Rock Star (32 page)

A walk would be nice.

Impossible. Riff-raff groupies stalked every hotel they stayed at, waiting to pounce with their blank, starey eyes, quivering lips and voracious appetites. They would do anything to get near one of the stars of a successful group, and invariably did. The bouncers, equipment drivers and roadies had many a bawdy tale to tell of teenage girls willing to perform whatever was required – and all for a mere backstage pass.

Buzz and Rasta had worked out a crafty system for picking the girls they fancied out of the audience. During the course of their performance they were able to give a series of hand signals to a roadie standing at the side of the stage, pinpointing the females of their choice. He, in turn, contacted a second roadie sitting in the audience. By the time the show was over, the chosen girls were assembled in a room waiting for the stars to take their pick. The leftovers were divided among the crew. And the girls seemed perfectly satisfied. They were thrilled to have been noticed in the first place.

Kris had no desire to go along with that kind of soulless action. Random sex had lost its thrill. How about a relationship for a change? Someone who cared about Kris Phoenix the person – not the rock and roll image. The super god in black leather with a red-hot guitar between his legs. Jesus – that’s what he needed, someone who really cared.

America.

It was theirs.

And he wasn’t fulfilled or satisfied or any of the things he knew he should be.

Rasta banged on the door. ‘Are you bleedin’ comin’ out or wot? Mikki’s goin’ spare. She says you promised ’er tonight’s the night.’

Michelle Hanley-Bogart of New York City. A former deb of the year, an heiress with monied parents and a penchant for rock stars. She was twenty-three, exceptionally pretty, and self-titled queen of the groupies. According to Mikki she had been collecting notches on her Gucci belt since the tender age of thirteen. ‘Honey,’ she was fond of saying in her up-town gravelly voice, ‘you ain’t a star until Mikki says you are.’

Whispers informed him that Michelle Hanley-Bogart made no false claims to fame. She’d been to bed with all the greats, and was never proved wrong. Once in Mikki’s bed and there was no limit.

Buzz wanted a crack, but since she’d joined the entourage in Philadelphia she had eyes only for Kris.

Pretty as she was, infamous as she was, he found himself holding back. On this – their second tour of America – he did not have jet-lag, he had groupie-lag.

Mikki waited patiently, endearing herself to the rest of the group and the roadies by picking out the best girls, the best restaurants, and the best places to have fun in as they trekked through city after city. Mikki would have made a sensational tour manager – she knew it all.

Buzz was insulted she hadn’t chosen him. She’d share a joint, but nothing else. ‘I’m waiting for Kris,’ she’d say simply, when pressed. It had become the tour joke. When was Kris going to get a leg over?

He’d promised her it would happen in Chicago. Now he felt like a reluctant bridegroom.

Wot the fuck you
doin
’ in there?’ demanded Rasta.

‘A tribal marriage dance,’ Kris replied dourly, and re-entered the real world.

The party was going strong. The Temptations blasted forth from the stereo. Wine, beer and champagne flowed. There were plenty of couples in advanced stages of necking, and joints being passed back and forth like dime store candy. Buzz seemed to be buried beneath two busty blondes. Flower was safely stashed in London, but even if she were present she wouldn’t object, as group sex was her hobby.

Mikki stood serenely next to the stereo, wearing a turquoise mini-dress with patterned stockings and black patent-leather pumps. Her straight blonde hair was parted in the middle and held back with a neat barrette. The word ‘virgin’ came to mind. Mikki looked like she’d never done it in her life.

Kris grinned. He couldn’t help liking her. She had a terrific personality, always up, always fun. If she hadn’t slept with a virtual
Who’s Who
of the rock world, he could quite fancy a steady relationship.

‘Hello – star,’ she said, her knowing voice arguing with her pretty image.

Why didn’t he just close his eyes and think of England? Not such a great hardship.

Rafealla

1981

Escape had been on Rafealla’s mind for many months. The only reason she’d stayed around so long was because of Jon Jon, now a robust four-year-old. Life was a series of dangerous skirmishes. She had to be on her guard at all times, ready to deflect Eddie’s vicious temper tantrums and bouts of cruelty. She kept an old Turkish dagger in its tooled leather case under the bed – one of the few souvenirs she had of her father. Once, she had taken it out and threatened him. The beatings had to stop. It seemed a suitable way to warn him.

‘You wouldn’t dare use that thing,’ he’d jeered.

‘Just try me,’ she’d said grimly, her eyes explosive pinpoints of trouble.

The beatings stopped. The verbal abuse, and the gambling, did not.

Lady Elizabetta obviously knew what was going on – but said nothing. They had moved from her apartment into a Chelsea service flat, and she visited every few weeks to see her grandchild and criticize. Anna, Rafealla’s own mother, suspected all was not well, but Rafealla refused to break and tell the truth. She had too much pride. After all, the marriage had been
her
idea, and to admit defeat was humiliating – even to her own family.

Odile guessed. ‘Eddie’s not perfect,’ Rafealla admitted reluctantly. ‘We’re working things out.’

The truth was that Eddie Mafair was a sadistic, gambling drunk, and Rafealla had finally faced up to the fact that things were never going to change. She had given him over four years of her life. It was enough.

Leaving him was going to be no simple task. He depended on Lord Egerton’s money to support his gambling habit. And even though he had never availed himself of the job Lord Egerton had offered him, it suited him to know the opportunity was always available.

No, Eddie would not take kindly to her departure. He professed to love his son, although she had never seen any proof of it. He ignored Jon Jon, bitterly complaining when the child made too much noise or messed up the apartment.

Rafealla didn’t mind.
He’s not your son,
she thought triumphantly. What a lucky twist of fate
that
was.

Their sex life was almost non-existent. It had been that from the beginning. When they
did
sleep together, it was merely a physical release – and as far as Rafealla was concerned, not a very satisfactory one. At first she had tried to talk to him, attempted to make some sense out of their relationship.

‘It’s what
you
wanted,’ was all he would say. ‘You forced it on both of us, so don’t whine – because it’s too late.’

True. But she was older and wiser now. Her life was ahead of her, and four years was enough of a chance to give anyone.

Odile and Rafealla’s stepbrother, Rupert, shocked everyone with news of a quickie marriage in Rio de Janeiro. Odile phoned with the good tidings.

‘It’s wonderful!’ Rafealla exclaimed, genuinely thrilled. ‘How come you didn’t
tell
anyone? Mama will go crazy, and so will your mother. You know how they both
love
big weddings.’

‘Exactly what we wished to avoid’, giggled Odile. ‘I’m
sooo
happy! We want you to come and visit us, and bring Jon Jon.’

‘I’d love to,’ Rafealla said quietly, thinking this might be exactly the opportunity she’d been waiting for. Rupert had been living in South America for two years, working on a mammoth engineering project.

Brazil. On the phone he spoke about it glowingly.

Brazil.

It could be the pefect escape.

*    *    *

‘How long will you be away?’ Eddie asked churlishly.

Forever.
‘Three weeks.’

‘That’s far too much time,’ he said, swigging a third after – dinner brandy.

‘It’s a great distance,’ Rafealla replied carefully. ‘I can’t just go there then turn around and come right back.’

‘And who’s supposed to look after me while you’re away?’

‘You’ll manage.’

‘I know I’ll manage,’ he said petulantly. ‘But why should I? That’s what I married
you
for.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, and did not regret her decision one little bit.

She packed carefully, taking only her very favourite things. It wouldn’t do to make him suspicious.

As she was filling the last suitcase he came into the bedroom and stared at her. ‘You’re taking a hell of a lot of stuff for three weeks,’ he said accusingly.

The fumes of his breath hit her in the face. She almost gagged. In an even voice she said, ‘I’m leaving you, Eddie, I’m never coming back.’

For one split second he took her seriously, and then he began to laugh. He was quite convinced she couldn’t live without him – he’d told her so on many occasions.

‘I couldn’t get rid of you if I tried,’ he said, with immodest confidence. ‘When you tricked me into marrying you it was a life sentence, wasn’t it, sweetheart?’

You wish.
‘Yes,’ she said dully.

‘C’mere.

Automatically she backed away.

His tone was threatening. ‘I . . .
said . . .
come . . . here.’

‘Eddie, I’m tired—’

‘Oh, it’s “Eddie I’m tired” now, is it? I can remember when you never stopped complaining because we
didn’t make
love as much as you wanted.’

‘It’s just that—’

‘It’s just that what, sweetheart?’ He grabbed her around the waist and pressed his lips down hard on hers.

She wanted to scream. All the times she’d yearned for his attention. All the lonely nights and frustrating encounters that started off hopefully and ended in drunken bouts of cruelty.

Now he seemed in control. He was not quite drunk enough to cramp his style, and she could feel his erection pressing insistently against her thigh, and his hands creeping under her sweater.

Oh, Eddie, once you were my dream lover . . .

What happened?

In spite of herself she began to respond to his practised touch. Her physical needs swept away their cloudy past, and she opened up to pure, unbridled passion as he made love to her like he hadn’t made love to her before.

With perfect precision he brought them to mutual orgasm, kissing her on the mouth as it happened, murmuring words – unspoken before – of great love and tenderness.

‘Eddie . . .’ She gasped his name, filled with confusion and guilt. Could it be that after all this time she had finally touched him? And now they could live happily ever after?

No . . . Absolutely not. Pure fairy-tale time. But she fell asleep full of doubts, wondering if leaving was the right thing to do.

In the morning he woke her with gentle kisses and clean breath. He made love to her again, bringing her to new heights of dizzying sensation.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked wonderingly.

‘I simply realized how much I’m going to miss you,’ he said, kissing her face. ‘Hurry home, sweetheart.’

Jon Jon was staying at her mother’s. She had arranged to meet them both at the airport. Her mother knew nothing of her plan to stay in South America, nobody did. It wasn’t too late to change her mind . . .

Eddie insisted on driving her to the airport. He organized the luggage and porters, then escorted her to the VIP lounge, where he proceeded to play with Jon Jon, making the child scream with delight.

Anna smiled. She was relieved to witness such a happy family group. Sometimes she wasn’t so sure that all was well with her headstrong daughter’s marriage, but today her doubts were firmly put to rest.

When their flight was called, Eddie drew Rafealla over to a quiet corner. ‘I never learned to express my positive feelings,’ he said, staring intently into her eyes. ‘However, somehow, with you going away, everything’s fallen into position, and I
know
I’m going to make it better for you. Trust me, sweetheart. Come home soon. I miss you and little Jon already.’

By the time she was on the plane, strapped in and ready for take-off, she was a nervous wreck. What was she
doing?
Running off half-way around the world to escape from what? It seemed too good to be true, but in a miraculously short period of time Eddie honestly appeared to have changed.

So,
the voice of reason told her,
go for three weeks and come hack.

But I want to be with him now,
another voice cried.

Forget it, see what happens,
cautioned the sensible voice.

The large jet taxied down the runway.

Too late now, kid.

*    *    *

Three hours later they were still on the plane, which never left the runway, due to some kind of technical difficulty. The passengers were hot and impatient, and every half-hour they were promised an imminent, take-off. Jon Jon was restless, flushed with excitement and tired.

Rafealla summoned a stewardess. ‘Can you tell me exactly what is happening?’ she asked.

The stewardess shrugged. ‘I wish I could. Every half-hour they inform us it will be
another
half-hour. We know as much as you.’

Eventually an official announcement was made. The plane was not going anywhere, and the passengers were offered alternatives. Everyone disembarked.

Rafealla found a helpful ground clerk, and enquired if she could take the same flight the following day.

‘Certainly,’ he said, wishing she would take a flight into his life. This was some great-looking female.

‘Keep my luggage and book us on it,’ she said, hurrying for a cab, with Jon Jon running happily beside her, his short little legs doing double time to keep up. After dropping Jon Jon back at her mother’s house – a mere twenty minutes from the airport – she borrowed her stepfather’s Aston Martin, and drove in high spirits to the Chelsea flat she shared with Eddie. By the time she arrived it was early evening and already dark. She’d had all day to think things over and felt good about getting another chance to be with her husband before her vacation. Because that’s what she’d decided it was going to be. A vacation. A break. And in three weeks they would both be ready to start their marriage afresh.