The Four of Us (30 page)

Her eyes narrowed. Just because she was in London again, she wouldn't give in to what she had long since come to term her ‘London demons'.

Primmie, Artemis and Geraldine were all in her past. None of them had made out of their lives what she had made out of hers. She was famous. She was a rock star.

She slammed her now empty coffee cup back down on the tray, well aware that though she was a rock star, she wasn't a rock superstar. None of her clutch of hit records had been a number one hit. When she toured, she always took second billing. True, the second billing was always to someone who was massive and the venues were prestigious, the arenas vast – but she didn't
want
to be second billing to Rod Stewart or Abba or Wings.
She
wanted to be the draw.
She
wanted to be massive.
She
wanted to be the superstar.

In deep depression she took off her kimono and, leaving it where it fell, walked into the ensuite bathroom and stepped into the shower, turning it on to full power. Where her career was concerned, she was at yet another crisis point. Francis simply wasn't big-league enough to represent her in the way she now needed to be represented. And nor was he ever going to
be
big-league enough – not now his main concern was cocaine.

Since they'd been in New York, Francis's use of cocaine had escalated sky high. At first she'd been indifferent about it, and then she'd become aware that his judgement and his sense of what worked musically was being affected. It was then, when she'd realized he was becoming a hindrance to her career, not a help, that she'd made up her mind that he had to go.

And that was why she was in London without him. She wanted time alone to gear herself up before the final, inevitable scene.

The professional reason for her trip was a benefit concert she was appearing at, in five days time, at the Albert Hall. Every rock star and band worth their salt was taking part and she'd been desperate to be included. Once confirmation had come that she was to be part of the package, Francis had suggested she take advantage of being in London by spending some time with Kit, playing around with ideas for new arrangements. Working informally at Courtfield Road was a habit of long-standing. Only when she was convinced that a song was really workable would she suggest it to the recording studio she was contracted to.

‘I want some shopping time to myself,' she'd said to Francis when, in New York, he'd said he would be attending the benefit. ‘I'm not going to trumpet the fact that I'm in London until the day before the concert when I turn up at rehearsals. I'm not in the mood for meeting up with people and partying.'

Francis, who never did anything but party, had shrugged, happy in the knowledge that there'd be parties and action enough once the benefit was over. With such a large collection of rock stars and bands, all gathered at one prestigious venue, how could the aftermath not be an orgy of wild times?

She'd read his mind as clearly as if he'd spoken aloud. Now, as she stepped from the shower and towelled herself dry, she wondered how he would find his wild times without her. He was, after all, only at the parties of the famous because of his position as her manager. As she was the only person he managed, once she dropped him, he'd be on no one's A list. There'd been a time when – on the back of managing her – he could have picked up other clients with ease. With his managerial and creative judgement now shot to pieces by prolonged use of charlie, that was no longer the case.

Still naked, she began putting on make-up, not overly caring about Francis's future partying problems. Her own problems were what concerned her. After nine years in the business, twelve if she dated the start of her singing career to when she was fifteen and had begun singing with the group Ty managed, she still wasn't a superstar – and, over the years, she'd tried everything. She'd fronted a group and she'd gone solo. She'd written and recorded her own material and she'd done ace covers of other people's material. She'd given it her all in Britain and she'd done her damned best in the States. She'd done clubs, festivals and toured until she never wanted to see a tour bus again. She'd recorded hard rock, soft rock, even punk rock – and she
still
wasn't where she wanted to be.

The American manager she had arranged would handle her career once she'd given Francis the heave-ho had told her she'd been mismanaged. ‘I've seen you a bunch of times,' he'd said. ‘You've not captured what you do live on a record yet. Not truly. And you've been spreading yourself too thin. Your career's been unfocused, but with me at the helm it sure as hell isn't going to be so any longer.'

She pulled on skin-tight leather trousers and a clinging white Stars and Stripes T-shirt. With new management she would, at last, be where she should have been seven years ago. She would be a diva. An icon. Francis had been a mistake. He was a loser. In retrospect, she thought that he probably always had been a loser and that only his Prince Charming handsomeness and upper-class confidence had, until his overindulgence on cocaine, hidden the fact from her – and from other people.

Thirty minutes later Kit Armstrong was greeting her at his Courtfield Road studio, a mug of steaming black coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

‘Hi, Kiki. You look great. Where's Francis?'

‘Francis is history,' she said, as he kissed her on the cheek. ‘Or he will be once the Albert Hall benefit concert is over.'

His eyebrows rose and he pursed his lips.

‘And don't look at me like that,' she said crossly. ‘Instead of furthering my career he spends all his time off his tits on coke.'

Kit grinned. ‘And when has that been a sin?' he asked, leading the way down the corridor that led from the deceptively ordinary front door to the enormous studio that lay at the back of the house. ‘How else do you get through after-show parties and endless schmoozing?'

‘He doesn't only use it to be sociable.' They stopped off in the kitchen and she dropped her tote bag on to the first convenient chair. ‘And his judgement has gone. He suffers mood swings. He's aggressive. Paranoid.'

‘Whoa!' Kit held up both hands. ‘Aggressive?
Francis?
‘

‘You betcha.' Her green cat-eyes glittered. ‘And I don't have to put up with it. Not when it's my career he's flushing down the pan!'

Kit frowned, his lazy good humour ebbing. ‘But that's not happening, Kiki, is it? Word around town is that though you're not top of the tree in Britain you're near to being so Stateside.'

Kiki made a snorting sound. ‘That's thanks to a London-based publicist earning his wedge.' She ran a hand through her hair, her shoulders slumped. ‘I'm doing OK in America, Kit, but I'm not as big there as publicity articles here have led people to believe. And that's between you and me and no one else, OK?'

He nodded, well aware he was probably the only person in the world to whom she would speak with such truthfulness.

‘So what's the plan?' he asked, knowing very well that with Kiki there would be one.

She perched on a high stool and kicked off her sandals.

‘First, I get Francis out of my life. He may have been great for my career in the early days, but he's lost it, Kit. Well and truly. Though I'm not as big as I want to be in America, I'm bigger there than I've ever been here – so I'm going to continue to make New York my base. I have a hotshot American manager lined up. I'm already in a recording contract …'

‘Which Francis negotiated?'

She nodded, unabashed, ‘… and I want to persuade the powers that be that it's time I changed my sound from hard rock to …'

‘Lighter, more commercial fare?'

‘… to beat-heavy urban funk.'

Kit put down his mug of coffee and opened the door of a giant fridge. ‘Extreme is never a good idea,' he said, reaching for a bottle of vodka and a bottle of kahlua. ‘You've still got your London fan-base to think about – and take it from me, London isn't yet ready for the sort of gritty lyrics and tunes you've been hearing on the streets of New York.'

He mixed a Black Russian and added ice. ‘My advice … if you're going to re-package yourself … would be to hone in on the dance scene and release a series of dance-orientated singles.' He handed her the cocktail. ‘You couldn't go wrong. John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John were number one in June with “You're the One That I Want”. And what is top of the charts as we speak? “Summer Nights”, by the same squeaky-clean duo.'

Kiki pulled a face. ‘Yeah, well, I'm not squeaky-clean.'

Picking up his coffee mug again, he guffawed with laughter. ‘You never spoke a truer word! Shit, Kiki. You're not even
nice
. You're a manipulative egomaniac who doesn't give a damn about anyone but herself.'

Her feline face split into a grin. ‘Yeah, well, I have an agenda,' she said, totally unoffended. ‘And nice people don't become world-famous rock stars.'

Kit opened his mouth, about to say that Lulu had managed pretty OK, and then, knowing her jealous streak, thought better of it. ‘So let's get to grips with today's agenda,' he said. ‘I've blocked out the rest of the day in the diary, so what say we make a start?'

Still holding her glass of vodka and kahlua, Kiki slid from the stool. ‘Fine with me,' she said, and, in a far better mood than the one she had arrived in, she followed him out of the kitchen and into the studio.

Later, when she was leaning against the end of the console, her head down on her forearms, listening to playback, Kit said, casually ‘By the way, Geraldine Grant was in one of the gossip columns last week. Some kind of a bash at the French Embassy. She looked very swish.'

‘Did she?' She raised her head sharply. The unexpected mention of Geraldine's name left her feeling as if she'd been punched in the chest, but her voice was as casual as his. ‘Who was she with? A husband? A boyfriend?'

The playback came to an end. Neither of them commented on it. Instead he was staring at her, eyebrows raised. ‘A boyfriend, I think. Doesn't Francis know if she's married? I know his running off with you estranged them, but as they are cousins I'd have thought news as to whether she was married or not would have filtered along the old family grapevine.'

Kiki gave a rude snort. ‘There isn't a family grapevine – not one that extends to Francis. None of his family has anything to do with him. It's why there have never been any rock concerts at Cedar Court. We were forbidden to show our faces there from day one.'

‘How very prehistoric.' Kit's black silk shirt was half open to the waist and he toyed with a shark's tooth hanging round his neck. ‘Will things change when the two of you are no longer together, d'you think?'

Kiki shrugged. ‘I don't know. I don't care.' This time she didn't have to try to sound indifferent, because she was.

Kit looked down at his outsize wristwatch. ‘The musicians I've booked will be here in a minute. D'you want me to try and dig out the newspaper while we wait for them?'

‘Sure. Cool.'

She fought the desire to begin biting her nails. Why was she so fussed by the thought that, only a week ago, Geraldine had been in London? She probably lived in London again now. Had probably been living in London for years.

She chewed the corner of her lip again. If Geraldine were moving in the kind of circles that reached the gossip columns, would she still be in touch with Primmie? Did Geraldine, Primmie and Artemis all meet up regularly for girlie, giggly lunches? Did Geraldine and Primmie stay weekends in the Cotswolds with Artemis and Rupert? Did Artemis and Rupert and Primmie and her husband perhaps all spend weekends together at Cedar Court? And if they did, was her name ever mentioned? Did any of them ever wish that they'd somehow stayed friends with her?

‘Here you are.' Kit slapped a crumpled newspaper into her hands. ‘It's a brilliant photo, isn't it?'

It was. Geraldine was wearing an evening gown that looked as if it had been designed by Givenchy or Saint Laurent. Her night-black hair was swept high in an elegant chignon. Her long, glittering earrings looked to be composed of nothing but diamonds. The man with her was middle aged and distinguished looking, his hair silver-grey at the temples, his dinner jacket a dream of masculine tailoring. They were arm in arm and there was a caption beneath the photograph.
After talks with the Prime Minister, the European industrialist Monsieur André Barre attended a reception at the French Embassy with his regular companion, London-born Miss Geraldine Grant
.

‘Yes,' she said to Kit, her voice as indifferent as before. She handed him back the newspaper and changed the subject. ‘If the musicians you've booked don't turn up pretty pronto we're not going to be able to play about with the backing and I may as well not have bothered coming.'

‘They'll be here.' He tossed the newspaper into a rubbish bin. ‘So who's the latest man in your life, Kiki? Spill the beans.'

‘It's no one you need know about.' Leon was a twenty-three-year-old, light-skinned black American. As handsome as sin, he was really a jazz drummer and could make the beat take off like no other drummer she'd ever heard. Having no intention of allowing Kit to get his rocks off by feasting on details of her love life, she began thinking about the newspaper photograph again.

Geraldine was quite obviously not yet married and, as she wasn't described as being André Barre's fiancée, was apparently not about to be. She looked good, though. She looked a million dollars.

There came the distant sound of a doorbell ringing. ‘We have lift-off,' Kit said, striding past her. ‘And remember, Kiki. We're going to try an 8-string base on “Nightline”. If it doesn't work, we'll go to 12. Just be sunny.'

She made another rude noise. Being sunny, the way she felt right now, was impossible. She had too many things on her mind. She took a packet of Rizlas and a small polythene envelope out of the rear pocket of her jeans and began rolling a joint. What she needed, to restore her equilibrium, was some good sex. In three days'time Leon, as part of the band backing her for the benefit, would be flying in with Francis – but three days'time wasn't soon enough.