Rock Star (28 page)

‘Please, Eddie,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t talk like that—’

Abruptly he yanked her down on top of him, roughly pushing her skirt up, and tearing at her panties.

‘Open your legs,’ he commanded coldly.

‘No, Eddie. Not like this. No.’

Her objections only served to excite him, and pinning her down he managed to free himself from the confines of his trousers and thrust towards her.

She struggled for a moment, finally going limp, allowing him to jab away until he lost his erection and pushed her to the floor in disgust. Then he started to cry. As usual she felt sorry for him, and with difficulty managed to help him from the couch, guide him along the corridor to their room, and dump him on the bed, where he promptly fell asleep.

Throwing a blanket over him, she hurried back to the living room and tidied up. Just in time, for Lady Elizabetta Mafair made a noisy entrance with her beau of the moment, an ex-Member of Parliament, with several chins and a penchant for discipline.

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Lady Elizabetta, hardly concealing her annoyance. ‘You’re still up.’

I’m just off to bed,’ Rafealla said quickly.

‘No hurry, dear,’ said the ex-politician, helping himself to a large glass of brandy.

‘She’s tired,’ Lady Elizabetta insisted. ‘Let her go.’

‘Yes, I’m very tired’, Rafealla replied. ‘Please excuse me.’

Walking rapidly from the room, she knew that everything was her own fault. With a sigh she thought about the events of the past two years, and realized with a feeling of deep despair that she had nobody to blame but herself.

*    *    *

The day Eddie Mafair announced his engagement to Fiona Ripley-Hedges in
The Times
was the day Rafealla found out for sure she was pregnant.

After her initial shock and horror, it occurred to her that she was carrying Eddie Mafair’s baby, and that therefore they were irrevocably joined, and nothing and nobody could ever change that.

For several days she nursed her secret to herself, not even confiding in Odile or Fenella. Until eventually she went to her mother and confessed everything.

Anna was horrified. ‘You’re barely eighteen,’ she said, appalled. ‘A mere child. Who is this Eddie Mafair? What kind of despicable man takes advantage of a
child?’

‘I’m not a child,’ Rafealla stated firmly. ‘And he
didn’t
take advantage of me. I love Eddie, and I want to marry him.’

Anna was even more horrified. ‘Marriage! At your age. I
cannot
say yes.’

‘Mama. Eighteen is old enough. In some countries girls get married at thirteen.’

‘Uncivilized countries.’

‘Ah, but you don’t seem to understand. I will
not
have an abortion. So . . . you see . . . marriage is the only answer.’

There was never any doubt in her mind what she wanted. Marriage. Eddie would marry her
– should
marry her. And they’d live happily ever after.

Anna, and Rafealla’s stepfather, Lord Egerton, met with Eddie’s widowed mother, Lady Elizabetta Mafair. She was a formidable-looking woman in her late fifties. Once a great beauty, with a scandalous divorce behind her, she was still fiercely attractive, with dyed raven hair, scarlet lips, and piercing dagger eyes. ‘I can’t tell Eddie what to do,’ she said unpleasantly. ‘He’s over twenty-one, and already engaged to some other girl.’

‘But you
can
influence him, can’t you?’ said Cyrus, a man used to getting his own way, and determined to do so now.

Lady Elizabetta reached for a cigarette, leaning forward so Cyrus could light it for her. The swell of her breasts fell into view.

Anna looked away. It offended her the way this woman was flirting with her husband.

‘Perhaps,’ Lady Elizabetta said casually, drawing smoke deeply into her lungs.

‘I’ve done a touch of investigating,’ Cyrus said, getting up and pacing around the room. ‘It seems that your son has gambled his inheritance away, and does not stand to gain another penny until you – please excuse me for saying this – pass away. Fortunately,’ he added, with a dry laugh, ‘you appear to be extremely healthy to me. ’

‘I am,’ Lady Elizabetta said. ‘Unfortunately for poor Eddie. Although I understand this girl he’s engaged to comes from a wealthy family. ’

‘I gather that
is
the main attraction. ’

‘Hmm, you seem to know all the answers, Lord Egerton. I wonder why our paths never crossed before?’

‘Well, you see,’ Cyrus said wryly, ‘when you were coming out as debutante of the year—’

‘Please don’t say
what
year,’ she interrupted, with a tightly controlled smile.

‘I wouldn’t dream of doing so,’ he replied, being charming, because Anna wanted him to settle this matter, and whatever Anna wanted he would do. ‘As I was saying,’ he continued. ‘When you were being honoured I was just a copy boy – running errands on Fleet Street. ’

‘How you’ve risen,’ Lady Elizabetta mocked, blowing a stream of smoke in his face.

‘It took me many years of hard work. ’

‘I’m sure it did. ’

Anna rose from the couch. Let’s get to the point,’ she said forcefully.

Cyrus glanced at her in surprise. It was unlike his darling Anna to assert herself. And then he realized she was jealous, and it pleased him, puffed him up.

‘The point is money,’ he said, taking an authoritative tone. ‘If Eddie is willing to marry our daughter, I will settle an immediate million-pound trust fund on their unborn baby. Plus I will give Eddie a worthwhile job, and a bonus payment of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds a year for the next five years.’

‘Generous,’ remarked Lady Elizabetta. ‘Your daughter must really love him. ’

‘She does,’ said Anna. ‘That’s the only reason he was able to take advantage of such a very young and innocent girl.’

Lady Elizabetta raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘We’re living in the seventies, Lady Egerton. I doubt if Eddie took advantage of anyone. From what I read about girls today, quite the reverse is probably true. ’

A faint blush of anger suffused Anna’s pale cheeks. ‘Nonesense!’ she said vehemently.

‘Ladies,’ interrupted Cyrus. ‘Shall we get to the reason for this meeting? A marriage between our daughter and your son. Let us not waste any more time. Is it arrangeable or not?’

*    *    *

The wedding between Rafealla Le Serre Egerton and Eddie Mafair was a glittering social affair. Rafealla wore a stunning white satin Norman Hartnell wedding gown, and Eddie looked very handsome in his dark morning suit.

The bride’s mother was clad in pale blue, and the groom’s mother favoured attention-getting scarlet.

As bridesmaids, Odile and Fenella were pretty in pink. And Rupert was best man.

The ceremony took place in church, and the reception was held in the ballroom of the Grosvenor House Hotel on Park Lane, where Eddie had booked a suite for their honeymoon night, before their flight to Acapulco the next day.

Rafealla was incredibly nervous. She’d hardly spent any time with Eddie alone while the wedding was being hurriedly planned. Two dinners with her mother and stepfather present. Tea with Lady Elizabetta. And one lunch with Eddie at San Lorenzo, where he’d drunk too much wine and failed to tell her he loved her.

Hardly the perfect beginning, but they had their whole lives ahead of them, and things could only get better.

The wedding passed in a blur of faces. So many people, and only a few she knew. By the end of the day her cheeks were aching from smiling so much.

Eddie behaved impeccably. He didn’t drink, and was polite to everyone. How handsome he looked in his morning suit. With a shiver of pleasure Rafealla knew she had made the right choice.

*    *    *

Eddie mumbled in his sleep, but didn’t wake. Fortunately. For Rafealla was too exhausted to deal with any, more of his vile behaviour tonight. She brushed her long hair and thought about their baby – Jonathan, or Jon Jon as everyone called him.

Their baby . . . The only reason she and Eddie were together. The only reason she could never leave him.

Soon Jonathan would be two years old. And he looked exactly like Kris Phoenix.

Bobby Mondella

1979

‘
They want you for a cover on
People.
Do you realize what that means?’

‘The week in England is a sell-out. The tickets have only been on sale three hours.’

‘Can you make the July the fourth weekend in Washington? The President’s wife requested you personally.’

Stardom.

How sweet it is.

Bobby Mondella lived in Los Angeles, in a Hancock Park mansion with eleven bedrooms, eleven matching bathrooms, several huge entertaining rooms, and a lush, landscaped garden.

He lived alone, apart from six servants and two fierce Alsatians.

Outside the house there was a dark green Rolls-Royce, a white Porsche, and a 1959 vintage pink Thunderbird.

Whenever Rocket Fabrizzi was in town he stayed with Bobby. Rocket was also a star, a movie star. But since his divorce from the serious Roman Vanders, he shunned possessions, preferring to live out of a couple of suitcases and bed down in friends’ spare rooms.

‘Wadderya need all this garbage for?’ he often asked Bobby. ‘You’re not married. You have no kids. I don’t get it.’

‘Why not?’ Bobby replied. ‘I can afford it. I like havin’ stuff. It’s a kick.’

Rocket shook his head. ‘I guess we’ve come a long way from Greenwich Village,’ he said, with a bitter twist of longing.

‘The further the better,’ Bobby responded sharply.

Bobby Mondella, just as Marcus Citroen had predicted, was a superstar. He was Stevie Wonder with more sex appeal. Michael Jackson with balls. Teddy Pendergrass with a mainstream connection. He was that rare happening – a black star who crossed right on over to white America and was immediately accepted. In the two years since his debut concert at the Hollywood Bowl he’d had two smash albums, and seven hit singles culled from them – an unheard-of accomplishment, as most artists were lucky if they got one or two hits off an album.

He’d received six Grammy awards. Another unheard-of achievement in such a short period of time.

‘You’re the greatest!’ everyone told him. It was a soothing mantra.

Rocket never told him any such thing, and when he jokingly complained, his friend laughed. ‘I’ll cut a deal with ya,’ Rocket said easily. ‘You don’t buzz me ’bout bein’ the new Marlon, an’ I’ll never give ya any of that “you’re wonderful’’ crap. ’Cos, Bobby, ya gotta remember where we’re both comin’ from, an’ never – like I mean
never
—
get caught up in the bullshit. It don’t mean nothin’, man, an’ it ain’t gonna last.’

Once every six weeks, Nova Citroen flew into town. She and Marcus owned a Bel Air estate and had recently purchased a huge piece of property at the beach. Nova came in to meet with architects and designers. Marcus usually stayed in New York – he was not overly fond of Los Angeles.

Nova had rented a small house in the Malibu colony under an assumed name. Having embarked on an affair with Bobby, she was quite strict about absolute secrecy. During her brief visits they usually got together for several hours of unadulterated lust. She was a very sensual woman, with extremely sophisticated sexual tastes. Bobby tried to discourage her overt kinkiness.

‘Wouldn’t you like to have me and another woman together?’ she often teased. ‘I can arrange it very easily, you know. Most men would kill for such an opportunity.’

‘No way,’ he replied. ‘You’re enough for me.’

Usually she smiled and called him her ‘suburban lover’.

‘Don’t you wish!’ he boasted jokingly. ‘I’m a star, baby. I can have any woman I want.’

‘Never forget,’ she said quietly, ‘Marcus makes stars, and he can break them. For instance—’ She paused meaningfully. ‘If he ever found out about us . . .’

She never had to say any more than that.

Sometimes he thought he was crazy for continuing the affair. But there was something about her that had him hooked. He needed Nova. This classy, rich woman with the hungry body and cool personality. And it was no longer a grudge fuck against Marcus. It was much more. She was so different from all the other women he’d had, the females who gathered around a star, anxious for any crumb of affection . . .

When Nova wasn’t in town he forced himself to date other women. Currently he was seeing a bubble-blonde actress who couldn’t pronounce her
‘th’s
properly, and was considered adorably cute. And a forty-year-old black feminist.

Rocket was dating no one. ‘Sometimes I like t’save it, man,’ he explained, when Bobby tried to fix him up. ‘Y’know – put it all into a performance.’

Privately Bobby thought Rocket still had a case on Sharleen. Well, he was too late. Sharleen had just announced her engagement to a well-known clothes designer in New York. Bobby wondered how Marcus Citroen felt about
that.
The rumour was that she and Marcus continued to be an unspoken item. Bobby had lost touch with her a long time ago. He’d realized life was too short to live it for someone else.

Rocket wandered into the bedroom as Bobby finished dressing. They’d been invited to a party for the opening of Nichols Kline’s new discotheque in Beverly Hills, and neither could resist the temptation of seeing their former boss from the Chainsaw.

Nichols had done very well for himself. He was the biggest concert promoter on the West Coast, and he’d started Nichols Hit City, his own extremely successful record company. Now he was opening Nichols as an ego trip.