Rock Star (17 page)

Kris had made that little speech three months ago, and he meant every word of it. He was twenty-six years old, getting up there. The dreaded thirty was only four years away and he was determined to make it before then. The Wild Ones were good and he knew it. God! He wanted success so much he could taste it in the back of his throat every morning when he got up, and every evening when he went to sleep.

The baby’s crying increased. Gingerly he picked the infant up, cradling it awkwardly. Holding the baby reminded him that since giving birth, Willow did not like to make love. She just lay there, a stone slab with all the enthusiasm of a deceased fish.

Miraculously Bo stopped crying, and gurgled happily, Kris carried his son over to the table, laying him on a dean towel. Removing the baby’s nappy he stared down at the Phoenix crown jewels. It certainly looked as if Baby Bo had a major inheritance coming his way.

Kris grinned, just as a steady stream of pee hit him straight in the left eye.

*    *    *

‘I don’t know,’ Willow said, a worried frown creasing her brow. ‘What about germs, and the water, and all that heat?’

Kris had just suggested a welcome family holiday in Ibiza with Buzz and Flower, and she was moaning about germs and heat. She was lucky he was even considering taking her and the baby. The smart thing would be to leave them behind while he talked Buzz into rejoining the group. The time had come for The Wild Ones to get back together. He’d already contacted Rasta, who was raring to go. And Ollie waited impatiently on red alert. They had a stash of dynamite songs, and Kris had no doubts that this time around it was all going to happen. All he needed was Buzz.

He had not, as yet, given the good news to Mr Terence. He wanted to be sure of Buzz first, and he knew the best way to hook the lazy layabout was to tell him face-to-face.

The holiday idea seemed perfect. There were cheap flights to Ibiza, and Buzz had said they could stay with him and Flower anytime they wanted. Kris had thought Willow would be delighted. No such luck.

‘C’mon, luv,’ he wheedled. ‘It’ll be fun.’

‘For
you
,’ she said, with a toss of her head. ‘
I’ll
be looking after the baby the whole time.’

‘We’ll share.’

‘You say that now, but I
know
you.’

‘No, you don’t.’ He grabbed her playfully around the waist. Lately he was feeling randy all the time. Maybe it was because Willow tried to limit their sexual adventures to once a week, which was about six times too little for him. Before he was married he’d had sex every day. Wasn’t marriage supposed to improve things?

Sliding his hand up, he cupped her right breast.

She tried to wriggle free, but his grip on her waist was firm.

‘Stop it, Kris,’ she scolded.

‘Why? We’re a respectable old married couple,’ he said, hand diving beneath her blouse, burrowing under her bra like a mole.

‘I said stop it,’ she repeated, her voice developing an annoying whiny quality. ‘It’s the middle of the afternoon.’

He was on a mission and had no intention of coming back to earth until mission accomplished. Pulling her reluctant hand down to his hard-on he said. ‘Feel this. I don’t care
what
the fucking time is.’

‘Don’t swear.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s coarse.’

‘So am I. You didn’t marry the bleedin’ Prince of Wales, y’know.’

Roughly he pulled her blouse open and unhooked her bra, as she stood motionless in the centre of the room like a martyr about to be sacrificed.

He didn’t care. He was beyond caring. He was too busy deciding whether to suck on one of her deliciously inviting tits, or go for the goal in one.

The boobs triumphed. It was more fun for him if she enjoyed it too, and he’d noticed she was never averse to a certain amount of stroking and caressing in that area.

And so they both stood there, Kris carefully working her up to the great moment.

Finally she gave in, sinking to the floor with a small moan of acceptance.

Pulling her panties down he zeroed in for the home rum. It was quick but ultimately satisfying.

‘We’re going to Ibiza,’ he said firmly. Pack your bags an’ count on it. Okay, luv?’

Rafealla

1975

‘Remember when you tried to kill yourself?’ Odile Ronet asked matter-of-factly. Like Rafealla she was bilingual, and spoke perfect English without a trace of her French accent.

‘Remember when
you
tried to do
yourself
in?’ Rafealla retorted sharply.

‘Hmmm . . .’ Odile replied with a reflective shrug. ‘Neither of us did much of a job, did we?’

‘Thank goodness!’ exclaimed Rafealla.

‘It certainly would have been a waste,’ stated Odile, admiring her slim figure in the full-length mirror.

Odile was visiting from Paris. Since she and Rafealla had been living in different countries they had spent nearly every summer together, usually dividing their time between their two families. Odile’s mother, Isabella, had also remarried.

‘Yes,’ agreed Rafealla, standing beside her best friend so they could compare reflections.

Two fifteen-year-old girls on the threshold of adventure. Both long-legged and coltish. Both attractive promises of things to come. But there the resemblance ended. Rafealla was dark, Odile fair. Rafealla’s looks were strikingly unusual. Odile had a simple prettiness.

Best friends and not a secret between them. They shared more than friendship, they shared a tragedy that would never go away.

‘My breasts are bigger than yours,’ Odile announced, sticking her chest out to get the best effect.

‘No they’re not,’ protested Rafealla vehemently.

‘They certainly are.’

‘Certainly
not
.’

‘See.’ Odile raised her sweater, exposing firm, small breasts without the hindrance of a bra.

‘Ha!’ exclaimed Rafealla, opening her shirt. ‘Look at these.’

‘Fabulous!’ exclaimed a male voice from the doorway. ‘Utterly fabulous!’

‘Rupert – you little shit,’ she screamed, pulling her shirt closed, while just as quickly Odile dragged her sweater down. ‘I’ve told you never to come into my room without knocking.
Never
!’

‘The door was ajar,’ Rupert Egerton, son and heir of Cyrus, Lord Egerton – the newspaper magnate – pointed out.

‘So what?’ yelled Rafealla furiously. ‘So bloody what?’

‘Hmmm . . . And what are you two doing anyway, comparing each other’s thingies? Couple of lesbos, I bet.’

‘Fuck off, Egerton.’

‘I will not.’ Rupert sat himself down on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m bored.’

At nineteen, Rupert was an amiable, younger mirror-image of his father, and his grandfather, and his great grandfather before him. Ancient portraits decorated the halls of Egerton Castle. There was no mistaking Rupert’s heritage. He was tall and gangly, with a shock of bright-red hair, hundreds of freckles on parchment-white skin, and pointed patrician features. The only thing he hadn’t inherited was the Egerton family stammer.

When Rafealla’s mother, Anna, had married Rupert’s father, Cyrus, Rafealla had thought she would die. For one whole year she’d refused to acknowledge Rupert’s existence – until one day, while out riding in the grounds of Egerton Castle, Rupert had sneaked up behind her on his horse, startled her, and made her mount rear into the air, causing her to be thrown to the muddy ground. ‘I hate you!’ she’d yelled. ‘You stupid, freckly dumb
boy
!’

‘And the same goes for me, missy,’ he’d yelled back. ‘You’re a stuck-up, conceited wog brat. I wish you’d never come here.’

Rafealla had burst into tears. She was thirteen and he was a big bully of seventeen. It had never occurred to her that he didn’t want her around either.

After that little incident they began to talk to each other, grudgingly at first, but soon they found they had certain things in common – like riding, and jazz records, and a hatred of Cook’s pot pies. One night they sat together in the empty ballroom and began to speak about their outrage and hurt at losing a parent. Rupert’s mother had drowned in a boating accident when he was seven – exactly the same age as Rafealla when she lost her father to a terrorist’s bomb.

Suddenly they were close, and from that moment on Rafealla loved her stepbrother as if he was the real thing. Of course, like the real thing, he could be an absolute pain, and today was one of those days.

‘Rupert,’ Rafealla said briskly, ‘I don’t
care
if you’re bored, I really don’t. Odile and I hardly ever see each other, so will you kindly go and be bored elsewhere.’

‘Yes,’ Odile agreed. ‘Why don’t you run away and read the
National Geographic
?’

‘Nobody reads that anymore. Not when you can see human, white – well, almost white – bosoms at home.’

‘Fuck off, Egerton,’ Rafealla repeated, with a finger gesture to match the phrase.

‘Hmm . . . just when I thought I might treat you two young ladies to a night on the town in London,’ he said casually, getting up and wandering towards the door. ‘Of course – if you want me to leave . . .’ He trailed off, waiting for their response.

‘Really?’ asked Rafealla suspiciously. She wouldn’t put it past him to dangle the carrot and then withdraw it at the last moment.

‘I don’t offer idle invitations,’ he said, quite affronted.

‘Yes you do,’ Rafealla contradicted him.

‘I most certainly do not.’

‘Children!’ interrupted Odile. ‘Let us not waste precious time arguing. A night in London sounds divine. The answer is yes, Rupert. Yes, Yes.
Yes.
’

*    *    *

Rafealla loved going to London, although it was usually during the day with her mother. They always lunched at Harrods, shopped around Knightsbridge, and then devoured a delicious tea at Fortnum and Mason. Sometimes Lord Egerton drove in to meet them, and they dined at his favourite restaurant, Wheeler’s, in Old Compton Street, where Rafealla always ordered the crab salad.

Once or twice she had played truant from school, taken the train and visited London with a girlfriend. They’d walked up and down the King’s Road admiring the fashion parade of punks – with their purple and green spiked hair, bizarre makeup, and outlandish dress. And Sloane Rangers – the properly brought-up daughters of well-bred and affluent parents – clad in twin-sets, pearls, and sensible Gucci shoes.

After watching the fashion parade they’d spend hours looking through the record albums in W. H. Smith before going home.

Rupert’s London was different altogether. He took them to San Lorenzo, an Italian restaurant in fashionable Beauchamp Place, where he seemed to know almost everyone.

Mara, the warm proprietress, chucked him lovingly under the chin. ‘You like ’em young, Rupert, huh?’ she asked with a wicked twinkle.

‘This is my
sister
, Mara,’ he said-reproachfully. ‘Rafealla, say hello to the great Mara. She runs this place with an iron fist. We’re all terrified of her.’

Shyly Rafealla shook hands.

‘Your
sister
, Egerton,’ said a tall young man with a sly smile. ‘Since when did
you
have a sister?’

‘Since my father remarried,’ Rupert replied. ‘Rafealla – meet Eddie Mafair – he’s a pain in the backside and rolling in filthy lucre. And Eddie – this is Odile Ronet. Hands off. One day I’m going to marry this girl.’

Rafealla and Odile exchanged amazed glances.

‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Rupert said casually, winking at Odile. ‘Must have slipped my mind – thought I did.’

They dined on mushroom salad and fresh pasta with shrimp, followed by a wonderful creamy dessert concoction called
zabaglione.
Rafealla spotted two Hollywood movie stars, a world-renowned tennis player, several English actors, and Del Delgardo – lead singer with the Nightmares.

‘I think I’m dreaming!’ she whispered to Odile. ‘Isn’t Del Delgardo
gorgeous
?’

‘Ugly,’ replied Odile with a pantomimed shudder. ‘Those teeth!’

‘Who cares about his teeth. Everything else is perfect!’

‘How do
you
know?’

‘I can dream, can’t I?’

Pulling a face, Odile said, ‘He’s old. He must be at least thirty.’

‘That’s not old.’

‘One foot in the grave, my dear.’

Sometimes even best friends got on one’s nerves. Rafealla shot Odile a dirty look.

After dinner Eddie Mafair reappeared and hovered by their table. ‘We’re all going to Annabel’s,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come with us?’

‘Can we?’ Rafealla and Odile questioned in unison, turning hopefully to Rupert.

‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head vaguely. ‘I suppose I should drive you girls home.’

‘Why?’ Rafealla asked anxiously. She thought Eddie most attractive, and could imagine nothing better than spending the rest of the evening with him. ‘My mother and your father are away this weekend. There’s nobody waiting up for us.’

‘True,’ he said.

‘Well?’ the two girls demanded.

‘All right,’ he decided. ‘But you’ll both have to chip in on the bill, I’m not made of bloody money.’

Annabel’s presented a world Rafealla hadn’t seen before. It was a sophisticated nightclub, with music courtesy of The Beatles, David Bowie, Aretha Franklin, Jefferson Lionacre, Gary Glitter, Olivia Newton-John, Del Delgardo and the Nightmares – a mixed group – whose records blared forth from loudspeakers stationed above an overpacked dance floor.

‘Ohhh! I love discotheques,’ Odile exclaimed, with a delighted smile. ‘I’ve been to Le Club in Paris, you know. My mother took me there for my fifteenth birthday.’

Rupert raised his eyebrows as if he’d only just realized how young they were. ‘For God’s sake,’ he hissed. ‘If anyone asks, you’re both eighteen.’

‘Yes, Rupert,’ Odile said obediently.

‘And
I’m
twenty-one,’ he added, a trifle sheepishly.

Rafealla nodded, her eyes darting all over the place. ‘How old is Eddie?’ she asked innocently.

‘Too old for you,’ he snapped.

They joined Eddie Mafair and a group of his friends. The girls at the table all resembled the Sloane Rangers Rafealla had spotted strolling in Knightsbridge and the King’s Road. She was glad she’d chosen to wear a short black skirt and white turtleneck sweater – at least she looked different, and certainly older than fifteen.