Rock Star (40 page)

‘Goodbye, baby, goodbye.’

Kris Phoneix

1983

For three weeks Kris kept a hospital vigil while his son lay in a deep coma. Willow and he put their differences aside and sat by the child’s bedside day and night, until one afternoon – miraculously – Bo’s eyes fluttered open and he said, ‘Hello, dad.’

Willow burst into tears. Kris put his arms around her, cradling her sadness and joy with a great deal of tenderness. It had taken a near-tragedy for them both to realize how unimportant it was to bicker and fight over minor things, when all that really mattered was their son’s well-being.

‘You can take him away with you to France,’ Willow offered. Twice a year if you like. I’m sure he’d love to spend his holidays with you.’

‘And I’ll try to visit him more,’ Kris promised.

‘He adores seeing you,’ she admitted. ‘He’s very proud of his famous dad.’

They were okay together, but their families remained a pain, fussing around full of unwanted advice. Avis insisted the accident was the fault of Willow’s mother with whom the boy had been staying at the time.

‘How
dare
that dreadful woman accuse me,’ Mrs Wigh screamed when she heard what was being said.

‘Who’s that old bat calling a dreadful woman?’ yelled Avis.

It became the battle of the grandmothers.

Kris couldn’t hang around to watch – Bo was out of the hospital in time for him to take off to do the Australian concerts. The Wild Ones’ last stand. Buzz hadn’t changed his mind about leaving, and in a way it was a relief. Working with him was like working next to a pressure cooker – any moment he could blow.

Doktor Head had negotiated some kind of record-breaking deal for them to appear down under. It was a fitting finale to fourteen years of madness.

Their opening concert in Melbourne almost caused riots. The fans were out in force, blocking the streets, charging the Festival Hall where they were due to appear, holding aloft banners proclaiming

WE LOVE YOU KRIS!
THE WILD ONES FOREVER
BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ!

Locked in their suites at the Rockman Regency Hotel, they gave interviews and partied with the local so-called in group.

Buzz and Mikki declined any invitations. Instead they contacted their friendly neighbourhood drug dealer, and spent all their time in a vague stupor.

On stage Kris found himself covering up for Buzz more and more. He was glad it would soon be over.

After two days in Melbourne they flew to Sydney, where it was more of the same.

Kris complained hotly, ‘I’ve come half way round the bleedin’ world, an’ all I’ve seen of Australia is the inside of a hotel room.’

Doktor Head suggested they try to disguise him, and then maybe he could be taken on a short sightseeing trip.

With the help of the daughter of their Australian tour promoter, they dressed him up as a girl, replete with long blonde wig, granny glasses and a dirndl skirt.

‘You’re the ugliest bird I’ve ever seen,’ choked Doktor Head, spluttering with laughter. ‘I wouldn’t want to cut
your
hair!’

‘Get fucked. You’re just jealous,’ Kris said, smearing on a liberal amount of bright red lipstick.

‘Yeah, especially of the hairy legs. Nice touch, that.’

The disguise worked, and he got to see Sydney – a beautiful city. In the morning they took a water-taxi round the harbour, admiring the modern architecture of the all-white Opera House. Then the taxi dropped them off in Watsons Bay, where they lunched at Doyles – an open-air restaurant situated next to the water, with delicious seafood and a friendly ambience.

‘This is more like it,’ Kris said, sitting back and enjoying the freedom for a change.

‘Give us a kiss, darlin’,’ joked Doktor Head. ‘You’re looking better every minute!’

That night, their concert at the Horden Pavilion was another riotous success. Afterwards, Kris was tracked backstage by a beautiful – if somewhat older – French ex-movie star, who was travelling the world compiling a book of photographs. She wore a gold sequin dress, and clutched a Nikon camera close to her voluptuous cleavage. ‘I weel photograph you, no?’ she asked him, after her manager had inveigled a yes out of him.

‘Sure,’ he agreed. ‘Only not here, luv. You’d better come back to the hotel. There’s a party.’

There was always a party. It was the rock ’n’ roll life. Booze, girls, drugs, food, music. Everything on tap. If you want something – just ask. For a star nothing is too much trouble.

The French ex-movie star took a few photographs. She had once been a great beauty – a world-class sex symbol. Kris could remember seeing her in movies when he was a kid. At thirteen he’d really lusted after those huge tits. They still looked in pretty good nick to him, although she had to be close to his mother’s age.

After a while she asked, ‘Can we be more – how you say – preevit?’

‘Private,’ he corrected.

‘No?’

‘Yeah, okay.’

They went to his suite, where she took a roll of film of him lounging on the couch. Then she asked if he would mind removing his shirt.

She was beginning to get him going. He kept on thinking of this one film he’d seen her in where she’d played a slave girl, and she’d had this little pearl in her navel, and oh shit . . . here came the old trouser puppet, alert and ready to play
you show me yours and I’ll show you mine.

She was no slouch in the noticing-what-was-going-on department. Putting down her camera she undulated towards him, placed her arms around his neck, and planted the biggest, wettest kiss he had ever experienced on his hardly unwilling lips.

They indulged in erotic tongue play for a few moments, until he decided enough was enough and slid his hands between flesh and gold sequins, peeling the top of her dress down and flipping as much of her breasts as he could over the top of a tight corselette.

She had the biggest nipples he’d ever seen atop her magnificent bosom. Large, ripe, peaked cherries. He couldn’t decide what to do first – unzip himself and get some well – needed freedom; try to figure out how to ooze her out of the corselette contraption; or place those delectable cherries right into his mouth where they belonged.

Before he could make up his mind, it was all over. There was a wild, familiar throb in his pants, and to his eternal humiliation Kris Phoenix, rock star supreme, came in his pants. ‘Je . . . sus!’ he exclaimed. ‘I don’t believe it!’

The French ex-movie star smiled comfortingly, as if this mishap was an everyday occurrence – and around her it probably was.

‘Now we do eet properly,’ she said, reaching behind her back to deal with hooks and eyes and God knows what else was keeping the gold dress up. ‘We go in zee bedroom, no?’

‘Yes,’ he mumbled, feeling about fourteen. What a berk! He’d better make up for it or his reputation was shot to hell.

‘I’ll be right back, darlin’. Don’t go away,’ he said, diving into the bathroom, stripping off his clothes and throwing himself under a quick shower.

Once, when he was a teenager, he’d sent away for some kind of erection cream he’d seen advertised in a nudie magazine. It was called Stiff Stuff, and the instructions were to rub it on your cock just before making love. It promised hours of uninterrupted pleasure. He’d been over at this girl’s house ready for action. Her parents were out, and they’d started to neck. When the time was right, he’d rim into the bathroom, pulled out his tube of Stiff Stuff and rubbed it on. Two seconds later he came all over the bathroom floor. Wonderful!

In a funny way this reminded him of that night.

When he returned she was lying across the rumpled bed, the top sheet carefully arranged as if she were preparing for a pin-up session. Her breasts were covered, but one leg emerged from the sheet in a delicate pose.

He was naked, everything on show, and why not – he certainly had nothing to hide.

‘Beeeg!’ she exclaimed admiringly, which of course made him even bigger.

Without further ado he jumped on top of her, pulling the sheet away, exposing prime, French ex-movie star skin.

Stripped of gold sequins she was pleasantly rounded, completely unlike his usual bed companions, whom he liked long and lean – although large breasts were generally an essential part of the package.

Making love to her was all flesh and pulsating sensuality. After Daphne Darke – Buzz’s mum – she was his second older woman, and he wasn’t complaining. It was a bit like pigging out on a lusciously rich ice cream sundae. You wouldn’t want to do it all the time, but oh boy, was it good while it lasted!

*    *    *

Arriving back in New York, to do a week of promotion on the new album, the shit really hit. Buzz was arrested at the airport for possession of heroin. Fingers publicly declared herself a lesbian! And Rasta was slapped with two paternity suits – both by white girls.

It was the end of The Wild Ones. The end of an era.

Kris didn’t regret it one bit.

Rafealla

1983

Drifting in and out of consciousness Rafealla was vaguely aware of the sound of voices. Murmurs from another world. Her eyelids fluttered, and she made a half-hearted attempt to open her eyes. It wasn’t possible. She couldn’t do it. Why should she?

‘Why should I?’ she mumbled. And then she groaned, for there was a sharp, stabbing pain on her left cheek. Instinctively her hand reached up and felt a soggy bandage. With a supreme effort she opened her eyes.

A woman dressed in white peered down at her.

She couldn’t remember a thing. Where was she? What happened? Why wasn’t she at home in bed?

‘Have I been in a car accident?’ she asked, very slowly. Her lips were dry and her voice sounded more like a frog’s croak.

‘You were robbed and beaten,’ a male voice said. A disturbingly familiar male voice.

Luiz! Was it Luiz! Quickly she tried to sit up, but the room took off, an alarming kaleidoscope of flashing colours. Sinking back down she asked. ‘Where am I?’

‘In a bar. The back room. Some people carried you in here for safety.’

She was drifting. ‘Luiz? Is that you?’ she whispered. ‘Luiz . . .’

*    *    *

The next time she woke up it was in a hospital, all pristine white with the smell of antiseptic in the air. Once again she was completely disoriented. She lay with her eyes wide open trying to figure out what had happened.

‘Thank God you’re all right, my darling’, Jorge said, looming over her. It was a nightmare.’ He clutched her hand. ‘We were so desperately worried.’

Gradually it all began to come back. Carnival. Carnival. Carnival. Ah . . . And she and Odile out on the street, laughing, dancing . . .

‘Odile’, she mumbled anxiously. ‘What happened to her?’

‘She’s fine’, Jorge assured her. ‘Repentant, naturally, but much better once you were found.’

‘Found? Where was I?’

‘On the street where those animals left you.’

‘On the street . . .’ she repeated vaguely, becoming aware of a pounding, relentless headache, and a painful throb down one side of her face. Automatically her hand reached up and touched the bandages covering her cheek. ‘I thought I was in a bar.’

‘A bar? What are you talking about?’

‘They carried me into the bar . . . for safety.’

He bent to kiss her. ‘Darling, you’re still groggy – understandably so. You were found on the street by some American tourists. They brought you straight here.’

Closing her eyes she thought –
Luiz. What about Luiz?
Was it a dream? Had she just imagined his voice?

‘You’re badly bruised,’ Jorge continued, matter-of-factly. ‘And your face is cut – nothing that a touch of plastic surgery can’t take care of when the time comes. My own personal physician will visit you later. Meanwhile, the doctors here feel you should stay in the hospital for a few days of observation, just in case.’

She tried to nod, couldn’t quite make it, and drifted back into a deep sleep.

*    *    *

‘Good morning, Miss Le Serre.’ So spoke a crisp nurse in a virgin white uniform. ‘You slept through the night. I am sure you are feeling better this morning.’

She might be sure, but Rafealla felt like she had the world’s worst hangover. However, as soon as she opened her eyes she was functioning, which was an improvement.

‘I want to go home,’ she said groggily.

‘We’ll see,’ replied the nurse, with an officious toss of her head.

An hour later Rafealla had her way. Jorge and Odile came to fetch her, and soon she was settled in her own bed, with Jon Jon playing happily nearby.

Odile sat with her, while Jorge – having plied her with dozens of pink roses – went off to his office.

‘Sorry,’ Odile said, in a small voice.

Don’t be silly. It was just as much my fault. I wanted to hit the streets, you didn’t force me.’

‘How’s your face?’

‘I’ll live – it’s just a scratch. The creep who bashed me apparently had a pinky ring which cut my cheek open. Jorge is talking plastic surgery, but I rather like the idea of a small scar. It’s mysterious, don’t you think?’

‘Certainly
not.
Who wants to be reminded? You could have been killed.’

‘For what? A pair of earrings and a necklace? You know, they really were a couple of inept jerks – they didn’t even look at my fingers’, She held up her hand, staring at the huge ring Jorge had presented her with. ‘My diamond is intact.’

‘That’s good.’

‘It doesn’t really matter, does it? Jorge could buy me dozens of these and not even feel the pinch.’

‘Lucky you. A far better situation than Eddie Mafair sponging off your family and throwing it all away on gambling.’

‘I guess.’

Odile, curled up on the end of the bed, hugged her knees and said, ‘Well, we’ll soon be off, and I’ve made Rupert promise me faithfully that we’ll come back for your wedding. Have you decided on a date yet?’

Rafealla shook her head. ‘Jorge and I will discuss it. Naturally, as soon as we decide, you’ll be the first to know. Isn’t it always that way?’

Odile smiled. ‘I hope so. I’d hate to be left out.’