Rock Star (29 page)

Bobby wore an immaculate white suit, while Rocket looked suitably scruffy in creased chinos and a workshirt.

‘The odd couple,’ Nichols said, greeting them both at the entrance of his new club with overly familiar hugs.

Settling them at his own table, where there was champagne, caviar and plenty of pretty women on tap, he gripped Bobby by the arm. ‘I gotta talk to you, it’s important,’ he said, nose twitching with the smell of money. ‘Hear me out, Bobby baby, ’cos this’ll make us
both
billionaires. You can count on it, my man. Have I got a deal for you! Infuckin’
credible!’

Kris Phoneix

1979

Doktor Head was a flamboyant character. In his mid-thirties, he was six feet four inches tall and portly, with wild, shoulder-length, flaming red hair, an out-of-control beard, permanently bloodshot eyes, and a crazed facial tic which gave one the impression that every few minutes he was winking obscenely.

An American citizen, he had lived and worked in England for ten years, originally coming over with Nellie and the Knockers, an all-girl group whom he had managed for three rambunctious years. When Nellie decided to become a nun and the group disbanded, he’d taken over the career of Michael Hollywood, a young solo artist. Under Doktor Head’s management, Michael Hollywood became very big very quickly – and for several years the unlikely combination of the laid-back young singer and his outrageous manager flourished.

Michael Hollywood was killed in a plane crash in 1974, at the peak of his career. Doktor Head never forgave himself for not being on the plane. He went on a four-year rampage of drugs and booze, and when he walked into the audition hall for The Wild Ones, with his new discovery – a female keyboard player whom he’d named Fingers – he’d been straight for exactly five weeks.

Kris, grabbing a can of Coca-Cola from a machine in the back, noticed the odd duo first. Thinking that Doktor Head was the one preparing, to audition, he figured he’d do him a favour and tell him to forget it.

‘Hello, mate,’ he said casually.

Doktor Head fixed him with alarmingly bloodshot eyes. ‘Where can I take a piss?’ he demanded.

Kris was tired. It had been a long day, and not one of the people who’d auditioned were up to par. ‘I dunno,’ he said irritably.

‘In that case,’ Doktor Head replied grandly, with an un-preventable wink, ‘I’ll give this plant the gift of life.’ And with that, he unzipped, and proceeded to deliver a steady stream of urine to a wilting fern in a large clay pot.

Fingers, a tomboyish American girl in faded blue jeans and a sweatshirt, yawned. She had obviously witnessed Doktor Head’s eccentricities before.

‘Go ahead,’ Kris said sarcastically. ‘Take a slash wherever y’want. Don’t mind me.’

‘Thank you,’ Doktor Head replied, zipping up with a satisfied expression.

‘Listen – I may as well tell you now,’ Kris continued. ‘Don’t bother to stick around for the audition. You’re too old, an’ even if you’re the greatest keyboard player in the world, y’aint got the look we need.’

‘I’m so glad you told me that,’ Doktor Head said gravely.

‘Yeah, well, at least y’got a piss outta it!’ Kris joked, and wandered back to the others, who were busily watching an acned youth do a major kill on ‘Dirty Miss Mary’.

Half an hour later Fingers jumped up on the stage ready to show them what she could do. She sat down at the piano and immediately began to rock and roll.

‘Hold it!’ Buzz yelled. ‘What the frig – it’s a bleedin’ girl, ennit?’

Mr Terence came to life. When Buzz spoke, he jumped. ‘We’re not auditioning females, dear,’ he said tartly.

Fingers made a rude gesture and began to play the hell out of ‘Skinny Little Slider’.

Her talent was formidable – a fact Mr Terence ignored. ‘Enough!’ he shouted, going red in the face. ‘We don’t have time to waste. Get out of here.’

‘Wait a minute, hold on,’ Kris began. ‘She’s good—’

‘Leave it out,’ sneered Buzz. ‘That’s all we need – a fuckin’
girl.
’

Kris hadn’t really thought about it, but why not – if she was sensational?

Doktor Head strolled into the picture, waving his arms in the air. ‘If you want her you’ll have to act fast,’ he said with studied authority. ‘She doesn’t come cheap, but she’ll be worth it to you.’

‘Who the hell are
you
?’ demanded Mr Terence, bristling because he sensed competition.

‘Her manager,’ Doktor Head replied, gesturing for Fingers to cease her frantic pounding. Fixing Kris with bloodshot eyes he handed him his business card. ‘Call me,’ he said. ‘Soon.’

They auditioned for another three days, and not one applicant sparked any excitement. Kris kept on thinking of Fingers, with her tomboyish looks and fast talent. He got the lowdown on Doktor Head, and was impressed with his background. Michael Hollywood and Nellie and the Knockers had both been big at one time.

Without telling the others he called Doktor Head, who calmly informed him he’d changed his mind. The Wild Ones were not the right group for Fingers.

Kris was perplexed. ‘Are you crazy?’ he asked in amazement.

‘So I’ve been told,’ replied Doktor Head. ‘But then crazy is merely a state of mind, isn’t it?’

They met for a drink in a Hampstead pub. Kris got plastered, while Doktor Head drank only warm milk, which stuck disconcertingly to his beard. He gave a long discourse on the pursuit of real stardom in the rock world, and the perils of booze and drugs in general. ‘I survived the sixties,’ he noted with satisfaction. ‘A lot of people in rock ’n’ roll didn’t.’ He then proceeded to relate the story of how he had acquired the name Doktor Head. It seemed that at one time he was famous for giving young ladies haircuts, specializing in a certain part of their lower anatomy. ‘Wonderful days,’ he sighed reverently. ‘Ah . . . the sixties . . .’

‘So what’s Fingers gonna do?’ Kris asked, avoiding eye contact with the barmaid, who wanted more than an autograph.

‘There’s a new group – The Mission. I’m thinking of managing them. If I do, Fingers will join them. She’s only eighteen, you know. She has a big future.’

Laughing disbelievingly, Kris said, ‘So like there’s this unknown
new
group, an’ you reckon she’ll have a better future with
them
? Come on, man – where are
you
at? We’re friggin’ huge.’

‘In England.’

‘An’ Germany.’

‘Holland too, no doubt.’

‘Yeah, an’ bleedin’ Finland,
an’
Denmark.’

‘Congratulations,’ Doktor Head said dryly. ‘And if you stay with Terry Terence, that’s about as far as you’ll go. You should have conquered America years ago.’

Kris swigged his beer. ‘Tell me about it,’ he said glumly. ‘America ain’t that easy.’

‘Especially when you’ve got a manager who sells you short.’

‘What?’

‘Terry Terence fucked you over.’

‘No way. He’s always done his best for us.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Remember “Lonesome Morning’’?’

‘How could I ever forget it. Our first recording.’

‘And a big hit for Del Delgardo.’

Kris grimaced. ‘Distribution. He had it. We didn’t.’

‘Not at all. Your great manager sold out on you. The American record company didn’t want your version on the market. A deal was made. You got shafted.’

Kris felt the anger begin to build. ‘How do you know?’

‘Everyone in the industry knew. Ask around. Ask your producer at the time – what was his name? Sam something?’

‘Yeah. Sam Rozelle.’

‘That’s right. Call him. He’ll tell you the truth. He wasn’t happy about it, I can assure you.’

When the pub closed, they went back to Kris’s house, and talked until four in the morning.

The next day Kris went to see Sam Rozelle and learned the truth for himself. Terry Terence
had
sold them out on what could have been their first big hit. ‘He just didn’t have enough faith in you,’ Sam said, too embarrassed to look Kris in the eye. ‘When Marcus Citroen said jump, he did so. I’m sure he regrets it now.’

‘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.’