Rock Star (20 page)

Before she could reply her mother appeared, ruining everything with news of their imminent departure. At least he now knew she existed. That was something.

Two weeks later she left for France, and a summer vacation with Odile. Arriving at Nice airport and rushing outside to find her friend, she felt a surge of excitement, for standing no more than three feet away was Eddie Mafair, arguing in fluent French with an irate cab driver.

Just along the kerb a waving Odile emerged from her stepfather’s chauffeur-driven Mercedes.

Rafealla stood transfixed.

Odile yelled, ‘Kid! Over here.’

Eddie stalked away from his cab and marched into the airport without noticing her.

Odile ran over. ‘What’s the
matter
with you?’ she scolded. ‘Are you deaf?’

‘No,’ Rafealla replied dreamily, hugging her friend. Just in love!’

*    *    *

Odile’s mother had married into show business. Her husband was Claudio Franconini, an aged Italian crooner with an enormous European following. He had been a star for many years, and revelled in his success. Marrying the widow of the prominent politician Henri Ronet was another plus in his life. Claudio adored the spotlight.

Odile had always considered him to be a bore. And on the occasions Rafealla had met him before, she was forced to agree.

‘He
still
colours his bald spot with boot-polish,’ Odile confided with a wild giggle. ‘And he
still
thinks that every woman should fall at his feet with delight. Nothing changes.’

‘I don’t know how your mother stands it,’ Rafealla commented.

With a Gallic shrug Odile said, ‘She doesn’t mind. They’re good together. Mama is very patient, as you well know.’

Claudio greeted Rafealla warmly, kissing her on both cheeks and saying, ‘Welcome, welcome. What a joy to see you again, my dear. Our humble home is yours.’

Their humble home was a magnificent gated chateau in the hills above Cannes. Guards were on permanent duty. Ten servants looked after the guests. And there was a party every other day. Claudio loved entertaining.

‘We’ll make our own fun,’ Odile promised. ‘We don’t have to hang around here with the old fogies.’

Rafealla wondered what Eddie Mafair was doing at the airport. Probably on holiday. Too bad he’d left.

The weather in the South of France was glorious. After a rather dreary English summer, Rafealla was delighted to lie in the sun doing absolutely nothing. She found it entertaining to observe Claudio Franconini and his constant stream of guests. Odile and she staked out their corner of the pool and watched the famous come and go. There was a Greek shipowner and his fiery mistress. An American gangster with his very proper English wife. A financier with two girls not much older than they were. A black female singer and her lover.

‘This is what I call entertainment!’ Rafealla said. ‘Is it always like this?’

‘Yes’, Odile assured her. ‘Last year we had dozens of movie stars, a President’s widow, oh . . . all sorts of strange people. You should’ve come.’

‘I wanted to. But as you know, my dear mother always considered I was too young to enjoy the
wicked
pleasures of the South of France until now.’

‘I guess sixteen signals wicked pleasures are okay. Right?’

‘I bloody well hope so!’

When they got bored sitting beside the pool, the chauffeur dropped them off in nearby Juan-Les-Pins, where they wandered around the colourful shops and open pavement cafes. Sometimes they water-skied from the beach. Male attention was not lacking, for they made an alluring if very young combination. Odile – so blonde and innocently pretty. And Rafealla, dark and mysterious. They were the perfect foil for each other as they stalked the beaches in minuscule bikinis, attracting an avid following of admirers.

Odile struck up more than a friendship with a Norwegian law student, and Rafealla found herself practising the fine art of the blow job with an extremely handsome Swiss medical student. She met him on the beach every evening, and they had a perfectly delightful time. This all had to take place before ten o’clock, when the chauffeured Mercedes would arrive to collect the girls and transport them back to the Franconini luxury chateau high in the hills.

‘I feel like Cinderella,’ Rafealla joked. ‘You know – it’s as if we’re leading a double life or something.’

‘We are,’ Odile said grimly. ‘My mother will kill us if she ever finds out what we get up to.’

‘Mine too.’

A pause, and then Odile added, ‘Surely
they
were young once? They must have done all these things.’

‘And more,’ agreed Rafealla, although she could hardly imagine her mother ever doing anything as rude as giving a man a blow job. Come to think of it, she couldn’t even imagine her mother making love, and yet it was patently obvious she had – at least once.

Rafealla’s medical student decided it was time she went one step further. ‘Trust me, I’m a doctor – well almost,’ he said. ‘I want to give
you
pleasure too.’

She had never allowed anyone below the belt. Too intimate, too sticky, too embarrassing.

The lure of the white sand, the balmy nights, and the seductive lapping of the sea finally got to her. Besides, he was very-good looking, and a medical man. Pushing Eddie Mafair to the back of her mind, she allowed him to embark on a short exploration of uncharted territory.

Removing her jeans and the bottom half of her bikini, he began gently touching her with his fingers. She had to admit it
did
feel good, especially when his fingers moved in a strangely soothing circular motion. Automatically she spread her legs, gasping at new-found sensations which suddenly and unexpectedly culminated in a rush of pure pleasure.

‘Your first orgasm,’ he said matter-of-factly.

Her heart was pounding. This was something else. This was great.

‘Now let me just put it there,’ he continued, working his way on top of her. ‘Nothing can happen now.’

She felt pressure, and warning signals fired off in her head. ‘No,’ she said, quickly shoving him away.

‘Yes,’ he insisted, moving back on top.

‘No!’ she snapped.

‘Do you plan to stay a virgin forever?’ he asked nastily.

Absolutely not
, she said silently.
Only until I can have Eddie Mafair. And I will. Oh yes, I will.

*    *    *

One morning Rafealla got up very early, before everyone else, and went down to the pool to swim lengths. She was bronzed to perfection, her long limbs oiled and gleaming, her stomach flat and faintly muscled.

‘You have a beautiful body, my dear,’ said a thick male voice with a slight accent.

She turned and encountered Marcus Citroen, a record magnate who had arrived the night before from New York with his ultra-chic wife.

Rafealla grinned – she didn’t know what else to do. There was nothing worse than trying to avoid the lecherous leers of dirty old men. ‘Thanks,’ she said, and dived in the inviting pool, hoping he would be gone when she surfaced.

To her surprise, when she came up for air, Marcus Citroen was in the pool, close to her.

‘Look at this,’ he said cheerfully, as if he’d spotted some unique form of starfish.

Without thinking she peered below the clear blue water.

Marcus Citroen was taking risks. The man was stark naked, with a full erection.

Bobby Mondella

1976

It took months of patient handling to nurse Sharleen back to health. Her bruises and cuts healed first, but her pride took a whole lot longer.

‘What happened?’ Bobby demanded. ‘Who did this to you? Is it Marcus Citroen, ’cos if it is I’ll kill the white son of a bitch.’

‘No, no,’ she said, panic-sticken. ‘It wasn’t him. You mustn’t get involved.’

‘I
am
involved. Now you’ve gotta tell me what went on.’

‘No way, Bobby. I can’t.’

There was no use pushing her, but gradually, over the next few weeks, he heard her story.

At first, she told him, Marcus Citroen was a gentleman. Oh yes, he persuaded her to join him in cocaine parties, and expected sex. But in return he gave her a lucrative contract with Blue Cadillac, a lavish apartment, and gradually began to build her into a star.

‘I’m not naive’, she confided tearfully. ‘I’ve been around the block an’ then back again. But everything that was happening was so good. And I thought I could handle Marcus and his crazy demands.’

His demands turned out to be watching her have sex with other girls. And more and more drugs.

‘He liked me stoned,’ she admitted. ‘That way he could control me.’

Stardom arrived, and vainly Sharleen attempted to cut back on Marcus and his perverted ideas. One night she completely rebelled, and refused to go to bed with a man and two other women. Marcus beat her up, and that was when she fled to Bobby.

‘I hope I can stay here,’ she said simply.

She’d been stupid, but she’d learned a harsh lesson. His heart went out to her. ‘For as long as you like,’ he said. And concentrated on getting her better.

The trick was to be there for her every minute, supporting her, encouraging her to take a drug cure, watching over her at all times.

After a lot of persuasion she entered a private clinic under an assumed name, emerging weeks later looking like the Sharleen he used to know.

‘How’re you feelin’?’ he asked.

‘Great.’

‘
Really
great?’

‘You gotta know it.’

‘I’m real proud of you, baby. You know that, don’t you?’

Smiling wanly she said, ‘Thanks. Now tell me, where do I go from here?’

He didn’t hesitate. ‘I’ve spoken to Amerika. Soul On Soul wants you. I’ve already written two songs we can record together. How about that?’

‘Really?’ Her smile lit up the room.

‘It’s done, baby. Sharleen an’ Bobby. We’re gonna be a team.’

It wasn’t done at all. Blue Cadillac Records refused to release her from the contract she’d signed, and they also refused to give her songs to record. In other words she was left in limbo, unable to do anything at all.

Bobby was outraged. ‘I’m going to see this Citroen character,’ he said angrily. ‘They can’t do this to you. No way.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said softly. ‘Marcus can do anything he damn well pleases.’

Over the months Bobby discovered she was right. Blue Cadillac had her under an exclusive, unbreakable contract, and there wasn’t a thing anyone could do, not even the hotshot lawyer Bobby hired at his own considerable expense.

Sharleen, whose star had once shone so brightly, now had to sit back and watch other female singers get the attention that was once hers.

After a few months Bobby realized that if something didn’t happen soon, she was going to revert to her old ways. He’d already caught her drunk a couple of times, and he could see she was restless and getting ready to move on. Their relationship was strictly platonic, even though she was living in his apartment. He wanted to make a move, but somehow – because they had been friends for so long – it wasn’t so easy. At this particular time in her life he had no desire to put any more pressure on her. Whatever was going to happen would take place naturally or not at all.

Amerika Allen said to him one day, ‘What is it with you an’ that girl? You’ve all but stopped working since she’s around. You can’t talk about anything else except her. To tell you the truth, I reckon you should get on with your
own
life, and let Sharleen do the same.’

Amerika was right and he knew it. Too bad. While Sharleen was with him he couldn’t change.

Rocket called several times from Europe, where he was filming. ‘How is she?’ he always asked.

‘Fine,’ Bobby replied evenly, wanting to say –
What do you care? She’s no longer your concern. You’re married now. You’re out of the picture.

Without Sharleen knowing, he tried to call Marcus Citroen on more than one occasion. All he got was – ‘Mr Citroen’s in a meeting.’ ‘Mr Citroen’s out of the country.’ ‘Mr Citroen’s unavailable.’

One morning he awoke to find Sharleen staring into the medicine cabinet sizing up the pill collection. ‘What are you doing? Planning your death scene?’ he joked.

‘Yes,’ she said, deadly serious.

Screw Marcus Citroen. He’d had enough.

Dressing hurriedly, he looked up the address of Blue Cadillac Records and took a cab over there.

He arrived at a minute past nine, and the receptionist – an attractive black girl with multicoloured fingernails, was just settling herself behind the front desk.

‘Hello, gorgeous,’ he said, turning on the charm.

She looked up, her wide red lips breaking into a welcoming smile. ‘Bobby Mondella!’ she exclaimed. ‘What a nice way to Start my day!’

He wasn’t used to being recognized, but this couldn’t be better.

‘I
loove
Dream Baby’,’ she gushed. ‘It’s a
sensational
cut.’

‘Thanks,’ he said modestly. ‘Glad you approve.’

‘I wish you were with our company,’ she said, fluttering extra-long eyelashes. ‘An’ then maybe you’d get the attention you deserve.’

Shrugging, he said, ‘Who knows?’ Then, casually leaning across her desk he asked, ‘Is Marcus in yet?’

‘Mr Citroen is always in his office from seven-thirty on,’ she replied, all of a sudden very businesslike. ‘Are you his first appointment?’

‘Sure am,’ he said easily.

She glanced down at a large red appointment book, tapping the page with extended fingernails. ‘His secretaries don’t get in until nine-thirty. There’s no notation of your name here.’

‘That’s because we made the date late last night.’

‘
Oooh.
’ Her eyes gleamed. ‘I bet you were at the Stevie Wonder party. Am I right?’

‘Sure was.’

‘Lucky
you.
’

‘Yeah . . . well . . . I’ll just go on in. Where’s his office?’

‘Down the hall, last door on the right. You can’t miss it, there’s a solid gold record on the door.’

‘Cute.’

‘I’ll buzz and tell him you’re on the way.’