Nova had always understood the game. Far better than anyone else. In her own peculiar way, Nova was the female equivalent of him – which was why they were irrevocably tied together, sexually and otherwise.
As far as Marcus was concerned, most women were dispensable. When they played their role correctly he kept them around. When they didn’t, he discarded them without a second thought.
Over the years Nova had come close, very close. But she’d always known when to draw the line.
Tonight was a testing time. He wanted to see if she had learned her lesson.
He had to make absolutely sure.
Kris Phoenix
1984
They were shooting the third video from his first solo album, Erotic, in the grounds of Novaroen, Marcus Citroen’s extravagent beach estate.
‘Bloody hell!’ Kris exclaimed. ‘This is some place!’
Doktor Head nodded his agreement.
‘I wouldn’t mind movin’ in,’ Kris joked.
‘Put in an offer.’
‘Ha ha!’
A trio of girls in extremely brief bikinis paraded past. They were extras, hired for background. Once Kris would have had them, one by one, but not now he was older and wiser and living in a world where AIDS was the killer everyone feared.
He sat back in his canvas chair with his name stencilled on it and merely watched.
Hi, Kris,’ one of them said boldly, with a cute little wave.
‘Hello, darlin’,’ he replied, even though he had no idea who she was.
‘Watch out,’ Doktor Head muttered. ‘Here comes the lady of the house. Make nice, she runs the show.’
Kris stood up. He had heard plenty about the alluring Mrs Citroen, and was interested in meeting her.
She walked briskly over, cool in linen slacks and a silk shirt, her white-blonde hair a startling constrast to her lightly tanned skiri.
‘Mr Phoenix,’ she said graciously. ‘What a pleasure to meet you. And belated congratulations on joining Blue Cadillac. I’ve just returned from Europe. Now that I’m back, I’d love to give a dinner for you.’
‘Sounds great.’
‘Tuesday?’ she questioned.
‘That’s good for me.’
Doktor Head rose also, a fierce sight with his wild mass of flaming red hair and messy beard. ‘Madame,’ he said politely. ‘I’m Doktor Head. The manager.’
She raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘Doktor . . . Head?’
‘A strange name, I know. Bestowed on me many moons ago. But fitting, I can assure you.’
Kris had never seen Doktor Head grovel before, and he tried not to laugh.
Nova didn’t seem to find him particularly amusing. Dismissing him with a perfunctory nod, she turned back to Kris. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘The Westwood Marquis.’
‘I’ll send a car for you. Seven-thirty on Tuesday. Casual. Will you have a young lady with you, or shall I arrange a selection?’
It sounded as if she were talking about a box of chocolates! ‘I’ll be alone,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘In that case I’ll put together an interesting group. Seven-thirty. Don’t forget. Oh, and please enjoy yourself today – if there is anything you need, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.’
She strolled over to talk to the director – a young hot-shot who knocked off videos in between making hugely successful feature films.
‘And what exactly am I? Chopped liver?’ demanded Doktor Head, twitching and winking overtime. ‘Why didn’t you tell her to invite me?’
‘Because I hardly reckoned it was your kind of deal.’
‘Oh, and I suppose it’s yours?’
‘I can go to a dinner party without you comin’ along to hold my hand, can’t I? It was bad enough when I had the whole mob to think about.’
The second assistant hurried over. ‘Mr Phoenix, we’re ready for you now.’
In just over a year he’d made it on his own. Thank God he’d listened when Mikki told him all that time ago to tag his name onto the front of The Wild Ones. When they split, everyone knew who he was, there was no great identity crisis. The other three had not been so lucky. Buzz was deported from America, and stormed back to England with Mikki in tow, where he’d eventually formed a new group called Mania. They’d disbanded after six months, and Buzz occasionally did gigs on his own.
Rasta was keeping a low profile while he fought his two paternity suits.
And Fingers had become a sort of underground cult figure.
The main problems had been sorting out the legal hassles involved with breaking up a successful group. Kris had taken Doktor Head’s advice and hired the best lawyers to look after his interests. Meanwhile, he’d gone to his house in France, with Bo, and an au-pair girl.
It was a soothing transition period. After all, he’d been twelve years on the road on and off, with hardly a break. During that time The Wild Ones had become public property, and their lives reflected that. Not to have any commitments was sheer bliss.
While Bo was staying with him they spent all their time together, swimming, going out on the powerful Riva he’d bought, snorkelling, and water skiing – which they both learned to do together. At the end of three weeks he felt a lot closer to his son, and more at peace with himself because of it. Then, like a fool, he shattered everything by inviting his mum to come for a visit.
‘Can I bring Brian and ’is family?’ she pleaded. The brothers were talking again since Bo’s accident.
‘Why?’
‘It’s all right fer you, lad. You’ve got everything. Brian ’asn’t. Brian packed in ’is job, ’e needs a holiday.’
Some holiday. Brian arrived, more pompous than ever, complete with Jennifer – who had turned into the stereotype of a nagging wife – and their two whining kids. He wasted no time in launching straight into his pitch. ‘I’ve left the bank, as you already know,’ he said imperiously. ‘And I’ve been thinking, now that you’re on your own, you need new management.’
‘I’m stickin’ with Doktor Head.’
‘No, no. You should have new representation. I’ve already decided to help you out.’
‘What are you talkin’ about?’
‘I’ll be your manager,’ Brian announced magnanimously.
Kris doubled over laughing. ‘You?’ he exploded with mirth. ‘Fuck me!’
‘Naturally,’ Brian said, ignoring his brother’s outburst, ‘it’s a sacrifice on my part. But I decided blood is blood. Who can run your affairs better than me?’
‘Jesus Christ! You’ve really flipped, haven’t you?’
‘Obviously I’ll need to learn a thing or two about the music business. But working in a bank for the last nine years, I certainly know how to deal with people.’
‘Leave it out, mate. I’ll bust a gut laughin’ if you keep this up.’
Brian was affronted because Kris didn’t jump at his offer. He complained to Avis, who in turn complained to her younger son. ‘If yer can’t give yer own bruvver a job, I don’t know what,’ she said huffily.
They accepted his hospitality for two weeks, and then returned to England. Not a moment too soon as far as he was concerned. He later heard from one of his sisters that Brian was claiming Kris had asked him to leave his job to come and work for him, and then changed his mind. Now he was the family villain. Charming!
Finally, when he got rid of everyone and was alone, he started to write, composing the words and music for several new songs.
Things were going well, so well that he wanted to share it with someone. One day he thought of Astrid, tracked her down and called her in Paris. ‘You still engaged?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘I need some pants.’
‘I’ll mail them to you. What colour?’
‘No good. I’ve put on a pound or two. I’ll have to get a fitting.’
‘Really?’
‘No kidding. I’m in the South of France, can you fly down?’
A long thoughtful pause. ‘Okay.’
‘I’ll send you a ticket. Bring a bikini.’
‘I can’t stay.’
‘Bring a bikini anyway. You’ve got time for a swim, haven’t you?’
She arrived for a day and spent the summer. They’d been together ever since. Right now she was in London keeping the Grosvenor Square flat warm, and overseeing the renovations to the country house he’d bought.
Astrid was a calming influence. It was nice to have someone to confide in and share things with. She was also a right little raver in bed – once he finally got her there.
The break-up of The Wild Ones made world-wide headlines and caused a lot of heartbreak for their legions of fans. Kris refused to give interviews or talk about it, and when intrepid reporters turned up on his doorstep in France they were turned away.
One weekend Doktor Head arrived with news of a solo deal he was negotiating with Blue Cadillac.
‘I don’t want to get caught into anything long-term,’ Kris warned. ‘Just make it for one album an’ I’ll see if I’m happy.’
He was happy. Erotic was his first album with Blue Cadillac, and it was a smash. Not only a huge commercial success, but critically acclaimed also.
Yes, Kris Phoenix was extremely happy indeed.
* * *
Nova Citroen’s dinner party took place at her Bel Air house, an enormous mansion with startling views and an army of servants to attend to the sixteen guests’ every need. Marcus was not in residence.
‘He’s in London,’ Nova explained, when Kris arrived. ‘Business, as usual.’
She introduced him around to a group that included two movie stars, a writer, a couple of important producers, the personal manager, Hawkins Lamont, and several gorgeous, apparently unattached blondes. When Nova Citroen said she’d arrange a selection, she knew what she was talking about.
One of the blondes, clad in a short leather dress, slinked over to him. ‘Hi,’ she said with a welcoming smile. ‘Didn’t we meet at Allan Carr’s last week?’
‘I was in London last week,’ he replied, wondering if the pushed-up tits were silicone or real.
‘Shame! Think of the fun we could’ve had!’
The leather dress – appealing as it was – put him off. It reminded him of Astrid, waiting patiently in London. They’d promised each other there would be no screwing around. It just wasn’t fair any more with all the diseases lurking about. Not that any of Nova’s guests looked disease-ridden, but that was the whole point – with AIDS you couldn’t notice a thing. Having sex with strangers nowadays was like playing Russian roulette.
Two handsome waiters served drinks while Nova flitted among her guests. Kris found himself making conversation with a man he had grown up watching on the movie screen. The man, once a matinee idol, now had yellowing teeth, grey hair, and a large paunch, but he was pleasant enough – especially when he started to carry on about how much he liked Kris’s music.
Funny, Kris had never considered he appealed to old people too.
Hang about, a little voice warned him. ‘What’s old? You’re bleedin’ thirty-five. ’
Christ! Thirty-five. He was getting up there. A nerve – wracking thought. In his mind he’d always imagined that when he reached forty he would quit. But forty was creeping closer every day, and he had no intention of going anywhere. Look at Mick Jagger – over forty and still prancing about like a teenager. And Rod Stewart – he had to be around the dreaded Four-O mark, not to mention Paul McCartney, Pete Townsend, and a whole slew of ageing rockers.
‘I think I need another drink,’ he said, grabbing a glass of champagne from a moving waiter.
Nova took him discreetly to one side before they went into the dining room for dinner. ‘I’ve put Hawkins Lamont on your right – he’s the most fascinating man, and certainly the right manager for you. Unfortunately he’s not taking on any new clients right now. But I felt you should meet him. Tell me, who would you like on your other side?’
‘You,’ he said, without thinking.
The shadow of a smile. ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’
Rafealla
1984
I fall in love too easily
I fall in love too fast,
I fall in love too terribly hard
For love to ever last.
As Rafealla sang the poignant Sammy Cahn and Julie Styne song, there was rapt silence in Julio’s, the small, discreet supper club she had begun to call her second home. Originally booked to appear once a week, she was now performing nightly, singing her particular blend of popular American classics set to a throbbing jazz/samba beat.
Clad in a simple white dress, her long hair loose around her exotically beautiful face, she sang of undefined yearnings and intoxicating passion. Her voice, low and smoky – filled with bittersweet sensuality.
After only a year of performing professionally, Rafealla was a hit. She had an appeal that struck home immediately, and whether she was singing in Portuguese – which she’d learned – or her native English, the Brazilians loved her.
Recently she’d been offered a recording contract, and a permanent singing spot on a popular television show. She could hardly believe it, everything seemed to have happened so fast.
Although Jorge gamely tried to pretend, he was not happy. He’d lost his would-be bride to a career, and it did not sit well with him. A month ago she’d moved out of his mansion, taking Jon Jon with her. ‘I can wait,’ he’d said bravely. ‘You’ll come back.’
Rafealla had shaken her head as she kissed him sadly. ‘It was never meant to be. You’ll find someone who loves you more than I ever can.’
She left behind her huge diamond ring, plus all the other gifts he’d lavished upon her. And once again she was by herself.
Jon Jon accepted the move without complaint. Now nearly seven, he combined the best physical qualities of both parents. Tall for his age, he had Rafealla’s deep olive skin and high cheekbones, along with Kris Phoenix’s intense blue eyes and spiky blond hair.
‘You’re such a good-looking kid,’ she told him every day, accompanied by a big hug. ‘How did I ever get so lucky?’
‘’Cos you got me, me, me!’ he yelled happily.
Yes. She had Jon Jon. And a career. And an agent/manager – Tinto Reuben – who looked after her well. Life was pretty good.
Once a week her mother phoned from England. ‘When are you coming to visit, dear?’
‘Soon,’ Rafealla replied dutifully.
They had the same conversation every time. Rafealla didn’t want to go home. Going back would only remind her of Eddie Mafair, and God forbid he should try to see Jon Jon, although up until now he’d made no attempt. Odile had bumped into him at Annabel’s one night, and apparently he hadn’t asked after either of them. Great! She couldn’t be happier. Hopefully she would never have to set eyes on him again.
Her manager was waiting when she finished her set. Tinto Reuben was a short, jolly man of fifty, with chubby cheeks and a chipmunk grin. He had been recommended by her singing coach, and they’d hit it off at once. Tinto was married with seven children. He’d once been a singer himself, and understood the business thoroughly. No big-time agent, he was well respected and liked, with a middle-of-the-road client list. Rafealla, he knew, was on the verge of making it in a big way. When she first came to him the beautiful young girl had everything except experience. Now, a year later, she was ready for anything.
‘What’s up, Tinto?’ she asked, lighting a cigarette as she sat down.
‘You smoke too much,’ he scolded.
‘I’ve got to have one bad habit,’ she laughed. ‘It’s a hangover from my school days when smoking was the most decadent pursuit around.’
Tinto smiled. He had good news. ‘Next week there’s a very special song festival in São Paulo. You are invited to appear.’
Her face lit up. ‘I am?’
‘It’s an honour.’
‘Why me?’
‘You’re b
ecoming popular, my dear.’
‘I love it!’
‘Wait. This is only the beginning.’
* * *
São Paulo was a lovely city. Flying in at noon, Rafealla gazed out of the window of the aeroplane absorbing the panoramic view spread out below.
‘You’ve never been here before?’ Tinto asked.
‘I’ve always wanted to.’
‘My wife was born here. She tried to come with us – not so easy with seven children to look after, eh?’
‘Plus one of mine.’
‘She loves having Jon Jon to stay. Maria is mother earth.’ He beamed, a contented man.
After checking into the hotel they were due to go over to the rehearsal hall and meet Rafealla’s backup musicians. She preferred the minimum of help. Just guitar and keyboard, sometimes a touch of percussion. Originally she’d asked if she could bring the musicians she usually worked with, but Tinto thought the cost too prohibitive to fly them in for one night’s performance.
The weather was hot and sultry. Arranging her long hair in a thick braid, she put on loose cotton pants and a sizes-too-big tee-shirt. Tinto was clad in his usual pale pink suit – he had several of them – and a brown shirt that strained across his protruding stomach.
‘Tell you what,’ Rafealla said as they entered the rehearsal hall. ‘You give up eating and I’ll stop smoking.’
‘You have a deal!’
‘When?’
‘When what?’
‘When are you going to start dieting?’
‘After Christmas.’
‘That’s eight months away!’
Innocently he said, ‘Really?’
Shaking her head she couldn’t help smiling.
Tinto introduced her to several of the organizers of the festival. She made polite chat about nothing much at all, until a svelte woman dressed in red said, ‘Ah, here come your backup musicians – Carlos Pinafida on the piano, and Luiz Oliveira, guitar. Luiz is a very talented young man. He has a wonderful style. Later in the concert he will be performing his own composition – ‘English Girl’. He’s very popular locally.’