This Beats Perfect Read online

  ‘Oh, no thank you.’

  ‘Probably wise TBH. Well, hello, Amelie Ayres. I’m Clint. I’m a director, well, cameraman. I’m Julian’s other half?’

  Julian worked with Amelie’s father at his east London recording studio, and he was a total scream.

  ‘Oh. Yes. I’ve met Julian!’ She stood up, feeling immediately at ease.

  ‘Course you have.’ He grinned. ‘I’m filming the boys backstage and what not. Mike said you were keen to see how it all works. Want me to show you around?’

  ‘Yes. That would be awesome. Only, I’m supposed to wait for Mel.’

  ‘She’s outside with the band doing press. The “band” has just arrived.’ He smirked. ‘Come on, we’ll be quick.’

  Clint led her out into the hallway. At one end there was a lot of commotion as the band’s huge, colourful and lively entourage piled in. She craned her neck but couldn’t make out any of the stars among the scrum.

  ‘I should have been filming their arrival, but it’s quiet out there. Londoners can be either hysterical or non-plussed. There’s no in-between.’

  Clint led her through another door onto the side of the backstage area. The enormous stage was right in front of her. She could make out the heaving crowd through a large, black mesh screen – in the darkness she could see heads bobbing about and the blue glow of thousands of mobile phones between camera flashes. Katy Perry was blaring over the sound system – and every minute or so the crowd began to chant.

  Amelie was transfixed by the sheer size of the venue and the close proximity of the energised crowd made her feel almost giddy. She looked up to the ceiling – a labyrinth of lights and walkways and props hung overhead. To the side, the wings were covered by huge heavy black curtains and the mesh screen would presumably rise when the band came on.

  ‘No one can see through that screen from out front,’ Clint was explaining earnestly. ‘The way it’s lit; it just looks solid black. Magic, right?’

  On the stage side of the screen there was a huge chrome fan (every boyband needs a wind machine, thought a smirking Amelie) and set up on a raised stage was a full drum kit. The plinth was on tracks, presumably so it could move forward. Behind that, hanging from the ceiling all the way to the floorboards, was an enormous, white silky screen – with a projector sat in standby mode shining a faint blue light across it.

  ‘We use that thing during “When I Grow Up” – they have these pluck-at-yer-heartstrings photos of the boys when they were babies. I mean, at least a few years younger than they are now! God, the mums love that number,’ he smirked, turning to Amelie. ‘It really gets them going. I mean, what the actual eff. Who gets into music thinking, “I just hope I can sell records to MILFs and their children.” It’s a sorry state.’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, enough of that. Time for the main event – this, my lady, is where the magic really happens!’

  Clint gestured elaborately to a laptop on a small desk.

  Amelie looked at it, then back at him, her face completely blank.

  ‘I know. It’s pretty dull to look at. Everything is programmed in, I mean, some of it is manual but most of it is programmed for each song. Look.’

  He leaned over and hit a few keys and a big spotlight came on above them and lit up the front of the stage. Cheers rang round the hall.

  ‘Ha! Man, these crowds are so easy to wind up.’ He flicked the switch off. They both giggled.

  ‘All the lights are rigged up through the console there.’

  He flicked another switch and the projector lit up, and bright red flames flickered on the screen. ‘Some people make a lot of money designing projections for these big shows.’

  ‘CLINT!’ A shiny, red-faced man in a boiler suit approached. ‘What are you doing! Don’t touch the lights.’

  Clint waved Amelie towards the side door. ‘You know the way. I need to set up my camera. No big multi-camera job tonight, just background stuff – we’re filming the whole show for DVD release later in the tour though. I’ve got a team of six joining me!’ he said proudly. ‘Nice to finally meet you.’

  ‘Ah, you too.’ Amelie smiled. She was desperate to stay with Clint and watch him work.

  ‘Your dad’s a legend by the way.’ He grinned, fixing a lens onto his small digital camera. ‘Now get out of here before I lose my job.’

  Amelie picked her way back through the darkness, pausing to listen as a technician gave a beautifully carved acoustic guitar one final tune-up. Amelie was staring so intently at the floor, petrified of putting a foot wrong and tripping over a cable or rogue amp and falling arse over tit, that she failed to see the figure standing by the side of the stage, psyching herself up – until it was too late.

  ‘Hey! Careful!’

  ‘Shit, sorry, oh my god, I’m so sorr—’

  The girl flashed a broad smile and instantly Amelie recognised Dee Marlow.

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  Dee smiled again – friendly but impersonal, well-worn and weary, lonely and jaded and deeply unsatisfied. Amelie knew that smile well.

  She smiled back shyly and ducked out of Dee’s eye line as quickly as she could. The music in the auditorium faded down with the lights.

  ‘Pssst!’ Mel whispered and gestured from the shadows. ‘Over here!’

  Amelie quickly joined Mel to watch the performance.

  On stage, a lone spotlight came on, illuminating a lonely looking guitar and an old 1950s microphone. It was a nice touch. Ella Fitzgerald and Duke Ellington had performed on this very stage all those years ago, and tonight all the imagery and styling was perfectly pitched – paying tribute to Dee’s musical influences and cleverly emphasising her credibility at the same time.

  Waiting for her cue, Dee put her hand to her ear and bowed her head. Her blonde hair was braided around her face and pulled back from her head. She wore a simple dress made of many layers of white chiffon – her look. Otherworldly.

  A drummer slid out from behind the curtain, settled onto his seat and began to tap the high hat. Tst. Tst. Tst. The crowd fell completely silent.

  Dee took a breath and walked onto the stage. Amelie was spellbound. The surge of applause made her spine tingle, she felt overwhelmed with envy, anticipation and awe.

  Dee’s voice was warm and husky and pitch perfect. She plucked a few accompanying strings on her guitar – so gentle you could hear the scrape of her fingers across the steel.

  ‘She’s a little superstar, right?’ Mel whispered into Amelie’s ear.

  Amelie nodded. She closed her eyes and let the music fill her.

  ‘A lot of talent in that one,’ Mel continued. ‘Hard to believe she didn’t win American Stars and The Keep did. Mind you, it’s young girls that phone vote in those shows …’

  Amelie nodded, unable to conceal her excitement.

  Song after song filled her soul and reminded her more than ever of what she wanted. She was determined to get selected for the solo spot at Music in the Park, and play and sing her own song for the first time in front of an audience. She knew her dream. There would be no freaking out at the audition. This time she would overcome her nerves and get that place.

  Leaning against the wall in the shadows, Amelie noticed a guy listening intensely, his head resting against a beam. His outline – the modern quiff and the curve of his shoulders through a dark T-shirt – was strangely familiar.

  For a brief moment a beam of light spilled from the stage and fell on his face. Suddenly, he looked up and caught her staring. They locked eyes. She looked away quickly, cheeks burning: it was Maxx from The Keep.

  CHAPTER 2

  Tightrope

  Maxx stood behind his bandmates, forcing a smile, as they were put through their paces by an overly zealous photographer who had them pretending to pile out of a Union Jack-covered Mini.

  It was, as usual, utterly excruciating.

  ‘Nice work, monkeys! Smile like you mean it, we’re just getting started!’ their manager Geoff Smart shouted with sadistic p
leasure, waving the press schedule at them as they slipped through the stage door.

  The label had been reminding Maxx every day for the past five years to ‘just have fun!’ and ‘be more whacky!’ and he still couldn’t find a way to smile sincerely.

  The boys filed into their one shared dressing room – as was typical with the older venues, it was a little bit of a squeeze.

  The others moaned – it wasn’t quite the luxury they were used to these days – but Maxx loved every cruddy, crumbling, cramped inch of this place where, in 1968, four boys just a few years older than he was now played their twenty-eight gig residency. He was almost ashamed they were contaminating the memory of The Beatles with their presence.

  The room was plastered with posters of gigs past and present. Some framed, some hung with Blu-tack. Paint peeled in the corners of the ceiling, and a faint smell of stale nicotine lingered in every crevice, years after the last cigarette had been lit. There was a make-up chair and a makeshift wardrobe area with their ‘outfits’ for the night neatly hung and separated with Charlie, Kyle, Lee, Art and Maxx tags. One all-white number to open, a colour coordinated jeans/shirt combo for the middle of the set, when they played their more serious numbers, a black dinner suit for the closing number and a reversible, sequined stars and stripes jacket to wear during ‘I’m Your Man (Not Him)’ which was their break-out hit, and final encore track.

  Naomi, their extremely sassy make-up artist – skinny as a rake, with a frozen face, boob implants and hair extensions (Geoff called her ‘The Corpse’) was already shaking her head at the sight of Maxx.

  ‘You’re first!’ she said, tapping on the back of the chair. He slid in and looked at himself in the ring lights around the mirror. He really did look terrible. Dark circles around his eyes, crusty mouth, matted hair and his T-shirt was covered in plane food.

  ‘This is no challenge for you, Naomi, you’re a magician.’ Maxx smiled at her, and she may or may not have smiled back, he could have sworn he saw some movement in her right cheek.

  She had begun to tug at his hair, tutting and huffing, when Mel swung the door open.

  ‘Boys! Great you’re all here,’ she beamed. They knew Mel well, as she had been their European tour manager since the start. Big and brash with a huge history in the music business – she’d worked with almost every big British artist from Coldplay to Radiohead. And us, thought Maxx glumly.

  ‘So, hello and WELCOME back to London!’ She clapped, the jangle of her bracelets waking up Art, who was having his pre-gig Nana nap.

  ‘Look alive you blubbering piss bags,’ Geoff murmured, shaking his head.

  ‘Thanks for the press shot out there. You know what the tabloids are like here, better to give them something. Amirite?’ Mel laughed. ‘Geoff, shall we go over anything? Can I arrange anything extra? There is ample food and drink in the green room. There’s no one in there right now – oh! Except the daughter of Mike Church actually, your stand-in sound engineer. We are LUCKY he agreed to do this tonight, so for god’s sake, if you see him, thank him. Anyway, please go on in and help yourself to food, tea and coffee and cold drinks. And remember, this is England, so the catering is absolutely dreadful.’

  ‘Yay!’ Kyle clasped his beautifully tanned hands together.

  ‘Wow. Mike Church is doing the sound tonight?’ Maxx asked.

  ‘That’s right, Maxx. You must have heard of real music,’ Geoff said, addressing the rest of the band. ‘Yes. Mike Church is doing your sound. But just tonight.’

  ‘How old’s his daughter?’ Charlie chimed in with a big sleazy grin.

  Maxx’s sigh was a little too loud – Charlie overheard and fired him an indignant look.

  ‘Seventeen, I think,’ Mel jumped in. ‘It’s her birthday actually. Anyway, be nice and hands off! We don’t screw the crew,’ she joked, waving a finger at them all.

  This was serendipitous, thought Maxx, wondering if he would have time to meet Mike after the show. After all, if he wanted to build his solo career in some form, there was no one better to talk it over with. After Steve Albini, no one was cooler than Mike.

  ‘Can someone please bring me a cheeseburger and a coke?’ Charlie said, signalling he was tired of the conversation.

  ‘Sure, honey.’ Mel spoke into her radio, ‘Alexia, can you get in here? We need some burgers brought up.’

  ‘I’m vegan,’ Art said solemnly.

  ‘Since when?’ Charlie sneered.

  ‘I just want a beer. It’s eighteen here, right?’ Lee said with a big grin.

  ‘Can I also get some gum?’ Charlie again.

  ‘Anything else, Charlie? All blue peanut M&M’s? Scented candles? Gold toilet seat? Puberty? Culture?’ Geoff muttered.

  Alexia, one of the band’s shared assistants, gently opened the door. She was eighteen and the daughter of one of the label’s senior executives in New York. Sporting black jeans and a black T-shirt with ‘1984’ emblazoned across the front in fluorescent yellow, she stood with her leather notebook and usual grin, especially directed at Lee who, after over a year, still hadn’t noticed her infatuation.

  ‘Hi, guys.’

  ‘Sexy Lexi!’ Lee said with a grin.

  ‘A cheeseburger and a coke, and some chewing gum. Get a few packets of gum actually,’ Mel said.

  Alexia smiled at Mel and took the notes down. ‘GBK okay?’

  ‘Charlie?’ Mel looked across.

  Charlie had checked out of the conversation altogether and was busy updating his social feeds. It was part of their job to keep their social media streams active and check in with their fandom. Lately things had been getting a little weird for Maxx, with all the Kyle-and-Maxx-gay-fan-fiction and photoshopped paintings of his head on a dead Jesus. Maxx didn’t love it, but they all had to do it.

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘CHARLIE!’

  ‘What?’ He looked up, annoyed. ‘I don’t mind where it’s from. Sorry. Oh, but curly fries if possible. Oh, and no mayonnaise or alliolio or whatever they use here.’

  ‘Aioli,’ Alexia confirmed. ‘Anything else?’ she said, looking across at Lee, who was leaning back looking at the ceiling while trying to spin his chair in circles as fast as he could.

  ‘I need some bottled water, and some fresh boxers,’ Kyle said apologetically.

  ‘Over there by the dolls,’ Alexia said, pointing to a pile of merch in the corner with a couple of unopened bags from Selfridges.

  ‘For god’s sake, can we call them figurines? Or action figures?’ Maxx said, half cringing, half laughing at Alexia.

  ‘Or no-action figure in your case,’ said Charlie, smirking at Maxx. ‘Can you make sure my coke is extra cold, Lexi?’

  Alexia nodded, softly closing the door before scuttling off to fulfil her list of requests.

  ‘So, Mel,’ Geoff started, ‘we need to get the children out of here pronto to make their Berlin flight.’

  ‘Yep, the cars will be here at ten on the nose.’

  ‘No signings etc.’

  ‘No problem, we’ve let security know.’

  ‘There isn’t anything else really, we’re good to go.’

  Crackle. ‘Five minutes, everyone.’

  ‘Okay, that’s Dee’s cue. I’ll leave you to it. You’re on in thirty, since it’s just a short set tonight.’ Mel closed the door to the tiny room behind her.

  ‘Lee, you and Art are going to do the sit-down with the Sun, okay?’

  Lee stopped spinning to give the thumbs up.

  ‘Be interesting, Art. Don’t talk about politics or any other weird shit again. Or better still, don’t talk. We need the column inches. And can EVERYONE please do their YouTube diary with Clint today? We need to get them up. Seems that you’re losing viewers, along with record and ticket sales,’ Geoff said, rather too joyfully.

  ‘Got it, Pops,’ Lee replied, as he enjoyed the dizzy rush from ten minutes of spinning.

  ‘You’re done.’ Naomi spun Maxx around in the chair. He was copiously quaffed and powdered;
his hair combed into a modern quiff which was frozen stiff with litres of hairspray, and he had a large, white and silver glittered star on his cheek – as per their opening ‘look’.

  ‘I look like a cross between Elvis and a My Little Pony,’ Maxx said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Geoff. ‘And it makes us all millions.’

  Despite the fact he seemed to have actual contempt for the band, Maxx liked Geoff. It didn’t matter who they were meeting or where they went, he would be there in a pair of Adidas tracksuit pants and a sweat-stained T-shirt, complaining about the heat, or his psoriasis, or the fact that he forgot to bring his earplugs to their gig and would have to waste ‘another fucking hour of his life listening to their puerile crap’.

  When they had played at Yankee Stadium, he had arrived late wearing a T-shirt that read ‘Boybands Suck’.

  ‘I nearly managed The Smiths,’ he’d once muttered with grim disbelief. ‘Fuck me.’

  It often seemed to Maxx like Geoff hated the business and didn’t know what he was doing. But their success was undeniable, so he must know something. And the label’s head honchos (or tasteless trend-hoppers, as Geoff called them) seemed to think he was one of the best.

  Maxx made his way to the door. ‘I’ve got time to watch Dee’s set, right?’

  ‘You always seem to find the time,’ Art said with a grin and a raised eyebrow.

  ‘I haven’t seen her play since Boston,’ Maxx added, embarrassed, as he closed the door behind him.

  Dee’s set was overwhelmingly beautiful and so polished. She had grown into a really good performer and even though some of it felt a bit gimmicky, there was no denying the vast improvement. Unlike The Keep, her star was on the rise.

  When Dee pushed her way off stage, flushed, sweating and positively radiant, Maxx leaned into the shadows so she couldn’t see him. He watched her hug Geoff and then Mel and unscrew the top of a cold water bottle. She gulped it down, slowly catching her breath as Mel introduced her to that girl Maxx had caught staring at him during the set.

  No doubt she was a competition winner or something. A fangirl who had called in a hundred times to win some local radio station giveaway – ‘Meet your idol backstage in London for one minute and forty-five seconds, and get a quick photo (approved by management) and a signed album (if you’re lucky) and be completely patronised by everyone along the way – on us!’