This Beats Perfect Read online

  But this girl didn’t look like the usual fan. For one, she looked cool. That typically British brand of vaguely subversive cool – effortless and unapologetic.

  Next to Dee she was very slight, with elegant hands that, when released from her jeans pockets, she used in wild gesticulation.

  Dee was so much better with fans than he was. She could easily play the part of the grateful artist, and really took her time to speak with them, so it came as no surprise they stopped chatting to take a quick selfie. Yes, definitely a competition winner, Maxx thought.

  Dee touched the girl’s shoulder warmly and gave her one final smile before turning to make her way to the green room, the smile disappearing the instant she was not on show. The stage was dark, and although Dee was barely off, the audience was starting to chant for The Keep between surging applause and cheers. He felt bad that she didn’t get the same fanatical reception that his band did, when she was far and away the superior artist.

  She was also the only one that would understand how stifled he felt in The Keep and how desperate he was to do his own thing again. He needed to talk to someone about it, and would try to catch her tonight if he could. He was sure she would not deny him that.

  He sighed, and forced himself back into the dressing room to pull his horrible, embarrassing, stupid outfit on. And grab some food. He had about three minutes.

  CHAPTER 3

  Charmless Man

  If Amelie saw nothing else that night, the trip had been worth it times a million. To see someone like Dee playing and singing, and watching the crew backstage working their simple magic with the show, was so incredible she felt she had memories to last her forever. But to meet Dee properly was something else. Dee was friendly, even warm with her – and Amelie was delighted at her suggestion they take a photo, even if that did mean she spent a few minutes cropping, retouching and filtering it before handing her the phone back. Amelie had immediately sent it via Snapchat to Maisie.

  TO MAISIE: Look! It’s my new BFF ;-)

  She dreamed one day of writing songs that good, and playing them onstage or having people like Dee come to watch her play.

  As Amelie dreamily made her way to the green room she immediately recognised Charlie from The Keep loitering in the hallway. He was fully and audaciously made up – leaning back, furiously typing on his phone. He was unmistakable as the All-American one – the blond-haired, blue-eyed dreamboat. He was the kind of guy you see in high school movies – a cherry coke-drinking, high school football-playing, cheerleader-dating guy – fused with half a pot of hair gel and some very questionable make-up. Amelie found it a total turn-off, and she was far too proud to be mistaken for some kind of fan.

  The hallway was buzzing with backstage staff making the final touches for the headline act. Roadies pushed past with guitars, microphone stands, London-themed props, and three identically dressed backing singers squeezed by giggling and gossiping. The hallway was not wide, but Amelie hoped she could slip past unnoticed.

  She looked straight at the ground, desperately trying to make out that she was busy with something else as she started her confident saunter past, which in truth just felt hugely fraudulent and awkward.

  ‘Hey there!’ Charlie raised his eyebrows and plastered on a toothy smile that was so fixed it made Amelie wonder if it was permanent.

  There was no avoiding him. ‘Oh, hi.’

  He seemed to be waiting for something.

  ‘It’s Charlie, right?’ she obliged, immediately irritated. Yes, Mr Superstar, I recognise you, she thought.

  ‘Yeah. I’m Charlie. You working here?’ His accent was thick and his teeth were completely distracting. They were so white they almost glowed. She tried not to stare.

  ‘Um, no, my dad is working here.’

  ‘Your daddy, huh?’

  His eyes narrowed as if he had hit upon something. ‘What’s your name?’ The glow of his teeth keenly matched the all-white opening number outfit he was wearing and he smelt like dry cleaning and fresh wall plaster. He nodded to a man in an oversized fur shrug who sashayed past, giving Amelie the once over.

  ‘Um, Amelie … Ayres.’

  ‘Oh! Our soundie’s daughter, right? It’s your birthday, isn’t it?’ Although he was ridiculously handsome, he was so clean and polished that Amelie was repelled. The antitheses of real. The opposite of rock and roll. She tried to take a step towards the green room but he had put his arm up, partially blocking the route. She would have to duck under it to get past.

  ‘Um, yes. It is,’ she said, blushing, suddenly aware Charlie was observing someone over her shoulder.

  ‘So you saw Dee then, but you’re not watching us?’ He was definitely blocking her. It was subtle, but although Amelie felt too polite to push his arm out of the way, she was beginning to feel extremely annoyed at her space being invaded.

  ‘But, sweetheart, we’re the headliners,’ he tried to joke; but Amelie’s hackles were up. There was no stopping her.

  ‘Boybands are not really my thing,’ she said flatly. ‘I’m just here to see my dad.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ For a whisper of a moment he looked hurt, then disbelieving. ‘You don’t like us, even just a little?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m more Talk Talk than Take That.’ She stood firm, and she felt someone brush past, and from the corner of her eye caught a glimpse of Maxx’s loose charcoal T-shirt and the unmistakable quiff.

  ‘Hey. You met Amelie, Maxx? Mike’s daughter?’ Charlie’s tone was almost antagonistic.

  ‘Um, sorry … I …’ was the clipped response, the thick southern tone to his voice marking him unmistakably as the guy from Memphis. He turned, his dark eyes locking on Amelie, who couldn’t remove the ‘fuck you’ face she had just prepared for Charlie. ‘I have to get ready … and eat.’ Maxx smiled wanly and sped off down the corridor.

  Amelie could make out the hint of a smirk on Charlie’s face.

  ‘So, what were we saying? You wanna talk later?’

  ‘ONE MINUTE! WHERE IS MY SODDING BAND?’ Geoff screamed from the stage door. ‘Unhook yourself from that poor child, Charlie!’

  ‘Show time!’ Charlie said with an arrogant grin. ‘How do I look?’ He stretched his arms out and straightened his shirt cuffs. She wanted to comment on his hint of a paunch, or the whisper of hair loss evident at his crown, but instead she opted for a clean escape.

  ‘Good. Nice. Yeah, I have to go.’ Amelie pushed him just as he stepped out of the way, which caused her to stumble forward into the wall, just catching herself before she landed face first on the carpet.

  She marched into the safety of the green room without looking back and flung the door open. Who did that guy think he was? What a totally arrogant, rude bastard, she fumed, ranting away under her breath, when another one of them burst into the green room and marched straight past her to the food table.

  ‘You’re on in one minute!’ she barked, far more angrily than she had intended.

  ‘What?’ Maxx spun around, hurriedly buttoning his shirt while trying to shove a stale egg sandwich into his mouth. ‘Shit! I totally missed the call. As usual. Thanks!’

  He was dressed differently now – almost unrecognisable all in white. Up this close Amelie could see the same thick makeup that Charlie was wearing, though Maxx’s was covering a hint of dark stubble. None of them looked as baby-faced as they did in their press shots.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said again, fixing his stare on her. Amelie quickly turned away. ‘I’m Maxx. I saw you. Backstage, right? So you’re Mike’s daughter? Amy-Lee? I thought you won a radio competition.’

  He took a half step towards her, then stopped. ‘I mean. Well. Sorry if I was rude, I’m just always late.’

  Amelie kept her eyes averted, fumbling for her phone. He paused again for a moment before heading to the door.

  ‘Sorry. Phone call,’ she said quickly, turning away, desperate not to engage him further. He seemed to immediately get the hint.

  ‘Well, thanks again,’ he said as
he slipped out.

  For a moment she just sat there, shaken. Then, as if it had all the answers, she pulled out her phone.

  TO MAISIE: I just met Charlie from TK and he’s a total nob.

  TO DAD: Where are you? Will I get to see you?

  FROM MAISIE: Ooooh my favourite one! Bummer. Mum and I are making homemade deodorant from vodka! So my night is worse.

  Amelie sat staring at the screen, feeling like she’d rather miss the band perform altogether, when another message popped up.

  FROM DAD: Are you backstage? Did Clint come and show you round? Mel? Everything okay?

  TO DAD: In the green room, Dee amazing, can’t wait to see you x

  Her phone beeped almost instantly.

  FROM DAD: Okay see you in the GR after show. Don’t miss the boys – I know it’s not your thing – but it’s pretty fun. Gotta go! They’re on!

  TO DAD: Sure thing. X

  She dragged herself out to watch the show, and ninety minutes later she was surprised to find that she’d been thoroughly entertained – if not by the music, then by the tour-de-force performance. She had never seen a crowd like it! The screams were deafening; girls were crying, one hapless tweenager fainted and had to be dragged from the front row.

  She watched each of the band – their dance moves were ever so slightly out of time with their enthusiastic finger pointing, but they were pitch perfect as they swept up the crowd; mothers, daughters and gay men alike. The consummate professionals.

  Though the music did nothing to showcase any kind of vocal originality, Maxx was clearly the best singer. Art had a deep vocal, warm and bluesy, but he clearly couldn’t dance, Charlie was the OTT-double-decker-cheese-on-toast who didn’t sing solo, like, once; Kyle was the nice one – so smiley and sweet; and Lee was the crowd favourite – every time he sang a solo (which was not as often as the audience would have liked) the cheers turned to deafening screams. There were knickers thrown.

  Amelie found herself giggling and foot-tapping along to the saccharine love songs and explosive pop hits (complete with fire and sparklers) – even the hardest cynic couldn’t fail to be caught up in the spectacle.

  CHAPTER 4

  Going to the Party

  ‘Sweetheart, I need you to head out and jump in any of the cars lined up out back, there’s been a slight change of plan,’ Mel said, looking a little stressed.

  ‘But, my dad …?’ Amelie asked meekly as the house lights snapped on. She was unprepared for the stampede as the backstage area was dismantled and sweaty, sparkly, slightly liquored bodies were ushered out.

  ‘He’ll meet you there.’ Mel winked. ‘Hurry now.’

  ‘But where?’ Amelie called out as Mel disappeared down the side of the stage.

  The only thing for it was to do as she’d been told, and soon Amelie found herself in a motorcade heading across London to the Sanderson Hotel’s private Purple Bar, for an impromptu opening night soiree.

  The Sanderson was a huge, once achingly trendy hotel and bar in Fitzrovia, central London. In the lobby, two plucky blondes with matching boob jobs were sipping orange-coloured cocktails on a massive red couch shaped like a pair of luscious lips, and groups of men in dark suits drank brandy – no doubt discussing yachts, golf and/or watches, casually spending the average annual wage every time they bought a round.

  Amelie found herself a little bit awestruck and intimidated by the ostentatiousness of it all. She kept running her fingers through her hair and straightening out her top. Nothing can be done about the trainers, she groaned inwardly, immediately searching out Clint for a little moral support.

  The band, the managers, the make-up artists – they all milled around, radiating delight at the success of the show. Dee sat on a long leather couch, lazily holding court, now changed into soft blue trousers, a silver top and sandals, her hair freed from the plaits and falling softly around her shoulders. She looked every inch the superstar on down time; haughty demeanour in place, nose slightly raised, undeniable magnetic aura initiated.

  Charlie, Art and Kyle were also milling about, still in their sweaty closing-number outfits, but Lee had changed and was washed clean of make-up, and so was Maxx, who looked infinitely more handsome in his Ramones T-Shirt, jeans and Converse. Amelie noticed with interest the edge of a small tattoo, peeking out from a sleeve rolled-up on a very defined arm.

  She couldn’t help taking a lingering look, and felt a pang of guilt for her earlier rudeness. Of the five, there was definitely something about him – he seemed a bit of a misfit next to the others, who all wore their atypical boyband personas with pride.

  Moody electronica played over the speakers, while modelesque waitresses carried trays of champagne cocktails and ludicrously tiny macrobiotic canapés around to ravenous musicians.

  ‘More like it, eh?’ Clint smiled, using the smallest of pincer grips to pluck a miniscule gluten-free vegan slider out of its edible paper wrapper.

  ‘Wow,’ Amelie said, genuinely. ‘No wonder rich people are so skinny.’

  ‘That’s negative eight calories,’ beamed the hovering waitress, pointing at an unspecified stick of vegetation, impaled by a sterling silver toothpick. ‘If you count the energy your body needs to digest it!’

  ‘Sounds delicious,’ said Amelie politely. ‘I wish my friend Maisie could see this, she would be in heaven!’

  ‘So how did you like the gig?’ Clint asked. ‘We always open at a smaller venue with a slightly pared-down show. Test the set list, see how the audience responds, if there’s anything missing from the show – that kind of thing.’

  ‘Slightly pared down! Are you kidding?’ Amelie laughed. ‘Who comes up with it all? The music, the outfits, the lighting? It’s all so carefully choreographed – it’s perfectly in sync.’

  ‘N Sync,’ Clint snorted. ‘Look, it depends. The Keep have an artistic director, that guy there – Ashton.’ Clint waved towards the man in the enormous (Louis Vuitton) fur shrug from earlier, who was now brandishing an elaborate gilded cane, and slowly sipping something from a silver thermos. ‘Urine diet.’ Clint screwed his nose up.

  ‘Ewwww. So, he’s in charge of how they dress?’ Amelie said cheekily. ‘No wonder.’

  ‘Yeah, well, Ashton does all the concepts and stuff. He used to work with McQueen, you know. Brought in to make the boys more edgy,’ Clint said blankly, before turning to Amelie and raising his eyebrows.

  Amelie really liked Clint. He was slightly nerdy, what Maisie would call gawkward – but he was warm and friendly and he must be very good at what he did, how else would he be touring with this band as their on-the-road video director aged just twenty-three? He talked fast, jumping from thought to thought, constantly fidgeting – pushing his glasses back up on his nose or twisting a strand of his beard round and round until it stuck out like a spear.

  Amelie burst out laughing. ‘But does he decide – like make final decisions – or does the band?’

  ‘The band?’ Clint laughed. ‘Erm, no. Not the band. They don’t decide on much. But that’s the gig, right? Handsome front men, but when you peel back the curtain, as they say … there’s nothing there but that guy.’ He pointed across to Geoff, who was slyly picking his nose while barking orders at a young assistant. ‘If you had to do one though, which one?’

  Amelie giggled, ignoring the bait. ‘But … surely they have some input?’

  ‘Well, no. Geoff and the label do it all really. Well, the team, you know. I mean Dee has more involvement because it’s more her thing rather than a production. But The Keep? Nah. They’re one hundred per cent music industry construct. Puppets really. Not that you’d ever say it to their faces.’

  Amelie looked across at Dee, who was starting to tire of the attention around her and looked ready to leave. She stretched out a hand in front of her, surveying her perfect manicure, before chewing on the side of her pinkie and peering around the room as if searching for someone. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, waving away the offer of more champagne from a fawning wa
iter.

  ‘Bloggers,’ Clint continued – pointing at two completely straight-looking men observing from the fringes. ‘You can tell a blogger from a vlogger by their looks. And age. But mostly their looks. Bloggers are the new Radio DJs,’ he laughed.

  ‘The Keep have had a good run though,’ he said diplomatically. ‘I mean, in boyband years, they’re the same age as Madonna.’

  ‘But they’re only twenty or twenty-one though, right?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s been five years! One of them has got to leave soon. I’ve got my money on Lee.’

  ‘Where’s my girl?’ A voice boomed from across the room. ‘There she is! Happy birthday, my darling.’ Amelie’s dad strode over, hitching up his jeans as he walked, popped down a glass of champagne he hadn’t touched, and – much to Amelie’s embarrassment – picked her up and spun her around.

  ‘Dad! Finally!’ Amelie tried to pull away from his vice grip but felt herself slipping into giggly baby girl mode.

  ‘Ahh. How are you?’ He planted kiss after kiss on her forehead. ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t get to see you before the show. Did you have fun?’

  Her father’s arrival had drawn attention, particularly from Charlie, who had been hovering near Dee but now appeared to be making his way over. Amelie glanced at her phone. 10.15. Why hadn’t the band left for Berlin yet? They were supposed to be gone by now.

  ‘It was good,’ she said with mild enthusiasm, becoming uncomfortably aware that Charlie had manoeuvred himself to be just within earshot.

  Her dad grinned. ‘Come on, there’s got to be some regular seventeen-year-old underneath all that cool?’

  ‘Okay. Yeah, it was really fun,’ she conceded, desperately trying to move so that Charlie was no longer in her peripheral vision.