video,’ Buzz mumbled. ‘An’ the Australian dates, but that’s it. After Australia I’m gone. Use someone else on the album. I don’t give a frig.’
‘You can work everything out with me,’ Mikki said, very business-like, shooting Kris a spiteful look. ‘I’m his new manager.’
After that, Kris and Buzz went out of their way to ignore each other. For years Kris had been trying to save his friend from himself. It was no good. Buzz was on a path to destruction, and now he had the perfect partner.
Early one evening Doktor Head arrived at the hotel with a pretty Danish girl. He introduced her to Kris as Astrid. ‘She makes the best leather pants in the world’, he said. ‘You’ll love her work – especially the way you jump around on stage. I’m going next door, I’ll be back in a minute.’
Kris was used to male designers, and Astrid looked too young to know what she was doing anyway. Lounging on the sofa, he said, ‘I don’t need anything, luv. But hang about, we’ll have dinner.’
‘No, thank you,’ she replied, with only the trace of an accent. ‘I have another engagement.’
He was surprised. ‘No thank you’ was a phrase he never heard. ‘Break it,’ he said, testing her.
She smiled. ‘I can’t. It’s with my fiancé, and I don’t think he’d understand.’
A turn-down! A genuine turn-down! This was interesting.
‘Maybe I will have some pants made,’ he said lazily. ‘What d’you suggest?’
She was pretty in the way that only Scandinavian girls can be. Clear-skinned, with a smattering of light freckles. Wide grey eyes. A snub nose, and long, straight flaxen hair.
He noticed, beneath the pale blue tracksuit she had on, promising breasts, a small waist, and exceptionally long legs. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Approaching the back of the sofa, she asked, Do you like leather?’
He gave her a shot of the Phoenix intense blue-eyed gaze, and said, ‘Only if it’s very soft, luv. Know what I mean?’
She knew what he meant all right, but she chose to ignore his double entendre. Opening her sizeable purse, she produced a swatch of different colours. ‘The pale beige is nice. This particular leather is very comfortable to wear.’
Fingering the material he wondered if she’d agree to a quick medical check.
‘Maybe the orange,’ she pressed. ‘Or is it too hot for you?’
Was she, in her own not-so-subtle way, coming on to him?
‘Nothin’s too hot for me, darlin’,’ he said, grabbing her – and tumbling her over the top of the sofa. Scandinavian lips were hot lips, everyone knew that. Grabbing a tit he tried to kiss her.
‘What are you doing!’ she yelled indignantly, pushing him off and standing up. ‘How dare you! I’m not one of your groupies.’ Snatching up her swatch of materials, cheeks red with genuine anger, she stalked to the door, opened it and slammed out.
Kris felt like a fool. When Doktor Head reappeared he said, ‘What was she all about?’
‘Who?’ Doktor Head asked vaguely.
‘The Danish bit.’
‘Oh, Astrid. She’s the greatest. You’ll be very pleased.’
‘With what?’
The pants she designs for you. When Michael Hollywood was alive she made all his stuff. He swore by her.’
‘You mean she really makes things?’
‘Yes.’ Doktor Head began to laugh. ‘You didn’t come on to her, did you?’
‘Why would I do that?’ Kris asked sarcastically. ‘You parade her in here – a blonde with a body – an’ then you piss off. What was I supposed to do, play chess?’
‘Berk! You were supposed to order some pants.’
He did. He ordered in every colour of the soft leather she’d shown him. And he sent her twelve dozen yellow roses along with a pair of trousers he wanted copied.
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An assistant delivered the finished goods in three days with a hefty bill. Twelve pairs of perfect leather pants.
Before he could decide what to do about Astrid, he was summoned to London. His son had been in a car accident, and was in the hospital. They didn’t think he would live.
Rafealla
1983
After her divorce from Eddie Mafair was final, Rafealla still refused to marry Jorge, but she did – eventually – move in with him. The pressures of being a young and beautiful girl in a big city with a small child to look after finally got to her. She didn’t need his money, but she did need his protection. Besides, it suited her. After Luiz, she had decided there was no future with anyone else. The most painful thing of all was that she’d never heard from him again. Two years of silence. What was it with her and men? Did she turn them off to such an extent that after they slept with her, they never wanted to see her again?’
Jorge didn’t feel that way. Jorge couldn’t get enough.
Odile was disapproving. ‘If you’re sleeping with him anyway, why don’t you get married?’
‘Because I don’t ever want to be tied to a man again,’ she explained. ‘I need to be free.’
‘Why?’
With a shrug she said, ‘Who knows? Just to ride the rainbow without anyone stopping me.’
‘You’re crazy.’ Odile shook her head.
‘I know,’ Rafealla replied, perfectly happy.
She had taken up singing again, and that pleased her. Twice a week her voice coach, a stout Viennese woman, arrived at Jorge’s mansion to put her through a vigorous routine. She loved the discipline and the pleasure. Singing was her joy. Having given up her job in the art gallery, she now spent the rest of her days shopping, going to the beach, lunching with Odile, and playing with Jon Jon – a sturdy six-year-old with a tough, stubborn streak. In the evening there were numerous parties and social events to attend with Jorge. He enjoyed entertaining, and was a gracious host.
‘You’re only twenty-three,’ Odile said to her after one of Jorge’s dinner parties. ‘Why are you mixing with all these old people? You’d better watch out or you’ll turn into one of them.’