Rock Star (25 page)

‘Well?’

‘Wanted me to join her at Annabel’s, didn’t she.’

‘Just you?’

‘I dunno.’

Mr Terence did a nervous jig. The Wild Ones making it so quickly and with such strength had left him out of his depth. He wasn’t quite sure how to deal with it. Too much was happening too fast. Half the offers he received on their behalf he didn’t even tell them about. America was begging for attention, and yet he’d done nothing, because, knowing Kris and his raging ambition, they’d run off to the States and never return. A contract was no real protection once those beady-eyed Yank lawyers got their hands on it.

Mr Terence was in a turmoil. Snatching a quick peek at Buzz, lounging happily in a quiet corner swigging from his bottle of scotch, calmed him down. Buzz would hate America and the gaudy razzamatazz that went with it. In fact, he was doing Buzz a favour keeping all the lucrative offers to himself.

‘C’mon.’ Ollie grabbed Kris by the arm. ‘Let’s get out of here. This circus is no good before a show. We should be tuning up.’

Ollie, the perfectionist. So straight and serious. He’d found himself a red-headed girlfriend who played the cello and hated what she termed ‘the pop business’.

‘Right,’ agreed Kris. ‘Let’s grab the others an’ find a quiet corner backstage.’

‘I’ll round up Rasta, Buzz is all yours,’ Ollie said.

‘You got it.’

Lady Stephenson grabbed his arm as he walked by. ‘Kris, dear,’ she said, as if they were old and intimate friends. ‘Do say hello to my daughter, Fenella, and her friend, Raffi.’

He was face to face with the two baby girls Rasta had fancied earlier. ‘Hello,’ he said, hardly noticing them.

‘Now, Kris, dear,’ Lady Stephenson continued, double chins wobbling above lavender and lace frills. ‘If you
can
get away later,
do
join us. You might find it to be rather an interesting group. Quite a few American music people who I’m sure you must know. The Dorfmans, Marcus Citroen. Oh, and Sharleen – the famous’ – she lowered her voice – ‘black singer.’

‘Maybe,’ Kris said. Now he was
really
interested in going, but he had promised his mum and the family a night on the town, and he couldn’t dump them.

‘Cheers!’ gushed Lady Stephenson. ‘Don’t forget. Annabel’s. I’ll leave word at the door.’

*    *    *

The concert was a blast. Finally London – and the fans loved them.

What a raw sense of power! What a roller-coaster high!

Kris knew there were a lot of important people out there watching them live for the first time, and he really let rip – straining his gravelly voice to the limit, performing virtuoso guitar solos, taking turns with Buzz, who was full of piss and sardonic strut.

The crowd yelled, cheering and stamping their approval. The usual chants rose above the yelling and clapping.

‘KBISSSS . . . WE . . . LOVE . . . YOU!’

‘BUZZZZ . . . WE . . . LOVE . . . YOU!’

Kris leaped across the stage, his energy level at an all-time peak. He wore high-top sneakers, skin-tight faded jeans, and a tee-shirt with T
HE
W
ILD
O
NES
’77 emblazoned across the front.

Buzz weaved back and forth, picking at his guitar with talented fingers, face impassive, body clad in black footless tights, with a mangy long black shirt hanging loose.

‘’Ere,’ Rasta had said when faced with them before the show. ‘Wot you two doin’ then? ’Aving a who’s-got-the-biggest-cock contest?’ He’d fallen about at his own rather accurate observation.

Mr Terence had wanted them to wear matching blue gabardine jumpsuits. ‘You know where you can shove
that
idea,’ Kris told him. He ran the group now as far as what they played, how they played it, and certainly what they wore.

‘Why the frig we payin’ Mr T bleedin’ thirty-five per cent?’ Buzz bitched. ‘Whyn’t we dump ’im?’

The thought
had
occurred to Kris. But he knew there was bound to be a big legal hassle, and their timing wasn’t right. Also, they owed Mr Terence
something.
After all, he was the one who’d bankrolled them when they had nothing – even though he was deducting every penny of his initial investment from their earnings, on top of his hefty percentages. No wonder they were still broke.

The money was rolling in, but not in
their
direction.

There was a rumour backstage that Princess Anne was somewhere in the audience. The blinding lights left no room for searching the rows of eager faces, although Kris had noticed at all their gigs that the rows in front never contained the swooners and the screamers.

‘That’s because they’re comps,’ Ollie had explained.

‘Wot’s that?’ asked Buzz.

‘Complimentary. Free seats for the managers, theatre owners, promoters, record execs, and all their friends.’

Kris decided that when he had enough clout, comps would be moved to the middle of the venue, and only the real fans would be allowed up front.

Triumphantly they launched into their last song. A fast-driving rocker written by Kris and Ollie entitled ‘Skinny Little Slider’.

It brought the house down. The audience were on their feet, yelling and clamouring for more.

They did two more choruses of ‘Skinny Little Slider’, and then they were off, running from the stage, sweat-soaked and ecstatic.

‘Fuck me!’ screamed Rasta. ‘This is better ’n sex any day!’

‘Bloody right!’ agreed Kris.

Who needed one woman when there were sixty thousand lusting after your body?

*    *    *

‘You looked like a bunch of tatty layabouts,’ brother Brian said, shovelling spaghetti into his mouth. ‘Can’t you afford decent outfits?’

Jennifer, his wife agreed. ‘Oh, yes. Matching outfits would be ever so nice, wouldn’t they? The Beatles always appeared so smart . . .’ She trailed off, silenced by the look Kris gave her.

He sat with his mum, Horace, his two sisters and their boyfriends, Brian and Jennifer, in Trattoria Terrazza, an Italian restaurant in Soho.

What a group! What a letdown! Why he had arranged a family outing on a night like this was beyond him. Christ! This was the downer of all times, and he’d
asked
for it.
Set
it up. While everybody else went off to parties and celebrations.

He’d done it for his mum, really. Avis, so proud. The matriarch of the family with her loud voice and work-worn hands.

She was beaming with pride, ignoring Brian for once. ‘I never thought I’d see the day,’ she said, craftily snagging a half-eaten roll, wrapping it in a tissue, and sliding it in her bag.

‘Mum!’ Kris objected. ‘I can buy you all the bread you want.’

‘Not like this, lad. Nice an’ fresh. It’ll go down a treat in the morning with a bit of marge, a dab of jam, an’ a nice cuppa tea.’ She smiled contentedly.

‘Take one for me,’ Horace said irritably. ‘Streuth! I’ve got an ’orrible ’eadache after all that noise.’

‘Me too,’ agreed Brian. ‘Give me Barry Manilow any day.’ He threw his younger brother a smug look. ‘No offence, Kris. But even
you
have to admit that it’s a bloody awful racket you make up there.’

The evening went from bad to worse as Brian got into his stride, complaining about everything. Horace joined in, and his two sisters stared at him as if they’d never really noticed him before. Meanwhile Avis went on a food-stealing binge the likes of which he’d never seen. After the bread rolls she laid claim to a slice of veal Jennifer had left over, almost an entire salad, and a large piece of chocolate rum cake.

‘Ma,’ he pleaded. ‘Let ’em pack the stuff up for you. I’m payin’ for it, y’know.’

‘That’s all right, dear,’ she said cheerfully, having a wonderful time. It’s better this way. Don’t want to embarrass you, do I?’

Oh, sure. She had a bag full of food wrapped in a few soggy tissues, and she didn’t want to embarrass him. Great! At least she was happy.

A girl at another table recognized him and scurried over asking for an autograph.

‘She probably thinks you’re Rod Stewart,’ sneered Brian.

‘Thanks,’ Kris snapped, and called for the bill.

*    *    *

By the time he reached Annabel’s he was well gone. Once the family were dispatched into the night, he’d stopped by Rasta’s party, held at a rowdy pub in Brixton. Several beers and a few vodkas later he arrived at the exclusive Berkeley Square establishment, his only claim to respectability being the chauffeured Daimler he’d hired for the night.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the doorman said, with frosty politeness. ‘This is a membership-only club.’

‘Yeah.’ Kris swayed slightly, cleverly concealing a burp. ‘The thing is, I’m joinin’ Lady Stephenson. How’s that for gettin’ me in?’

‘You’d better speak to them downstairs’, the doorman said regally, indicating that Kris should descend the open stairway.

‘Bloody basement,’ Kris muttered, holding onto the side for support.

Downstairs, inside the entrance to the club, a manager in evening dress greeted him. ‘Sir?’

‘Uh . . . Kris Phoenix, that’s me. I’m s’pose to be joinin’ uh . . . Lady Stephenson.’

‘Ah, yes, sir. Mr Phoenix from The Wild Ones. Lady Stephenson is expecting you.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Lowering his voice the manager added discreetly, ‘We do have a dress code, Mr Phoenix. If you follow me I’m sure we can put that right.’

‘A what code?’

‘Dress, sir. Jacket and ties for the gentlemen. Suitable attire for the ladies.’

‘You’re kiddin’?’

‘This way, sir.’

The manager ushered him into a side room where he offered him a white shirt, blue jacket, and red tie.

‘I feel like a bleedin’ Union Jack!’ Kris joked, putting the outfit on.

‘We’ll turn a blind eye to your bottom half, sir’, said the manager, with a benevolent smile. ‘Perhaps you can sign my daughter’s autograph book. She’s quite a fan.’

Ego was slowly being restored. Kris took the autograph book with a flourish. ‘Certainly mate. An’ what’s the little darlin’s name?’

Rafealla

1977

Lady Stephenson, Fenella’s mother, was the most amazing woman. She knew everyone and was invited to everything. Film premieres, the best parties, restaurant openings, art galleries. If there was a gala occasion, it was a safe bet that Lady Stephenson, in her frills and flounces, would be there.

Fenella did not often accompany her, but when she heard The Wild Ones were doing a one-night concert in London, and that her mother – as usual – was invited, she telephoned Rafealla and said enthusiastically, ‘I’m going to ask mummy if we can go too. Are you on?’

‘You bet!’ Rafealla replied. Both she and Fenella were crazy about The Wild Ones. At finishing school they’d played ‘Dirty Miss Mary’ whenever they could. Fenella quite fancied the black drummer, and Rafealla thought Buzz Darke the most interesting, with his sinister looks and ‘I Don’t Give a Damn’ attitude.

They set off for the concert full of great expectations. Rafealla was relieved to get out of the house. It was three weeks since she’d slept with Eddie Mafair, and she had not heard one word from him since. She couldn’t believe it. What a
bastardl!

‘Why don’t you phone
him?’
Fenella suggested helpfully.

Phone him! Ha! She’d sooner die. He had her number, she’d scrawled it in his phone book herself.

He was a jerk anyway. After sex he’d fallen asleep, surfaced three hours later, and summoned a cab to spirit her back to the country. The cheapskate didn’t even offer to pay for the taxi, so she’d had to borrow the money from the Stephenson’s butler. Men! What a bunch of insensitive creeps.

And yet . . . she loved him. In spite of the fact that going all the way with Eddie Mafair had not been as physically fulfilling as the playful necking sessions she’d indulged in with her other boyfriends. It didn’t matter. She
still
loved him.

So what? He obviously couldn’t give a damn about her.

In her head she went through the excuses he might come up with.

Too busy at work.

What did he actually do? She had no idea.

Sick.

Did that mean his dialling finger automatically stopped functioning?

On vacation.

Well, he would have mentioned
something
about going away, wouldn’t he?

It was not a happy time for her. But he
would
phone. If she just sat it out and waited patiently, she knew he would.

The venue for The Wild Ones’ concert was crazy time. Lady Stephenson had special stickers attached to her car, and parking attendants waved her chauffeur-driven Rolls through the unruly crowd to a VIP roped-off parking area.

‘Come along, everyone,’ she trilled. ‘Let’s go backstage and have a drink.’

‘Divine, darling’, said Pierce, her faithful walker, who did double duty as her interior designer. Lord Stephenson only made rare forays into his rambunctious wife’s social activities. He infinitely preferred the quiet life.

The backstage party was an experience. Lady Stephenson and Pierce vanished into the melee of people, while Rafealla and Fenella stood at the entrance taking it all in. Rock and roll was a whole new world.

‘Wow!’ Fenella breathed. ‘Don’t stare, but that’s him.
That’s
the drummer. And I think he’s looking over here!’

‘Hmm . . . whatever happened to “black bastard”?’ Rafealla asked coolly, checking out the cheeky-looking drummer.

‘Oh, God! Don’t bring
that
up,’ Fenella groaned. ‘You can’t imagine how embarrassed I am. How could I ever have said that?’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Who?’

‘The guy on the drums, idiot.’

‘Rasta. Sounds interesting, huh?’

‘Yeah, your mother would find it
veree
interesting if she knew you fancied him.’

‘Girls!’ The piercing voice of Lady Stephenson filled the air, rising above the clamour, followed by a frilled and flounced wave. ‘Over here!’

They edged their way towards the makeshift bar, where Pierce supplied them with two paper cups filled with flat Coca-Cola.