The New Romantics

 

 

On Monday, Frankie Starr is a suicidal New Romantic, bereft of family, fans and love. By the weekend, he has the first number one single of his career, is the single father of 18 (and counting) and just may be in love with his own daughter.

Extract from The New Romantics

Prologue

April 6 1983

 

Samantha Fox stared up at him. Willing him. Wanting him. Begging him. “Take

me, Frankie… take me right now…” It was no use. He must be the only man in

Britain who couldn’t get a stiff one for Sam Fox… He skimmed the pages of

the dog-eared magazine. How long had he been in here? Sweat trickled down

his temples. Were they welts forming on his hand? Finally, he found her on

page 48. Modeling lingerie in the small ads. There were only a couple of

square inches of her but she was pure, black perfection. Gingerly, he

maneuvered himself inside the plastic container and was only mildly

disappointed when he didn’t inhabit more of it. This time, he would fill it

with the perfect sample. Frankie heard himself groan as he climaxed, then

the sound of an all too familiar voice:

 

-      What are you doing, Frankie? At yourself again at your age!

-      Mum?

 

Frankie fumbled with the cup, dropped it to the floor and watched in horror

as half its meagre contents oozed over the linoleum.

 

-      And you can think again if you think I’m cleaning that up!

-      Yes, I mean no… I mean… it’s for science Mum, honest. I’m not doing

this for my own pleasure.

 

Frankie carefully scooped up the mess with a black, nail-polished finger.

The sticky gloop filled the cracks of his lacquered nail as he held up the

sample with “Frank Boyle A” typed on it for her approval, then thought

better of it and sheepishly hid it behind his back.

 

-      Hah! Don’t tell me you’re after developing a social conscience? She

mocked. - Well I wouldn’t bother – all children ever bring is pain. Have you

forgotten how much pain you caused me?

-      Why don’t you ever appear when I’m doing something good, mother?

-      Because you never do anything good, Frankie – and you never will.

 

Frankie’s shoulders began to tremble softly. His scrawny frame hunched over

the sink. A mildly violent set of semi-dry wretches splattered the half

digested pills against the ceramic receptacle. Slowly, he rose to face his

own reflection. Mascara streamed down his face. His fist tightened around

the sterilized container and launched the creamy sample wallward. The

velvety viscous exploded all over his features and leached down the mirror.

This time the wretches produced more, much more, so much more that Frankie

thought he might actually choke on his own burning vomit – just like Jimi

Hendrix, minus the glorious career. And he reckoned Jimi was most probably

making love to some supermodel Goddess, as opposed to humping a plastic cup,

at the time. “Jimi Hendrix – Legend.” “Frankie Starr - Wanker”. His epitaph

would be original, if nothing else.

 

When the projectiles finally subsided, the tired and battered face staring

back at Frankie was thirty years older. If only he were back in the past. At

least he had a future then.