Rock Star (43 page)

‘I was in London last week,’ he replied, wondering if the pushed-up tits were silicone or real.

‘Shame! Think of the fun we could’ve had!’

The leather dress – appealing as it was – put him off. It reminded him of Astrid, waiting patiently in London. They’d promised each other there would be no screwing around. It just wasn’t fair any more with all the diseases lurking about. Not that any of Nova’s guests looked disease-ridden, but that was the whole point – with AIDS you couldn’t notice a thing. Having sex with strangers nowadays was like playing Russian roulette.

Two handsome waiters served drinks while Nova flitted among her guests. Kris found himself making conversation with a man he had grown up watching on the movie screen. The man, once a matinee idol, now had yellowing teeth, grey hair, and a large paunch, but he was pleasant enough – especially when he started to carry on about how much he liked Kris’s music.

Funny, Kris had never considered he appealed to old people too.

Hang about
, a little voice warned him.
‘What’s old? You’re bleedin’ thirty-five. ’

Christ! Thirty-five. He was getting up there. A nerve – wracking thought. In his mind he’d always imagined that when he reached forty he would quit. But forty was creeping closer every day, and he had no intention of going anywhere. Look at Mick Jagger – over forty and still prancing about like a teenager. And Rod Stewart – he had to be around the dreaded Four-O mark, not to mention Paul McCartney, Pete Townsend, and a whole slew of ageing rockers.

‘I think I need another drink,’ he said, grabbing a glass of champagne from a moving waiter.

Nova took him discreetly to one side before they went into the dining room for dinner. ‘I’ve put Hawkins Lamont on your right – he’s the most fascinating man, and certainly the right manager for you. Unfortunately he’s not taking on any new clients right now. But I felt you should meet him. Tell me, who would you like on your other side?’

‘You,’ he said, without thinking.

The shadow of a smile. ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’

Rafealla

1984

I fall in love too easily

I fall in love too fast,

I fall in love too terribly hard

For love to ever last.

As Rafealla sang the poignant Sammy Cahn and Julie Styne song, there was rapt silence in Julio’s, the small, discreet supper club she had begun to call her second home. Originally booked to appear once a week, she was now performing nightly, singing her particular blend of popular American classics set to a throbbing jazz/samba beat.

Clad in a simple white dress, her long hair loose around her exotically beautiful face, she sang of undefined yearnings and intoxicating passion. Her voice, low and smoky – filled with bittersweet sensuality.

After only a year of performing professionally, Rafealla was a hit. She had an appeal that struck home immediately, and whether she was singing in Portuguese – which she’d learned – or her native English, the Brazilians loved her.

Recently she’d been offered a recording contract, and a permanent singing spot on a popular television show. She could hardly believe it, everything seemed to have happened so fast.

Although Jorge gamely tried to pretend, he was not happy. He’d lost his would-be bride to a career, and it did not sit well with him. A month ago she’d moved out of his mansion, taking Jon Jon with her. ‘I can wait,’ he’d said bravely. ‘You’ll come back.’

Rafealla had shaken her head as she kissed him sadly. ‘It was never meant to be. You’ll find someone who loves you more than I ever can.’

She left behind her huge diamond ring, plus all the other gifts he’d lavished upon her. And once again she was by herself.

Jon Jon accepted the move without complaint. Now nearly seven, he combined the best physical qualities of both parents. Tall for his age, he had Rafealla’s deep olive skin and high cheekbones, along with Kris Phoenix’s intense blue eyes and spiky blond hair.

‘You’re such a good-looking kid,’ she told him every day, accompanied by a big hug. ‘How did I ever get so lucky?’

‘’Cos you got
me, me, me
!’ he yelled happily.

Yes. She had Jon Jon. And a career. And an agent/manager – Tinto Reuben – who looked after her well. Life was pretty good.

Once a week her mother phoned from England. ‘When are you coming to visit, dear?’

‘Soon,’ Rafealla replied dutifully.

They had the same conversation every time. Rafealla didn’t want to go home. Going back would only remind her of Eddie Mafair, and God forbid he should try to see Jon Jon, although up until now he’d made no attempt. Odile had bumped into him at Annabel’s one night, and apparently he hadn’t asked after either of them. Great! She couldn’t be happier. Hopefully she would never have to set eyes on him again.

Her manager was waiting when she finished her set. Tinto Reuben was a short, jolly man of fifty, with chubby cheeks and a chipmunk grin. He had been recommended by her singing coach, and they’d hit it off at once. Tinto was married with seven children. He’d once been a singer himself, and understood the business thoroughly. No big-time agent, he was well respected and liked, with a middle-of-the-road client list. Rafealla, he knew, was on the verge of making it in a big way. When she first came to him the beautiful young girl had everything except experience. Now, a year later, she was ready for anything.

‘What’s up, Tinto?’ she asked, lighting a cigarette as she sat down.

‘You smoke too much,’ he scolded.

‘I’ve got to have
one
bad habit,’ she laughed. ‘It’s a hangover from my school days when smoking was the most decadent pursuit around.’

Tinto smiled. He had good news. ‘Next week there’s a very special song festival in São Paulo. You are invited to appear.’

Her face lit up. ‘I am?’

‘It’s an honour.’

‘Why me?’

‘You’re becoming popular, my dear.’

‘I love it!’

‘Wait. This is only the beginning.’

*    *    *

São Paulo was a lovely city. Flying in at noon, Rafealla gazed out of the window of the aeroplane absorbing the panoramic view spread out below.

‘You’ve never been here before?’ Tinto asked.

‘I’ve always wanted to.’

‘My wife was born here. She tried to come with us – not so easy with seven children to look after, eh?’

‘Plus one of mine.’

‘She loves having Jon Jon to stay. Maria is mother earth.’ He beamed, a contented man.

After checking into the hotel they were due to go over to the rehearsal hall and meet Rafealla’s backup musicians. She preferred the minimum of help. Just guitar and keyboard, sometimes a touch of percussion. Originally she’d asked if she could bring the musicians she usually worked with, but Tinto thought the cost too prohibitive to fly them in for one night’s performance.

The weather was hot and sultry. Arranging her long hair in a thick braid, she put on loose cotton pants and a sizes-too-big tee-shirt. Tinto was clad in his usual pale pink suit – he had several of them – and a brown shirt that strained across his protruding stomach.

‘Tell you what,’ Rafealla said as they entered the rehearsal hall. ‘You give up eating and I’ll stop smoking.’

‘You have a deal!’

‘When?’

‘When what?’

‘
When
are you going to start dieting?’

‘After Christmas.’

‘That’s eight months away!’

Innocently he said, ‘Really?’

Shaking her head she couldn’t help smiling.

Tinto introduced her to several of the organizers of the festival. She made polite chat about nothing much at all, until a svelte woman dressed in red said, ‘Ah, here come your backup musicians – Carlos Pinafida on the piano, and Luiz Oliveira, guitar. Luiz is a very talented young man. He has a wonderful style. Later in the concert he will be performing his own composition – ‘English Girl’. He’s very popular locally.’

And so Rafealla came face to face with Luiz once more. Three years after their last encounter.

Holding her breath she stared straight at him.

He stared back.

The air was charged with electricity.

Bobby Mondella

1984

The success trip. He’d climbed to the top of the mountain, taken a deep breath and found the air stank. Why wasn’t it cool and clear and pleasant? How come everything was such a fuck-up?

Bobby Mondella stared at his photographic image on the cover of
Rolling Stone
and wondered why it didn’t thrill him.
You’re a handsome son of a bitch,
he told himself dispassionately, reaching for a drink.

Zella Raven floated into the room, a black superwoman in leopard-print leather. Zella enjoyed the high life. Zella snorted coke for breakfast and finished the day with a touch of free-basing. In the back of his mind he knew he had to get rid of her, she was dragging him down.

Once . . . long ago . . . he’d been anti-drugs. He, more than anyone, had seen how they destroyed people. Now he let it go on all around him, and he wasn’t averse to joining in occasionally, because drugs gave him even more power and strength. And fuck it – when he was high he owned the whole
world,
and
nothing
and
no one
could bring him down. Including Nova.

Ah . . . Nova. His obsession. How come he had everything, and everything wasn’t enough, because he would give everything just to possess the one woman he couldn’t have? It didn’t make sense.

When he was drunk or stoned it didn’t even matter.

He knew one thing.
Rolling Stone
was correct when they said he couldn’t write any more. The songs stopped coming one day – just like that.

No inspiration. No drive.
No shit?

Hey –
Rolling Stone
wrote that Bobby Mondella was not the talent he once was. What did he care? He’d reached the top and it was a long fall down.

Zella liked to party. Every night they hit a new club or restaurant. They
owned
Las Vegas, where he regularly appeared – a favour for Carmine, his best friend Carmine – or was it Arnie? – good old Arnie.

‘How come y’alls lookin’ like you’re dead in the water?’ Zella asked, fluffing out a wild Afro wig which perched atop her head like a frothy cake. ‘An’ you’re not even dressed.’

‘Why should I be dressed? We’re not goin’ anywhere.’

‘
Sure
we are, sugar. You-all forgotten? It’s Arnie’s big party at the beach.’

Another party. Another lousy time. And everyone would probably have read the put-down piece in
Rolling Stone
which he chose to ignore because who gave a shit? Fuck it! What did he care? They’d only remember seeing his picture on the cover. Another cover. More fame. And he was a handsome son of a bitch . . .

Yeah . . . Mister Soul Superstar was a handsome son of a bitch . . .

And so fuckin’ what?

*    *    *

Women always came on to him. It was a fact. They smiled and tried to act normal, but Zella had captured it like it was when she’d said, ‘Honey, they are creamin’ their scanty lace panties
whatever
damn stuff they’re talkin’.’

Sex symbol.

Black
sex symbol.

A double hit.

‘The storms were quite devastating,’ said a beautiful woman with a diamond the size of an acorn on her finger. ‘But we’d never sell.’

‘You wouldn’t, huh?’ commented Bobby, swaying on his feet.

‘Never,’ she replied, gazing at him steadfastly. ‘Malibu is the best.’

Was she hot for him? Was she steaming?

Oh yeah, he could tell.

‘Bobby, darling!’ Greetings from Poppy Soloman, the ebullient wife of a studio head. ‘How
nice
to see you again. Thank you, thank
you
for appearing at my charity. Everyone was thrilled.’

Did she want him? Was she ready?

A simple yes would do it.

He watched Zella, taking off across the room. Ever since landing the villainess role in a Rambo-type film she was Miss Movie Star – playing the role on screen and off, and loving every minute.

At least someone was happy.

‘Hey, man – long time, how’re ya doin’?’

He turned to face his old friend Rocket. The same old scruffy Rocket, with his long, greasy hair and beat-up clothes. The same Rocket who last year had been nominated for an Oscar – honouring his fine performance in a stark movie about corruption in politics.

Bobby was pleased to see him. They’d lost touch, and hadn’t run into each other for a long while. With genuine cameraderie they exchanged hugs.

The beautiful woman with the diamond, and the wife of the studio head, waited anxiously to be introduced to the moody actor who was not known for his social graces. Since Bobby couldn’t remember either of their names, he didn’t bother. Instead, he grabbed a fresh drink, and walked outside with Rocket to the pool area.

‘Will ya look at this,’ Rocket said, exasperated, throwing his arms wide. ‘Whadda they need a pool for when they have a whole ocean?’

‘Hey, man.’ Bobby shrugged. ‘That’s show biz – if ya got it – put out.’

Rocket wrinkled his face in disgust. ‘One hell of a philosophy. Whyn’t they jam some of their big bucks back where they belong – with the people?’ Taking a crumpled joint from his picket he lit up.

‘What are you doin’ in L.A. anyway?’ Bobby asked. ‘I thought you hated it.’

‘Another movie. It’s a true story about a Hollywood cocaine freak who snorts his life away. This guy has the world by the balls an’ screws everything up. Real powerful stuff.’

‘You get off on those kind of roles, huh?’

‘A lot of people out here are goin’ to identify with this one.’ He dragged on the roach, passing it to Bobby, who declined. ‘I forgot, this ain’t your thing, is it?’

‘I’ll take some blow if you got it.’

Rocket raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t touch that poison for a million big ones.’