Authors: Jackie Collins
‘I got here as soon as I could.’
Don’t jerk me around, ya took ya freakin’ time.’
‘I’m here. You’re out. That’s good enough, isn’t it?’
‘Fuckin’ lawyers,’ Speed mumbled under his breath as they both left the police station.
* * *
He’d rehearsed. He’d run the gauntlet of the press, and now he just wanted to take it easy before performing.
‘Sara, babe,’ he said. ‘I’d just like to be on my own for a while. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all,’ she said brightly, although of course she did. It hurt her when he shut himself away. She was happy to be in his company twenty-four hours a day. Why couldn’t he feel the same?
‘Shall I come back in an hour?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, that’ll be fine.’
‘Maybe I should wait until your omelette arrives.’
‘I can handle it.’
‘There’s a small table next to the door with a bowl of flowers on it. If you walk over, be careful—’
‘
I said
I can handle it,’ he interrupted, aggravated by her fussing.
‘I know, I know.’
‘Then get the hell out.’ His tone was joking, but she knew him well enough to exit fast.
He felt her absence by the silence. People didn’t have to speak when they were in a room with him, he always knew they were there by the sound of their breathing.
Getting up, he made a tour of the room, leading with his hands. Once, Sara had suggested he use a white stick. ‘Never!’ he’d told her vehemently, also rejecting the idea of a seeing-eye dog. Not that he disliked animals, it was just that he had to be responsible for his own safety, there could be no props to hang onto.
A knock on the door heralded the arrival of the food he’d ordered.
‘Come in,’ he said, groping his way to the couch.
Her perfume reached him first, the rich, sensual, unmistakable Nova Citroen musk.
He’d known instinctively that once he’d got rid of Sara, she would come.
‘Hello, Nova,’ he said quietly.
* * *
‘What’s you name, honey?’
The sudden influx of able-bodied men to Novaroen had Vicki in hot demand. For weeks all she’d seen were Mexican gardeners, a few gay house-men, plus Tom and his merry band of security heavies. Now the place was crawling with out-of-work actors, male models and the like, all doing double duty as waiters. And a good-looking bunch they were too. The barmen weren’t bad either.
Vicki decided if a girl wasn’t working she could have a real peachy time.
‘Don’t you worry ’bout
my
name, sailor,’ she said sassily, fixing the waiter who was coming on to her with a flirtatious look. He had a yellow cowlick of hair and a body that would have fitted nicely into Chippendales. ‘Just get on with what
you’re
supposed to be doing.’
‘Talkin’ of gettin’ it on,’ he winked suggestively.
‘Forget it,’ she replied, shortly.
‘You can’t blame a guy for tryin’.’
Maybe she didn’t look as bad as she thought. Tom certainly had the idea she was Marilyn Monroe back in business.
Moving right along she walked back towards the main house, where Mrs Ivors – the Joan Crawford housekeeper – waited impatiently.
‘Go over to the guest house,’ Mrs Ivors ordered. ‘And stay there until further notice. If any of the celebrity guests need anything at all, see they get it. I may as well warn you, Mrs Citroen will fire anyone who is caught not doing their job tonight. That is official. Do you understand?’
Vicki bobbed her head. ‘Yes,
ma’am.
I’ll make sure I do my job
real
good!’
* * *
Marcus Citroen could be the most charming man in the world when he wanted to be – smooth, knowledgeable, a man of taste and money. Most women found him attractive, even though he was not good looking in the conventional sense. With his bald, egg-shaped head, dark-hued skin, and hooded eyes, he had the look of a Middle Eastern potentate. Power was his main attraction. It radiated from him, drawing people toward him like a magnet – especially women. And Marcus was used to women being available at his command. Like Sharleen, who’d needed him to guide her career. From the very beginning she’d understood the game. And he’d made her a star. It wasn’t as if he’d used her and not done as he’d promised.
Rafealla was something else. She was an obsessive challenge, and he looked forward to breaking her in.
Nova had
always
understood the game. Far better than anyone else. In her own peculiar way, Nova was the female equivalent of him – which was why they were irrevocably tied together, sexually and otherwise.
As far as Marcus was concerned, most women were dispensable. When they played their role correctly he kept them around. When they didn’t, he discarded them without a second thought.
Over the years Nova had come close, very close. But she’d always known when to draw the line.
Tonight was a testing time. He wanted to see if she had learned her lesson.
He had to make absolutely sure.
Kris Phoenix
1984
They were shooting the third video from his first solo album,
Erotic
, in the grounds of Novaroen, Marcus Citroen’s extravagent beach estate.
‘Bloody hell!’ Kris exclaimed. ‘This is some place!’
Doktor Head nodded his agreement.
‘I wouldn’t mind movin’ in,’ Kris joked.
‘Put in an offer.’
‘Ha ha!’
A trio of girls in extremely brief bikinis paraded past. They were extras, hired for background. Once Kris would have had them, one by one, but not now he was older and wiser and living in a world where AIDS was the killer everyone feared.
He sat back in his canvas chair with his name stencilled on it and merely watched.
Hi, Kris,’ one of them said boldly, with a cute little wave.
‘Hello, darlin’,’ he replied, even though he had no idea who she was.
‘Watch out,’ Doktor Head muttered. ‘Here comes the lady of the house. Make nice, she runs the show.’
Kris stood up. He had heard plenty about the alluring Mrs Citroen, and was interested in meeting her.
She walked briskly over, cool in linen slacks and a silk shirt, her white-blonde hair a startling constrast to her lightly tanned skiri.
‘Mr Phoenix,’ she said graciously. ‘What a pleasure to meet you. And belated congratulations on joining Blue Cadillac. I’ve just returned from Europe. Now that I’m back, I’d love to give a dinner for you.’
‘Sounds great.’
‘Tuesday?’ she questioned.
‘That’s good for me.’
Doktor Head rose also, a fierce sight with his wild mass of flaming red hair and messy beard. ‘Madame,’ he said politely. ‘I’m Doktor Head. The manager.’
She raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘Doktor . . .
Head
?’
‘A strange name, I know. Bestowed on me many moons ago. But fitting, I can assure you.’
Kris had never seen Doktor Head grovel before, and he tried not to laugh.
Nova didn’t seem to find him particularly amusing. Dismissing him with a perfunctory nod, she turned back to Kris. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘The Westwood Marquis.’
‘I’ll send a car for you. Seven-thirty on Tuesday. Casual. Will you have a young lady with you, or shall I arrange a selection?’
It sounded as if she were talking about a box of chocolates! ‘I’ll be alone,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘In that case I’ll put together an interesting group. Seven-thirty. Don’t forget. Oh, and please enjoy yourself today – if there is anything you need, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.’
She strolled over to talk to the director – a young hot-shot who knocked off videos in between making hugely successful feature films.
‘And what exactly am I? Chopped liver?’ demanded Doktor Head, twitching and winking overtime. ‘Why didn’t you tell her to invite me?’
‘Because I hardly reckoned it was your kind of deal.’
‘Oh, and I suppose it’s yours?’
‘I
can
go to a dinner party without you comin’ along to hold my hand, can’t I? It was bad enough when I had the whole mob to think about.’
The second assistant hurried over. ‘Mr Phoenix, we’re ready for you now.’
In just over a year he’d made it on his own. Thank God he’d listened when Mikki told him all that time ago to tag his name onto the front of The Wild Ones. When they split, everyone knew who he was, there was no great identity crisis. The other three had not been so lucky. Buzz was deported from America, and stormed back to England with Mikki in tow, where he’d eventually formed a new group called Mania. They’d disbanded after six months, and Buzz occasionally did gigs on his own.
Rasta was keeping a low profile while he fought his two paternity suits.
And Fingers had become a sort of underground cult figure.
The main problems had been sorting out the legal hassles involved with breaking up a successful group. Kris had taken Doktor Head’s advice and hired the best lawyers to look after his interests. Meanwhile, he’d gone to his house in France, with Bo, and an au-pair girl.
It was a soothing transition period. After all, he’d been twelve years on the road on and off, with hardly a break. During that time The Wild Ones had become public property, and their lives reflected that. Not to have any commitments was sheer bliss.
While Bo was staying with him they spent all their time together, swimming, going out on the powerful Riva he’d bought, snorkelling, and water skiing – which they both learned to do together. At the end of three weeks he felt a lot closer to his son, and more at peace with himself because of it. Then, like a fool, he shattered everything by inviting his mum to come for a visit.
‘Can I bring Brian and ’is family?’ she pleaded. The brothers were talking again since Bo’s accident.
‘Why?’
‘It’s all right fer you, lad. You’ve got everything. Brian ’asn’t. Brian packed in ’is job, ’e
needs
a holiday.’
Some holiday. Brian arrived, more pompous than ever, complete with Jennifer – who had turned into the stereotype of a nagging wife – and their two whining kids. He wasted no time in launching straight into his pitch. ‘I’ve left the bank, as you already know,’ he said imperiously. ‘And I’ve been thinking, now that you’re on your own, you need new management.’
‘I’m stickin’ with Doktor Head.’
‘No, no. You should have
new
representation. I’ve already decided to help you out.’
‘What are you
talkin
’ about?’
‘
I’ll
be your manager,’ Brian announced magnanimously.
Kris doubled over laughing. ‘You?’ he exploded with mirth. ‘Fuck me!’
‘Naturally,’ Brian said, ignoring his brother’s outburst, ‘it’s a sacrifice on my part. But I decided blood is blood. Who can run your affairs better than me?’
‘Jesus Christ! You’ve really flipped, haven’t you?’
‘Obviously I’ll need to learn a thing or two about the music business. But working in a bank for the last nine years, I certainly know how to deal with people.’
‘Leave it out, mate. I’ll bust a gut laughin’ if you keep this up.’
Brian was affronted because Kris didn’t jump at his offer. He complained to Avis, who in turn complained to her younger son. ‘If yer can’t give yer own bruvver a job, I don’t know what,’ she said huffily.
They accepted his hospitality for two weeks, and then returned to England. Not a moment too soon as far as he was concerned. He later heard from one of his sisters that Brian was claiming Kris had
asked
him to leave his job to come and work for him, and then changed his mind. Now he was the family villain. Charming!
Finally, when he got rid of everyone and was alone, he started to write, composing the words and music for several new songs.
Things were going well, so well that he wanted to share it with someone. One day he thought of Astrid, tracked her down and called her in Paris. ‘You still engaged?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘I need some pants.’
‘I’ll mail them to you. What colour?’
‘No good. I’ve put on a pound or two. I’ll have to get a fitting.’
‘Really?’
‘No kidding. I’m in the South of France, can you fly down?’
A long thoughtful pause. ‘Okay.’
‘I’ll send you a ticket. Bring a bikini.’
‘I can’t stay.’
‘Bring a bikini anyway. You’ve got time for a swim, haven’t you?’
She arrived for a day and spent the summer. They’d been together ever since. Right now she was in London keeping the Grosvenor Square flat warm, and overseeing the renovations to the country house he’d bought.
Astrid was a calming influence. It was nice to have someone to confide in and share things with. She was also a right little raver in bed – once he finally got her there.
The break-up of The Wild Ones made world-wide headlines and caused a lot of heartbreak for their legions of fans. Kris refused to give interviews or talk about it, and when intrepid reporters turned up on his doorstep in France they were turned away.
One weekend Doktor Head arrived with news of a solo deal he was negotiating with Blue Cadillac.
‘I don’t want to get caught into anything long-term,’ Kris warned. ‘Just make it for one album an’ I’ll see if I’m happy.’
He was happy.
Erotic
was his first album with Blue Cadillac, and it was a smash. Not only a huge commercial success, but critically acclaimed also.
Yes, Kris Phoenix was extremely happy indeed.
* * *
Nova Citroen’s dinner party took place at her Bel Air house, an enormous mansion with startling views and an army of servants to attend to the sixteen guests’ every need. Marcus was not in residence.
‘He’s in London,’ Nova explained, when Kris arrived. ‘Business, as usual.’
She introduced him around to a group that included two movie stars, a writer, a couple of important producers,
the
personal manager, Hawkins Lamont, and several gorgeous, apparently unattached blondes. When Nova Citroen said she’d arrange a selection, she
knew
what she was talking about.
One of the blondes, clad in a short leather dress, slinked over to him. ‘Hi,’ she said with a welcoming smile. ‘Didn’t we meet at Allan Carr’s last week?’