Rock Star (44 page)

Why did Rocket always make him feel like a loser? He was more famous than his actor friend would ever be. Or was he?

‘Didja see me on the cover of
Rollin’ Stone
?’ he found himself asking.

‘Why d’you do that stuff?’ Rocket said, his voice full of contempt. ‘You’re bendin’ over an’ beggin’ for the screwin’ they’re gonna give yuh. It don’t make no sense to set yourself up for it. Y’should do what
I
do. Nothin’. No press. No shit, Nada.’

Before he had a chance to defend himself, Zella was upon them. She was all over Rocket like a sinuous, gleaming snake.

Bobby left them to it. He’d had it with Rocket and his superior attitude. Who the fuck did the prick think he was anyway?

Finding a group snorting cocaine in a bathroom, he joined them.

It didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered. Being a star meant never having to explain anything to anyone.

Kris Phoenix

1985

Bedding Mrs Citroen might not have been the greatest idea in the world, but he’d done it – once – and there was no going back.

When Kris reflected on it – which wasn’t often – he realized it had not been his fault. After all, what was a guy supposed to do when faced with the wife of his new boss wearing nothing but stilettos and an icy smile?
Sorry, no thank you
wouldn’t have seemed polite – especially when she’d just given a dinner in his honour, and sat him next to one of the most sought-after personal managers in the music business.

Once was enough, thank you. Kris knew a balls-breaker when he saw one.

Mrs Citroen. She didn’t give up easily. She called him. Sent him presents via chauffeured Rolls-Royce. Tried to pressure him.

He didn’t weaken. No way. In fact, what he did do, just to prevent any future complications, was tell Astrid as soon as he got back to England. She was cool, broke some furniture and chipped one of his teeth, but basically she took it well.

This had all taken place a year ago, and a lot had happened in that year. The big news was that he’d been forced to get rid of Doktor Head. It was a move he hadn’t been happy making, but it was inevitable once Doktor Head started drinking again – for when he drank he became an uncontrollable maniac, and Kris wanted none of it. As far as his career was concerned he had a killer instinct, refusing to allow anyone to fuck it up. He gave Doktor Head several chances and then fired him. Fortunately they had no contract. Theirs was a handshake arrangement – unethical, but that’s the way they’d both wanted it.

Two days after the firing, Kris called Hawkins Lamont. ‘I need someone to take me higher,’ he’d said.

‘Come into my office and we’ll talk.’

They met. They talked. They both had the same desire. To make Kris Phoenix into the biggest rock star in the world.

A deal was set.

‘You’ll move to America,’ the Hawk had said. ‘If we intend to make you into an international star you have to be based in the States.’

‘Astrid’ll hate that.’

‘Don’t bring her. Leave her in England. It’s better for your image if you’re unattached and available.’

An excellent solution. Astrid loved the English countryside – she’d be quite happy pottering about there. And he’d spend plenty of time visiting because of Bo.

‘Sold!’ he’d said.

Six weeks later he said ‘sold’ again when he purchased a vast house in Bel Air.

True to his word, the Hawk set about making Kris Phoenix into a major superstar. He renegotiated Doktor Head’s deal with Blue Cadillac. He put Kris in the hands of one of the hottest and most prestigious PR companies on the West Coast. He suggested a theme for the new album. And he planned a special tour across fifteen key cities to set America alight.

‘We have to forget The Wild Ones ever existed, and start afresh,’ he’d announced, with all the enthusiasm of a great general going into battle. ‘From now on it’s Kris Phoenix all the way. Go home, sit down, and write the best songs you’ve ever written. The theme is family. Don’t forget – family and roots and relationships.’

Kris flew back to England, holed up at his country estate, shut off the phones and went to work – emerging, seven weeks later, with twelve gritty, truthful songs full of everything the Hawk had asked for.

The new album was called
Gettin’ Down.
The tour was called simply
KRIS PHOENIX
’85. Both broke every existing record.

The Hawk had done as he’d promised. Within one year Kris Phoenix was the hottest name to hit the rock world since Bruce Springsteen.

Rafealla

1985

There were moments when Rafealla couldn’t keep her hands off Luiz, and fortunately he seemed to feel the same way. Bumping into him by chance made her determined never to be apart from him again. A year had passed and she had her wish.

At first they were both uncomfortable to see each other. After the initial shock, they were stiffly polite.

‘I didn’t know you sang,’ he’d said.

‘And I didn’t know you lived in São Paulo’, she’d retorted accusingly, longing to say –
Why did you disappear? How come I never heard from you? How dare you treat me like that!

They’d rehearsed with all the warm interaction of a suspicious Siamese cat and a fierce Doberman.

‘What’s the matter, Rafealla?’ Tinto had asked. ‘Do you two know each other?’

‘Yes,’ she’d snapped, at the same time as Luiz said a sharp ‘No.’

‘Ah . . .’ Tinto had sighed wisely, and known exactly what was going on.

Finally, music brought them together. The caressing, insinuating strum of his guitar melded perfectly with her low, sensual voice. By the time they did the concert, they still weren’t friendly, but they were in tune.

The next morning, shortly before she and Tinto were due to leave their hotel for the airport, Luiz turned up.

‘I think we must talk,’ he’d said.

‘A little late for that,’ she’d replied.

Tinto had rolled his eyes and handed over her ticket. Rafealla was all work and no play. It wasn’t natural. ‘Yes, talk,’ he’d encouraged them, nodding understandingly. ‘Catch the later plane.’

When he’d said that, he hadn’t meant two weeks later. But that’s the way it was. And when she returned, she was glowing – as only a woman in love can.

Luiz, she had discovered, was a very intense and complex young man. His original disappearance was not because he didn’t like her, it was due to the fact that he liked her too much. ‘I had nothing to offer you,’ he explained simply. ‘We would not have been happy.’

‘Yes, we would,’ she argued.

‘No,’ he insisted. ‘I had to leave the city. For if I hadn’t, the temptation would have trapped me.’

So he’d had his reasons. Pride and such-like. And in São Paulo his career progressed, and when they met again he felt ready to accept the challenge of a relationship.

Within weeks of her return to Rio, he followed her, for Tinto had promised he could get them work together. It was an easy promise to keep. They had a magic between them that the public loved. Luiz settled into her apartment and her life as if it were destined, and they were inseparable. Soon, thanks to the success they enjoyed, he was able to afford his own place. Once again Rafealla gave up her independence, and along with Jon Jon, moved in with him.

They made a beautiful trio. Rafealla and Luiz – both so dark, with their matching green eyes and jet hair. And Jon Jon – blond and tanned with his shining, innocent baby-blues.

Now, for the first time in her life, Rafealla truly knew what happiness was. She had a career she loved. A man she adored. And Jon Jon.

Odile phoned often. She was insistent. ‘You
have
to come home for a visit soon,’ she said firmly. ‘Or your mother will have a positive cow!’

‘Yes, soon,’ Rafealla promised, not meaning it at all. For one thing she had no intention of ever letting Luiz out of her sight again, and for another – the thought of him meeting her family was hardly one she relished. Not that they were snobs, the very opposite – but Luiz came from the
favela
, and it would be difficult for him to understand her beginnings, he would feel intimidated and out of place visiting her stepfather’s enormous country estate. Meanwhile she sent home her records and press clippings – first censoring the ones that mentioned she and Luiz were living together. Even though she was twenty-five, she knew her mother would be shocked. Especially because of Jon Jon.

They lived an idyllic existence. Working together, playing on the white sandy beaches, enjoying their leisure time and work equally. Luiz was terrific with Jon Jon, just like the father he’d never had.

Their singing success was particularly rewarding. Not only were they both doing something they loved, they were also getting paid for it – and handsomely so. In Latin America they were fast becoming famous, and had enjoyed several hit records.

Tinto sat back like a proud father as he watched and helped their careers grow. When he’d first taken Rafealla on he hadn’t planned on handling her as a double act. But she and Luiz were perfect together. Their love shone through everything they did.

‘I think we might get married,’ Rafealla confided to Tinto one day. ‘Only don’t tell Luiz, he doesn’t know!’

‘My lips reveal nothing.’

‘Good. Keep it that way.’

To celebrate Luiz’s latest composition hitting number one – a song they’d recorded together and their third consecutive hit – Tinto threw a big party. Rafealla sat back, allowing Luiz to bask in the limelight and enjoy most of the attention. He was so handsome and exhilarated. He deserved this success.

Proudly she watched him circulate, charming press and guests alike. He never mentioned marriage, but lately it had been on her mind a lot. Oh, sure, she was happy just being with him, only marriage was a more permanent commitment, and since she never wanted to be apart from him again, it seemed like a good idea. Determined not to be the instigator, she’d begun to long for him to ask her. But he remained silent on the subject, obviously quite content with things they way they were.

Other women threw themselves at him. During the course of the party Rafealla noticed several females coming on strong. Luiz had a way of deflecting their advances without hurting their feelings. He was studiously polite and well-mannered, which of course made him all the more interesting. Nothing turned women on more than a man they couldn’t get through to. Especially when that man was talented, young, and extraordinarily handsome.

Rafealla couldn’t hold back. In the car on their way home she hugged him warmly. I’ve got a fantastic idea,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘A sensational idea.’

He smiled – white, even teeth, and emerald green eyes she couldn’t resist. ‘Tell me, my
carioca
, he encouraged, his hand lingering on her knee.

‘Let’s get married.’

A silence. Too long a silence. A
dangerous
silence.

Before he even spoke she knew something was wrong.

He hesitated, and then falteringly said, ‘I was going to tell you.’

She could hardly breathe. ‘Yes?’

‘Uh . . . how I say this? He paused again, and then, very slowly, ‘Rafealla, you know I love you . . . But, this is the thing. I am already married.’

Bobby Mondella

1985

The crowd at Rio airport to greet Bobby Mondella was gratifyingly large. It took several bodyguards and security police to get him through safely. In the Rolls-Royce sent to meet him he sat back with a satisfied sigh. ‘Y’see, they still love me’, he said.

Nichols Kline, momentarily unnerved by the massive crowds and roaring fans, said, ‘Sure. This is a foreign country. They’re a year behind.’

‘You’re a real downer son of a bitch,’ Bobby responded angrily. ‘One record doesn’t make number one, an’ in your book I’m finished.’

‘Your last
three
singles,’ Pammy corrected, with a toss of her dyed hair.

Bobby couldn’t stand the phoney bitch. How come Nichols put up with her? She’d laid every one of his friends, and treated him like dirt. But Nichols hung in there, thinking he’d found himself some kind of English princess instead of dumb cunt of the year.

Bobby ignored her. He’d grown expert at pretending she didn’t exist. God! He needed a drink. ‘How far is the hotel?’ he asked brusquely.

‘Do I look like a fuckin’ tour guide?’ Nichols snapped. ‘Ask the driver.’

They were all tired after the long journey from Los Angeles. Hey – Bobby didn’t give a damn – he hadn’t asked Nichols to come, especially with Miss Congeniality in tow. Nichols had insisted on making the trip. Carlos Baptista, the Brazilian concert promoter, had been begging him to visit for years, and with Bobby due to do three concerts at the Maracana stadium, he’d grabbed the opportunity – with a little persuasion from Pammy.

Bobby half wished Zella was with him, at least he’d have an ally. And then again he was relieved she wasn’t. Zella was crazy – certifiably so. She’d freaked out on the set of her latest movie and beaten up two petrified makeup men before being subdued, and ultimately carted off to the Betty Ford Center for a spell of drying out.

Zella was bad news, she dragged him down with her. It wasn’t her fault, the woman just couldn’t resist causing trouble.

He’d visited her at the clinic before leaving. With a weary smile she’d said, ‘Hey – superstar – maybe
you
should be in here with me, huh?’

Why the hell should he be? Yeah – he drank. Sure – he did cocaine. But he could control it. He knew
exactly
what he was doing. And anytime he wanted to stop, no problem.

Deep down he was well aware of what he really wanted. To dump Nichols Hit City and get back to his roots. Nine months ago he’d run into Amerika Allen at the Grammy Awards. She’d done pretty well over the years. Soul On Soul was second only to Motown with the cream of black recording artists.

He was pitted against one of her people for Best R&B Vocal performance, an award he’d won several times. Her star got it. A fresh-faced kid with long, corn-rowed hair and a toothy grin, full of enthusiasm and sass.