It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an ageing rockstar in possession of an eight-figure fortune, must be in want of a nubile young woman to supplant his no longer appetising wife…
Eric Scoggins, the lead singer of The Wobbly Pebbles lay naked on the enormous bed in his Miami hotel and regarded his skinny, wrinkled body with sour amusement.
“I dunno about you,” he remarked to his sleeping penis, “but I reckon the only reason anybody wants us now is the fame and the money.”
For a moment he smiled as he remembered back when he started out in the business. Things felt different then, and groupies had seemed like an amusing way to chart the band’s rise to fame and fortune: the richer they got, the prettier the girls became. And, if pushed, he would have to admit to sampling a few along the way. But now he was almost seventy he would honestly prefer a cup of tea and an early night.
He sighed, and his thoughts grew sombre. The business of a farewell tour was exhausting enough without the necessity to run from the rapacious claws of the young and greedy. He wasn’t remotely interested, but these girls were unrelenting and he was beginning to feel like the quarry in a very bloody hunt.
To cap it off he was lonely, and only one person could help. He speed dialled a number in England and spoke to the person who had been the centre of his life for some forty years.
“I miss you. Please come.”
Three nights later, as the band played its final encore ever, a particularly persistent blonde bribed a hotel desk clerk for a room key.
Blondie let herself into Eric’s palatial suite, and slipped out of her clothes before disposing herself decoratively across the wide whiteness of the bed. This, she thought with a smirk, would be almost too easy.
It was more than an hour later when she heard the door to the suite open. Carefully tousling her blonde curls she sat up in the bed and plastered on a seductive smile. Almost at once her smile became a frown as she heard voices. What was going on? She had been watching and the old fool never brought anybody upstairs with him. But there was somebody with him now. Somebody who could wreck all her plans. Her smooth pink hands curled into claws.
The first words she could make out were spoken in the distinctive gravelly tones of a voice that had broken a million hearts.
“I’m going out on the balcony for a smoke. You coming?”
“Yeah. I will. But I need the bathroom first.”
The sound of what could only be a kiss pushed Blondie’s patience almost beyond its limits, but she managed to wait until she heard the balcony door slide and the sound of heels crossing to the bathroom. Quick as a flash she streaked across the corridor to where an ordinary looking, and far from young, woman was sitting on the john.
“Clear off,” Blondie snarled, “it cost me five thousand dollars to get in here and I’m not having some used up old tart ruin my chances.”
The woman looked at her incuriously. Then she laughed.
“I have a better idea. You clear off.”
Blondie led with her nails, going for the older woman’s face. But she was caught from behind and her wrists were held in an iron grip. She wriggled and kicked but all to no avail. The woman got up off the pan and disappeared for a second, coming back with a bundle of clothes.
“You have two minutes to dress and leave. If you aren’t gone in that time I’m calling security.”
Blondie looked from Eric’s determined face to the bland expression of the woman who stood at his side.
“I don’t understand,” she said fretfully, “why don’t you want me? Everybody knows you are ripe for a wife upgrade.”
Eric shook his head.
“Just get out.”
It is a truth less universally acknowledged that some ageing rockstars might even love their wives…