Rock Star (45 page)

Bobby applauded along with the rest of the audience. It was the first year since 1977 he’d won nothing, and it hurt.

On the way home he made his driver go into Tower Records on Sunset and buy the kid’s record. Back at his house he played it. Some monster hit, with synthesizers and a mesmerizing African beat. It sounded new and exciting.

Then he put on
his
last record. The same old thing. Hot, throbbing, sensual soul. Maybe it wasn’t enough anymore.

He’d been using a producer Arnie Torterelli had thrust upon him instead of doing it himself. Another favour. It was time to make some changes.

Insisting on a new producer, he’d said, ‘I’m tryin’ out somethin’ different.’

Something different hadn’t worked. As Pammy so kindly pointed out, his last three singles had failed to hit the number one spot, although the album from which they were pulled had achieved fairly respectable sales.

Respectable didn’t cut it. Where were the regular number ones? Where were the album mega-sales he was used to? He was a superstar, for chrissake, there was no coming down from that.

Bobby Mondella was on a slide, and he didn’t like it one little bit. He especially didn’t like it when he had to hear about it from Nichols’s moron wife.

He knew what the problem was – he’d been pushing himself too hard, appearing here, there and everywhere, making too many records without concentrating on the content. Bobby Mondella was overexposed. He needed to lay back and return to the people who really cared. Nichols Hit City was money-oriented, that’s all they took notice of – making the buck, and pushing, pushing, pushing. They were worse than Blue Cadillac in that respect.

Soul On Soul were interested in quality and style and nurturing the performer. Amerika was an inspiration to work with, and yet he’d dumped on her, had walked when she could have used the support. It was to her credit that she’d behaved so cordially when they ran into each other.

He’d made up his mind that on this Rio trip he was going to tell Nichols he wanted out. If he offered Hit City some kind of over-ride deal where they still continued to get a piece of his future, he was sure they’d let him go. He’d had enough weddings and Vegas stints and doing goddamn favours. He needed time to straighten out and get back into the flow of writing and performing music he had a genuine feeling for. With Zella out of the way he could do it.

The Copacabana Palace was a swank, glitzy hotel overlooking the ocean, and the famous white-sand Copacabana Beach. Bobby was installed in a magnificent suite on the top floor, where there was champagne on ice, a huge basket of fresh fruit, and several elaborate flower arrangements in both the bedroom and living room.

First he reached for a drink, then he glanced at the attached cards.
Carlos and Chara Baptista welcome you to Rio . . . With the compliments of Carlos Baptista and his staff .
. . And so on.

That night there was a dinner planned for him to meet the concert promoter. To Nichols and Pammy’s fury he cancelled out, climbed into bed with a bottle of bourbon and a plate of room service chicken, and watched television. New rule – he was sick of doing what everyone else wanted. No more favours. In future he was going to do exactly what
he
wanted, and if they didn’t like it – fuck ‘em.

Maybe he’d even try to lay off the booze and drugs for a while. Not that he couldn’t stop anytime . . . anytime at all.

Carlos Baptista phoned. The man was polite and concerned, not pissed off like Nichols had been. ‘We are so sorry you cannot attend our dinner for you. Is there anything you need?’

‘I guess I’m just tired,’ Bobby explained. ‘The flight an’ everything.’

‘Carlos understands perfectly. Maybe a young woman to massage away the tensions . . .’

‘I’m not into arranged sex.’

‘I didn’t mean to insult you.’

‘Hey, man. No insult. Everything’s cool.’

Idly he flicked the channels on the television, stopping to watch a young couple singing together. They were fresh and innovative, the girl exotically beautiful, and the man darkly handsome. Their Brazilian blend of samba and jazz was soothing and yet up-beat and very sensuous.

With a burst of interest he sat up. Could this be the inspiration he was looking for? Soul with a mix of samba and jazz.
His
kind of soul done
their
way?

Suddenly he was high. This was it. He knew this was the sound he’d been looking for.

As the credits rolled at the end of the show he searched for their names.

Rafealla and Luiz. Reaching for a pad he scrawled them down.

Rafealla and Luiz
, he thought,
you may just have hit pay dirt. Oh, yeah, baby. Oh, yeah!

*    *    *

Rio was his salvation. Rio, with its laid-back ambience, and wonderfully friendly people. His three concerts at the Maracana stadium were a smash, and he revelled in the adulation. The South Americans certainly still loved Bobby Mondella.

After much thought, and to Nichols’s great consternation, he told him he’d decided to stay in Rio for a while.

‘You can’t do that,’ Nichols objected harshly. ‘We got commitments to fulfil.’

‘Cancel ’em.’

‘Are you
insane
?’

‘I like it here. This place is good for me. I’m not drinking. I’m relaxing. And oh yeah – I’m stayin’.’

Nichols was furious. The muscle in his cheek twitched as he attempted to remain in control. ‘For how long?’

‘For however long I feel like.’

‘I’m tellin’ you – no can do, Bobby. You have a contract.’

‘
Fuck
the contract, an’
fuck
you. I’ve had it with bein’ manoeuvred into position every time I breathe. You know something? I’ve worked for people since I was twelve years old, and now I’ve decided to do nothin’ for however long it takes to get my head straight. We had a contract, so I’ll give you a piece of whatever I decide to do in the future, but right now I want out. You got it?’

‘You’ll regret this,’ Pammy suddenly shrieked, joining in.

‘Shut up, you dumb broad,’ yelled Nichols, taking his frustrations out on her.

The result was a very flustered Nichols, with a sulking wife, forced to return to L.A. without Bobby.

Six months had passed, and in spite of numerous threats and angry phone calls Bobby was happy. He’d arranged for his business manager to sell his Hancock Park mansion and all his possessions. He’d told Zella it was over – she wasn’t surprised. And he’d started afresh.

For a while stardom had caught him in its trap and sent him spinning out of control. Now he was back on the ground and he liked it. He had a nice apartment in the Chopin building, next to the Copacabana Palace. A variety of girlfriends – nobody special. And most important of all, he was drug free, and hardly drinking at all.

Leisure, he discovered, was very pleasant. And because he didn’t
have
to write, the songs began to flow, and his creative juices went into overdrive.

Shortly after seeing Rafealla and Luiz on television, he’d arranged a meeting. Over the following months they became his good friends as well as his musical collaborators, and although they were unable to record together because of his battle with Nichols Hit City, occasionally they snuck in a performance somewhere or other just for the pure enjoyment of it.

The moment he thought his life was settled, Nova reappeared. Two years of silence, and one day she phoned on his private line as if they’d been together all along. ‘I’m at the airport. I must see you,’ she said urgently.

‘Come right over,’ he replied calmly.

His heart didn’t give him a choice.

*    *    *

Just like old times she walked back into his life. Cool, classy Nova Citroen. The Ice Queen to those who didn’t know her. The love of his life.

Like a replay he opened his door to a woman he hardly recognized, and she almost fell at his feet. Sharleen – all those years ago – a beaten wreck, and now Nova in the same condition, her face puffed and swollen. She was wrapped in a mink coat, dark glasses covered her eyes, and she was shaking.

‘Jesus Christ!’ he exclaimed. ‘What happened to you?’

As if he didn’t know. Marcus Citroen.

‘Bobby.’ Even her voice was shaking. ‘Oh, Bobby! I got on a plane and came straight to you. I didn’t know where else to go.’

They’d had a long relationship, and not once during the times they were together had she ever shown any vulnerability. Nova was always on top of things.

He opened up his arms and she walked right into his embrace. ‘C’mon, baby,’ he comforted. ‘It’s okay, I’m here for you. Everything’s gonna be fine.’ It was as if they’d never been apart.

She began to sob, long-drawn-out cries of pure anguish. ‘I never thought I’d find you . . . it wasn’t easy . . .
God
, Bobby . . . I hate him, I’ve always hated him . . .’

He led her into his apartment, removed her mink coat, settled her on the couch, and poured her a large glass of brandy.

‘Calm down, baby,’ he said soothingly. ‘Just take it easy, an’ tell me everything.’

Slowly she recovered her composure, and removed her dark glasses. Her eyes were swollen slits, the skin black and blue.

‘That sonofabitch sadistic bastard!’ he said angrily.

‘I’ve left him.’ Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. ‘And now he’ll try to destroy me.’

Destroy you! Are you
crazy? He’s
the one in big trouble. Look at yourself, for chrissake. Look at what he’s done to you.’

‘You don’t understand,’ she said despairingly. ‘He
can
destroy me. And I know Marcus. He will.’

‘How’s that?’ he asked, humouring her.

‘He’s going to tell the world the truth about me.’

‘And what’s the truth?’

Lowering her eyes she said, ‘That when he found me I was a whore.’

He looked at her disbelievingly. ‘Come
on
—’

‘It’s true.’ Her voice was bitter. ‘The Mrs Citroen everyone knows – the
elegant
Mrs Marcus Citroen – was once a highly-paid, highly-skilled whore in Germany. Marcus . . . discovered me. He . . . changed me. He moulded me into the woman he wanted, and then, when I was exactly the way he desired, he married me.’

Bobby’s throat was dry. For the first time in months he needed a drink. ‘Nova,’ he said, ‘there’s no way I believe this.’

‘Why not? She gazed at him dispassionately. ‘It’s true. Does it disgust you? Are you sorry we had an affair?’

Shaking his head, he didn’t know
what
he felt. For years he’d begged Nova to leave Marcus, and now this.

‘There’s more,’ she said. ‘I need to tell you everything, Bobby, because I have to know how you feel.’ She paused, and gave a brittle laugh. ‘Whatever you think, I’ll understand. All I want from you is the truth.’

Taking a deep breath he said, ‘C’mon, babe, you’re building it way out of proportion.’

‘Like
hell
I am,’ she shot back, staring at him defiantly. ‘Bobby, I’m half black.’

‘What?’

She touched her white-blonde hair. ‘Oh, you’d never guess it, would you? No one could ever tell. When Marcus sent me to Paris to be worked over, he had my skin bleached along with my hair. Not that I was ever noticeably dark. My mother was white. My father was a black GI she had a drunken one-night stand with. Unfortunately she waited too long for an abortion, and the result was me.’

‘Je . . . sus!’

‘So you see,’ she continued in a flat voice, ‘I am not the woman you imagined me to be. I’m a half-black whore from Germany. Not the ritzy lady who appears on the front pages of
Women’s Wear Daily,
and gives the best parties in town. I’m a fraud, Bobby, and Marcus is going to expose me because I’ve dared to leave him.’

*    *    *

He cancelled all his arrangements and summoned a doctor to check Nova over. The man glared at Bobby with accusation written all over his face.

‘I didn’t do it,’ Bobby explained quickly. ‘She’s runnin’ from her husband.’

‘What’s her name?’ the doctor asked, filling out a prescription for sleeping pills.

‘Margaret,’ Bobby lied. ‘Margaret Smith.’

‘She needs rest. There’s no internal damage. Cold compresses on the eyes, and plenty of liquids.’ A pause. ‘I really should report it. This woman has been badly beaten.’

‘Come on, doc. She’s had enough trouble.’

Another accusatory look. ‘Very well.’

Gradually Bobby pieced together the story. One of Marcus’s friendly visits to a whorehouse in Paris. He liked to watch his wife with hookers. She obliged. It was part of their agreement. Later he invited two of the girls back to their apartment. For once Nova objected. But Marcus insisted. The girls were street tarts, they stole clothes and jewellery. Nova said she’d had enough. Marcus said she’d take whatever he handed her. They fought, and he beat her with a golf club, then walked out. As soon as he was gone she’d grabbed a few things, taken a taxi to the airport and boarded the next plane to Rio. Marcus had no idea where she’d run to. How come you finally did it?’ he asked.

‘It was time,’ she replied simply.

Now she was in his apartment and he didn’t know how he felt anymore. He needed a while to work out his true feelings. Hell! She couldn’t expect to walk back into his life and find nothing changed, could she?

On top of everything else he got a surprise phone call from Carmine Sicily. ‘We want you to go back to work, Bobby,’ Carmine said pleasantly. ‘We want you on a plane to L.A. this week. I
mean
this week, otherwise you might never go on a trip anywhere ever again. Do we understand each other?’

‘I’m not comin’ back, Carmine. Don’t try to push me. Talk to my lawyers.’

‘You’re playing fuck-you games with the wrong people,’ Carmine said mildly. ‘It’s my sister’s birthday next Tuesday. She likes you, Bobby. She thinks you’re handsome. Be there. Be smart.’

He didn’t mention the phone call to Nova. Screw Carmine Sicily and his threats. They couldn’t touch him, they were all talk.

For days Nova lay in the centre of his bed watching television. Her bruises began to fade. He cooked her scrambled eggs and soup, and brought her magazines. The one thing he couldn’t do was make love to her. He needed time.