Rock Star (38 page)

‘So he’s tellin’ you now,’ Mikki said, glaring at him fiercely.

‘Yeah, man,’ Buzz agreed, all stoned, bloodshot eyes and snake hips, his dirty black hair pulled back into a scruffy pony-tail. ‘I’m tellin’ yer now.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ Kris said sarcastically. ‘The Wild Ones are breakin’ up after fourteen years together, and you’re lettin’ me know as an afterthought.
Very
nice.’

‘The Wild Ones don’t have to break up if Buzz decides to do other projects as well,’ Doktor Head said, still trying to keep the peace.

‘Aw,
shit
, leave it out,’ Kris said disgustedly. ‘It’s over, man. Me and Buzz started the group, an’ if he wants to go, it’s all right with me.’ Shaking his head he added, ‘I’m tired of pickin’ up after him anyway. Mikki, baby, he’s all yours.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Doktor Head said quickly. ‘The new album comes out in a few weeks. We have four live shows to do in Australia next month, and there’s the video we have to finish. Oh yes, and another album commitment to Nichols Hit City. He can’t walk.’

‘He can do what he wants,’ Mikki said grandly. ‘Del Delgardo did when he left the Nightmares.’

‘I don’t give a fuck about Del Delgardo,’ Doktor Head said, getting forceful. ‘Buzz has commitments, and if he doesn’t care to keep them, he’ll get the ass sued off him. Is that what he wants?’

‘I’ll finish the friggin’ video,’ Buzz mumbled. ‘An’ the Australian dates, but that’s it. After Australia I’m gone. Use someone else on the album. I don’t give a frig.’

‘You can work everything out with me,’ Mikki said, very business-like, shooting Kris a spiteful look. ‘
I’m
his new manager.’

After that, Kris and Buzz went out of their way to ignore each other. For years Kris had been trying to save his friend from himself. It was no good. Buzz was on a path to destruction, and now he had the perfect partner.

Early one evening Doktor Head arrived at the hotel with a pretty Danish girl. He introduced her to Kris as Astrid. ‘She makes the best leather pants in the world’, he said. ‘You’ll love her work – especially the way
you
jump around on stage. I’m going next door, I’ll be back in a minute.’

Kris was used to male designers, and Astrid looked too young to know what she was doing anyway. Lounging on the sofa, he said, ‘I don’t need anything, luv. But hang about, we’ll have dinner.’

‘No, thank you,’ she replied, with only the trace of an accent. ‘I have another engagement.’

He was surprised. ‘No thank you’ was a phrase he
never
heard. ‘Break it,’ he said, testing her.

She smiled. ‘I can’t. It’s with my fiancé, and I don’t think he’d understand.’

A turn-down! A genuine turn-down! This was interesting.

‘Maybe I
will
have some pants made,’ he said lazily. ‘What d’you suggest?’

She was pretty in the way that only Scandinavian girls can be. Clear-skinned, with a smattering of light freckles. Wide grey eyes. A snub nose, and long, straight flaxen hair.

He noticed, beneath the pale blue tracksuit she had on, promising breasts, a small waist, and exceptionally long legs. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Approaching the back of the sofa, she asked, Do you like leather?’

He gave her a shot of the Phoenix intense blue-eyed gaze, and said, ‘Only if it’s
very
soft, luv. Know what I mean?’

She knew what he meant all right, but she chose to ignore his double entendre. Opening her sizeable purse, she produced a swatch of different colours. ‘The pale beige is nice. This particular leather is very comfortable to wear.’

Fingering the material he wondered if she’d agree to a quick medical check.

‘Maybe the orange,’ she pressed. ‘Or is it too hot for you?’

Was she, in her own not-so-subtle way, coming on to him?

‘Nothin’s too hot for me, darlin’,’ he said, grabbing her – and tumbling her over the top of the sofa. Scandinavian lips were hot lips, everyone knew that. Grabbing a tit he tried to kiss her.

‘What are you
doing
!’ she yelled indignantly, pushing him off and standing up. ‘How
dare
you! I’m not one of your groupies.’ Snatching up her swatch of materials, cheeks red with genuine anger, she stalked to the door, opened it and slammed out.

Kris felt like a fool. When Doktor Head reappeared he said, ‘What was
she
all about?’

‘Who?’ Doktor Head asked vaguely.

‘The Danish bit.’

‘Oh, Astrid. She’s the greatest. You’ll be very pleased.’

‘With
what
?’

The pants she designs for you. When Michael Hollywood was alive she made all his stuff. He swore by her.’

‘You mean she really makes things?’

‘Yes.’ Doktor Head began to laugh. ‘You didn’t come on to her, did you?’

‘Why would I do that?’ Kris asked sarcastically. ‘You parade her in here – a blonde with a body – an’ then you piss off. What was I
supposed
to do, play chess?’

‘Berk! You were
supposed
to order some pants.’

He did. He ordered in every colour of the soft leather she’d shown him. And he sent her twelve dozen yellow roses along with a pair of trousers he wanted copied.

An assistant delivered the finished goods in three days with a hefty bill. Twelve pairs of perfect leather pants.

Before he could decide what to do about Astrid, he was summoned to London. His son had been in a car accident, and was in the hospital. They didn’t think he would live.

Rafealla

1983

After her divorce from Eddie Mafair was final, Rafealla still refused to marry Jorge, but she did – eventually – move in with him. The pressures of being a young and beautiful girl in a big city with a small child to look after finally got to her. She didn’t need his money, but she did need his protection. Besides, it suited her. After Luiz, she had decided there was no future with anyone else. The most painful thing of all was that she’d never heard from him again. Two years of silence. What was it with her and men? Did she turn them off to such an extent that after they slept with her, they never wanted to see her again?’

Jorge didn’t feel that way. Jorge couldn’t get enough.

Odile was disapproving. ‘If you’re sleeping with him anyway, why don’t you get married?’

‘Because I don’t ever want to be tied to a man again,’ she explained. ‘I need to be free.’

‘Why?’

With a shrug she said, ‘Who knows? Just to ride the rainbow without anyone stopping me.’

‘You’re crazy.’ Odile shook her head.

‘I know,’ Rafealla replied, perfectly happy.

She had taken up singing again, and that pleased her. Twice a week her voice coach, a stout Viennese woman, arrived at Jorge’s mansion to put her through a vigorous routine. She loved the discipline and the pleasure. Singing was her joy. Having given up her job in the art gallery, she now spent the rest of her days shopping, going to the beach, lunching with Odile, and playing with Jon Jon – a sturdy six-year-old with a tough, stubborn streak. In the evening there were numerous parties and social events to attend with Jorge. He enjoyed entertaining, and was a gracious host.

‘You’re only twenty-three,’ Odile said to her after one of Jorge’s dinner parties. ‘Why are you mixing with all these old people? You’d better watch out or you’ll turn into one of them.’

‘I happen to enjoy their company. There’s nothing wrong with being older, you know. I’m learning a lot.’

‘Like what?’

She sighed. ‘Odile. Get on with your own life and leave me alone.’

‘
My life
is going back to England soon,’ Odile replied, determined to get her point across. ‘I’m worried about you. You’re just drifting along. You and Jon Jon should come with us. This place is fabulous for a few years, but surely you miss Europe?’

Yes. She did miss London arid Paris and the South of France and her mother and stepfather and their big house in the country, and the horses she used to love to ride. But how could she leave Rio? If she left there was no way she would ever see Luiz again. While she stayed there was always a chance . . .

*    *    *

Carnival took place in February, and the entire city went crazy, getting ready for the few days of frantic pleasure with overwhelming zeal. Carnival time in Rio was the culmination of months of preparation. There were amazing flower-bedecked floats for the incredible parade, out-of-this-world costumes, and a glut of wild parties. For once the poor felt rich and the rich felt richer, and out on the streets there was a wild tangle of semi-clothed
cariocas
, handsome young men, fat mamas, sparkling transvestites, hustlers, pimps, con-men, hookers, tourists, and a general assortment of outrageous characters. The streets were alive with the samba beat, the sweet smell of flowers, and a swaying, singing, celebrating mass of people.

Parties were an everyday affair, starting early and going on all day and all night. Odile and Rupert threw a fancy-dress farewell celebration the night before the big parade. In two weeks they were moving back to England. The thought depressed Rafealla, for they were her family, and she knew she was going to miss them terribly. It couldn’t be helped, she would just have to learn to manage without them.

For the party she dressed as Nefertiti, the Egyptian queen, and Jorge, with much persuasion, dressed up as a Roman general. They took little Jon Jon, clad as a Yankee baseball hero. He had the greatest time, and didn’t want to go home. When they finally persuaded him into the chauffeur-drive Mercedes, he fell asleep across both their knees.

This was her family, she suddenly realized. Why wait any longer? She would marry Jorge and give Jon Jon a real father.

*    *    *

‘Congratulations, darling!’

‘
Wonderful
news!’

‘How wise of you to wait. Now you’re really sure.’

‘When is the wedding?’

Jorge had wasted no time in presenting her with the most magnificent solitaire diamond ring. The moment she’d said yes, he’d produced it from the safe, proudly telling her he’d bought it the day she moved in. Now she wore it to the big parade, where she was safely cloistered in a special box overlooking the route, with a dozen or so of Jorge’s friends and business acquaintances who had flown in especially for the evening of festivities. Special boxes were erected to watch the parade, enabling the rich to see and be seen without ever really becoming involved.

Looking around, she was quite surprised to spot Marcus Citroen, the American record magnate, with his wife, Nova, an elegant, cold woman. She hadn’t seen him since that fateful night in London at Annabel’s, which he obviously didn’t remember, for when they were introduced by one of Jorge’s friends he showed not a flicker of recognition.

That’s twice he hasn’t remembered me, she thought, her mind quickly darting back to their first encounter at Odile’s stepfather’s house in the South of France when he’d flashed her in the swimming pool.

He was a dirty old man then, and nothing had changed. As they were introduced his hooded eyes lasciviously stripped off the gypsy outfit she wore, checking out every inch of her body.

When Odile arrived she didn’t wait for an introduction. ‘Mr Citroen,’ she exclaimed, winking at Rafealla, with a certain amount of wickedness. ‘I bet you don’t remember
me.
’

Turning, he acknowledged Odile’s blonde prettiness with a perfunctory nod. ‘You’ll have to assist my memory, my dear.’

Isabella and Claudio Franconini’s daughter, Odile. You came to stay at our chateau in France one summer. Don’t worry if you’ve forgotten, it was a long time ago.’

‘Indeed I do remember. What a pleasure to see you again. Tell me, are your parents well?’

‘Very well.’ Unable to resist, gamely stifling a giggle, she added, ‘And surely you remember my best friend, Rafealla? She was staying with us at the time.’

Rafealla could have kicked her grinning sister-in-law.

Fortunately Jorge appeared at that moment, putting a possessive arm around her shoulders as he said, ‘So Marcus, you’ve met my soon-to-be-bride, the most beautiful woman in Rio.’

‘Child bride,’ murmured Marcus, gazing at her reflectively, with a
haven’t I seen you somewhere before
look in his eyes.

Rafealla shifted uncomfortably. There was something about Marcus Citroen that filled her with dread.

*    *    *

The gaiety and wildness of the night excited everyone. It was impossible not to get caught up in the delirious goings on. Carnival fever was catching – what with the noise and the smells and the insistent music. Pulsating bodies and decadent faces were everywhere. A heavy sexual feeling pervaded the air as Rio forgot about the rest of the world and surrendered to Carnival. Odile was in an adventurous mood. Several glasses of champagne always made her a little crazy, and combined with the heady atmosphere of the evening, an earlier fight with Rupert, and the fact that she would soon be leaving Rio, she was ready to do the forbidden.

The forbidden was leaving the rarefied atmosphere of the box where the rich people experienced Carnival without getting too close.

‘Why don’t we skip out of here?’ she whispered. ‘I can’t stand being confined like this.’

‘No,’ Rafealla whispered back. ‘Jorge said it’s dangerous.’

‘Please! Now you’re beginning to sound like him. What happened to the girl who wanted to be free? This is a holiday – a festival. Let’s go have fun for ten minutes. Nobody’ll miss us, they’ll think we’re in the loo.’

To dance in the streets was a tempting prospect. Being a spectator wasn’t the same as participating. Why the hell shouldn’t they?

Sneaking from the box they hit the street like two naughty schoolgirls, falling in with a swaying group of half-naked bodies, snaking along the side of the parade, giggling with the sheer energy and exhilaration of it all.

‘We’ll just go a couple of blocks and then back,’ Odile promised.

‘Sure,’ Rafealla laughed, as a masked stranger grabbed her arm, propelling her along.

The crowds were dense and unruly. It took only moments for the two girls to get separated and lose sight of each other, but neither really cared, they were having too enjoyable a time. The music was loud and sensual. Inhibitions were left behind as they joined the swaying, laughing throng.