Rock Star

  Thoughts flashed through his head. Nova. Was she all right? If they’d hurt her he’d fucking kill them.

  They were trying to propel him forward – kicking, thrashing. A heavy object crashed down on his head, his skull exploded, lights flashed. So it was true – you did see stars.

  Jesus, blood was trickling down his face, and so was something else. He could smell liquor.

  What the fuck did they want? They were half dragging him now, across the thick pile carpet, over towards the balcony.

  Terror swept over him.

  They were going to throw him over the fucking balcony.

  They were going to kill him.

  Jesus!

  JESUS!

  He screamed, but it was too late. He was falling . . . falling in space . . . falling . . .

  It was all over.

  Los Angeles

  Saturday, July 11, 1987

  The parade of Rolls-Royces, Mercedes, chauffeur-driven limousines, and other expensive automobiles arriving at the Citroen beach estate was impressive. Each car was stopped at the point of entry while the occupants were identified and checked off a master list. Then a numbered sticker was attached to the windshield, and the driver was allowed to take his party up to the main house, where they were dropped off. After that the chauffeur drove the car back to an allocated parking lot five minutes away. When the guests were ready to leave, their car would be summoned by number.

  Several parking valets were in charge of this operation, making sure that everything ran smoothly and there were no traffic jams.

  The guests then went through a second security procedure as they entered the reception hall of the main house. Their names were double-checked on another list, and then they were escorted outside to the tented tennis court area, where the party really began.

  Hawkins Lamont circulated in his immaculate dinner suit with the white silk jacket – specially tailored for him in Hong Kong. Cybil Wilde was by his side, not really dressed for the occasion, but it didn’t matter. Cybil was so stunningly pretty that nobody noticed what she was wearing. Hawkihs had no objections to squiring her for the cocktail hour – she made a delightful accessory.

  ‘Take her out there, for chrissakes’, Kris had grumbled. ‘She’s gettin’ on my nerves.’

  Hawkins obliged. That was what a personal manager was for, wasn’t it? To take care of all the things the star couldn’t be bothered to deal with himself. Including girlfriends.

  With a wry smile Hawkins wondered if perhaps Kris might like him to make love to her too. He would not oblige on that score. Hawkins liked to be seen with pretty girls. He even liked to watch them play together. But he didn’t care to take them to bed. He’d lost interest in sex when he discovered business. Money, it turned out, was the greatest satisfaction of all.

  ‘This is fantastic!’ Cybil enthused. ‘Have you seen who’s here! I think I’ve spotted my favourite Italian movie star.’

  ‘Yes, it’s quite a group,’ agreed Hawkins. ‘Leave it to Nova and they turn out in force.’

  ‘Did these people really pay one hundred thousand dollars a couple?’ Cybil gasped.

  ‘It’s only money,’ Hawkins replied sensibly. ‘They can afford it. And if the Governor ever makes it to the White House, he’ll owe them all a seat at his dinner table.’

  ‘Wow! I’d love to meet him. Then he can owe me a seat too!’

  ‘I’m sure Governor Highland wouldn’t mind meeting you,’ Hawkins replied, knowing full well the Governor would adore to be introduced to a luscious California blonde who was just his type – breathing. ‘Come,’ He offered his arm. ‘Let us go and find the gentleman.’

  * * *

  Alone at last, Kris brooded about Cyndi Lou Planter, the moonfaced English journalist, and her dumb questions. Why did he let reporters bother him? Why did he waste his time burdening himself with negative thoughts?

  Kris Phoenix was at the top. Naturally everyone wanted to drag him down. It was only human nature . . .

  * * *

  Maxwell Sicily passed among the illustrious guests, his tray held aloft, bearing small squares of pizza covered in smoked salmon and golden caviar – the chic L.A. snack. Bejewelled fingers grabbed. Thick hairy wrists wrapped with ten-thousand-dollar watches propelled bony hands in the right direction.

  He hadn’t even gotten half-way round before his tray was empty. With a purposeful step he returned to the supply bar and picked up a fresh load of hors d’oeuvres. This time he was given tiny crab-cakes with a dipping sauce.

  ‘How delicious!’ exclaimed a fat woman in a pink satin ballgown, grabbing two. She stuffed one in her mouth, dipping the second one in the red, zesty sauce. Maxwell observed a splodge of the stuff fall upon her ample bosom as the crab-cake vanished into her mouth. Too bad.

  He moved away, listening to fragments of conversation, checking out the lavish jewellery. Why did party guests treat waiters as if they didn’t exist? Hands grabbed, eyes rarely met, and a thank you was out of the question. Fucking rich parasites.

  Fortunately he didn’t have to do this for a living. Thank God he was smarter than everyone at this party put together.

  Maxwell Sicily was one of life’s winners. By the end of the night he was going to be richer than all of them.

  * * *

  Marcus Citroen’s voice on the phone was commanding. ‘Rafealla?’

  ‘Yes, Marcus.’

  ‘I wish to see you after the concert.’

  ‘Surely you’ll be busy with your guests?’

  ‘Kris Phoenix will appear after you. And then there’ll be speeches and the auction. We’ll have plenty of time. When you finish, you will return to your room. Get rid of the publicity girl and anyone else hanging around. I will see you then. Alone. Do you understand?’

  A feeling of dread swept over her. But there was a price, and she had promised to pay it. ‘Yes, Marcus.’

  * * *

  Racing down San Vicente towards the beach, Speed glanced at the clock on the dashboard. He was running late. Jeeze! His freakin’ luck.

  He put his foot down hard, and the sleek limousine surged forward, overtaking a yellow Porsche with a blonde driving. He slowed down just long enough to check her out in his rear-view mirror.

  Hot! A blonde in a Porsche. His kind of babe!

  He hit the accelerator again, and the big limo sped down the highway.

  If only I could make it with a fox the way I make it with a car, Speed daydreamed, any broad would be in freakin’ sex heaven! Take Sugarbush, his ex-wife. That barracuda didn’t break balls, she crushed them in a blender and drank ’em for freakin’ breakfast!

  Sugarbush. What a flashy cooze-machine she was, with her zoomer tits and bright red hair – pussy hair too, because she dyed it down there. Every guy who eyeballed her – and they all did – tried to give her a roll:

  The trouble was – she let ’em. Which is why he’d dumped her one steamy Vegas night with ten thousand winnings in his pocket and a stacked blonde on each arm.

  Unfortunately the bucks didn’t last, nor did the blondes.

  Thinking of his ex always jerked his blood pressure way up. Sugarbush was something else – she gave hookers a bad name.

  Jamming his foot down, he shot through an amber light.

  A police vehicle swept out of a side street, settled in behind him, and began to flash its lights.

  Holy shit! What was this? Rent-a-cop city? They were freakin’ everywhere.

  Reluctantly he pulled over to the side.

  * * *

  Bobby Mondella paced around the room. He had a headache, a throbbing, skull-shattering ache driving him crazy. Damn Nova Citroen. Damn her! She thought she could walk back into his life as if everything was still the same. As if Rio had never happened.

  Well, she was wrong. He was no longer her own personal sex-machine. As far as he was concerned, he couldn’t care less if he never spoke to her again.

  * * *

  Vicki made sure they were each settl
ed in their rooms, the three celebrities. Big deal. A famous person was no different from anyone else. They went to the bathroom, didn’t they? Just like the masses.

  Vicki was not awe-struck by any means. She’d had a few famous ones in her time. Well, not exactly world-wide famous – more like an L.A. disc jockey with pimples on his ass and a rubber fetish. Also a very rich Hollywood realtor who claimed to know absolutely everybody. Oh yeah, and she’d once had a Senator from the East who was staying at a local Holiday Inn. At least he’d said he was a Senator. He’d made her get down on her knees and pledge allegiance to the flag, and then he’d made her pledge allegiance to something he obviously considered far more important.

  Men! What a bunch! And yet she had to admit she loved ’em – they were so goddamn easy! Tom was the perfect example. She’d had his balls in an uproar with just one glance.

  She looked around, making sure nobody was observing her as she slid into the unoccupied guest suite. Opening the closet, she checked that everything was in position – the empty Vuitton bag she had placed there yesterday, and Maxwell’s small holdall, pushed out of sight. Everything was in place.

  With a quick glance in the mirror, she made a few adjustments to her personal appearance. Oh, was she going to be happy to shed the godawful maid’s uniform she’d been forced to wear for six long weeks.

  Quickly she undid a few buttons, hiked the skirt shorter, fluffed out her hair, and applied a liberal amount of jammy red lipstick.

  ‘That’s better, sweetie-bird,’ she murmured to herself.

  It was almost show time, the props were all in place and she couldn’t wait.

  * * *

  Marcus Citroen caught the eye of his wife as she moved graciously among her guests. An impressive woman, Nova Citroen. Elegant, assured, the perfect partner. He’d made the right choice when he’d picked her, although it had meant taking a very calculated risk, and it could have backfired – badly.

  In all their years of marriage there had only been one dangerous period, a time he preferred to forget. But he had dealt with it, just as he’d dealt with everything else in his life. Expertly.

  Marcus Citroen knew exactly when to be ruthless. Nobody crossed him. Nobody dared.

  Kris Phoenix

  1986

  The girl on the television commercial had big blue eyes, a wide smile complete with all-American teeth, a pert nose, cascades of pale honey-gold hair, and a sensational body.

  ‘I want to meet her,’ Kris Phoenix said. ‘Find out who she is.’

  That didn’t take much doing. She was Cybil Wilde – a hot new model, with a Christie Brinkley/Cheryl Tiegs future.

  She was in New York. Kris was in L.A.

  ‘Fly her in,’ Kris said.

  She said ‘Thank you, but no thank you.’

  ‘I want her for the cover of my new album,’ Kris said.

  He was told she was very expensive. Three times the price of an ordinary model.

  ‘Fuck it. Pay her,’ Kris said.

  A photo shoot was arranged, and Cybil Wilde flew into L.A. Kris made sure there was a limousine to meet her at the airport, filled with white roses. And a note from him asking her to join him for dinner. He also made sure the record company paid.

  She had her mother phone him to make an excuse. Her mother! It turned out she was a California girl who’d migrated to New York, and her family still lived quite comfortably in Encino.

  Kris decided he wanted her before they even met. Astrid was settled in England – she hated America and what she referred to as the rock and roll circus. He was perfectly happy with Astrid, but he needed a woman in America, and from the moment he spotted Cybil in her TV commercial – which incidentally was for yoghurt – he knew she was the right girl.

  One of his minions was put in charge of compiling a dossier on her. The night before the photo shoot he sat in bed and studied it.

  THE CYBIL WILDE FACT SHEET

  Age: 18

  Height: 5´ 9”

  Measurements: 36, 22, 36

  Hair colour: Honey-blonde

  Weight: 120 pounds

  Eye colour: Cornflower blue

  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.?’

  * * *

&nb
sp; 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?