‘So I think everyone’s hanging about for a bit. Hey, Mel.’
‘Hey, Mikey,’ Mel said, cruising over with her phone wedged between her ear and shoulder and a cocktail in her hand. They kissed each other’s cheeks. ‘I’m on hold,’ she whispered.
‘What’s happening? I was going to take Amelie for supper, but if everyone’s hanging back a little longer now …’
‘Not long, we’re just here for a bit.’ Mel checked her watch. ‘Their plane won’t be ready until morning now so we’ll have to stay in London. The rooms here are taken – some luxury goods conference – Ashton is beside himself. But we’ll sort it.’ Winking, she raised a finger and spoke into her phone, ‘Yes, we’ll need nine rooms. How many can you do?’ She looked at Amelie’s dad and rolled her eyes.
‘That’s Alexia,’ whispered Clint, continuing his guided tour of the room. ‘We like her. She wants to be a director one day, so I try to get her to help out when she’s not fetching things for the talent.’
Alexia was tucked away in the corner of the room, crouched on the floor with one of her three mobile phones plugged into the wall socket and a plastic wallet spilling paperwork, pens and a small bottle of Bach remedy on the floor.
‘Hey, the sound was brilliant. Expect Geoff to come and hit you up,’ Mel said to Mike.
He shook his head, modestly. ‘Appreciate it, love. But, you know me.’
At just that moment Geoff was swaggering his way through the entourage, swearing at the inconvenience of the half-metre detour required to circumnavigate a group of people. He absent-mindedly positioned himself right in front of Clint and Amelie to talk to her father.
‘Remember when a pub was enough? What is this fucking place?’ he said, scratching a scaly pink patch of skin on his arm.
‘Geoff! Mate,’ Amelie’s dad said, warmly patting the manager on the shoulder. Amelie knew they had worked together for years, as he’d often remarked that Geoff would be a ‘good contact’ for her one day.
‘Great stuff tonight, Mike. So … what will it take to convince you, mate?’ Geoff held his hand up. ‘What’s your price?’
‘Arghh! I’m sorry, man, I just can’t do it.’ Mike shook his head.
‘Everyone has a price. Even for this sack of moose shit,’ Geoff said, waving in the general direction of the band. ‘Honestly, I need you. It almost sounded like actual music tonight – I took my earplugs out for more than three minutes.’
Amelie knew her dad was good, but it was quite another thing to see someone like Geoff grovelling to him like this. She felt a surge of pride.
‘Sorry.’ Mike shook his head with a half grin. ‘You’re like an old dog with a stick, mate.’ He turned to Amelie and Clint. ‘Will you guys give us a minute? Amelie, you can have one beer if you want. If they serve it here.’
‘The boys don’t like old pubs …’ Mel remarked as Amelie and Clint wandered to the other side of the room, skirting around the three backing singers who were now deliciously lubricated and starting to thirst for a boogie.
While Geoff, Mel and her father chatted, Amelie watched on, amazed by the throngs of people that came in a constant stream to ask something of them; nobody daring to interrupt too quickly. It was easy to see that though the star power was assembled like an Annie Leibowitz Vanity Fair cover around the band and Dee, the real power was in that circle. So when Maxx edged self-consciously up, stopping for longer than a quick thank you, she was intrigued that her father immediately engaged in conversation.
As Amelie craned her neck, trying to catch a word or two, someone turned the music up, making it impossible to make out anything. She gave up and took a quick swig of the single barrel boutique pale ale Clint had handed her.
‘You stuck around, huh?’ Charlie made his move, his sweaty, smeared face literally popping up right in front of her. ‘Great show, right?’
‘Yeah, I was waiting for my dad,’ Amelie replied flatly, her eyes still on her father and Maxx. They couldn’t know each other, could they? Dad hadn’t worked with a boyband before, let alone The Keep.
‘Ah, yes,’ Charlie said, also eyeing her father and Maxx. ‘So, what did you think?’ He turned to Clint, ‘Hey, we need to do a video diary, don’t we?’
‘Yep,’ Clint smiled. ‘Hi, Charlie.’
‘Hiya …’ Charlie paused for a moment to think. ‘Clint!’ He smiled, pleased with himself for remembering. ‘Well? Tell me! What did you think, Amelie Ayres?’
‘It was good, actually.’ Amelie was feeling charitable. ‘I enjoyed it.’
‘Oh yeah?’ At that, Charlie’s manner changed, and his slightly smug grin reappeared. ‘So, won you over, did we?’
Amelie gritted her teeth, while Clint coughed, trying to obscure a giggle.
‘I like playing in those smaller places sometimes,’ Charlie continued, oblivious. ‘It makes a change. We never had to do the rounds in those kind of places. You know, because we were so instantly huge.’
Amelie tried to imagine The Keep doing the rounds of the local venues and pubs in east London, singing their tacky love songs in a single-line formation to a room full of acutely critical hipsters. They would be crushed.
‘Champagne?’ A waitress approached with a tray, beaming at Charlie.
‘No, I’m good,’ Charlie said, and she sashayed off. ‘There are a couple of “serious” music bloggers here – invited of course – but I gotta be careful,’ he continued, nodding to the jeaned and sneakered thirty-somethings still skirting the edges of the party. ‘That’s why it’s good to talk to you guys. Deflection. You’re nobody to them. I mean … no offence.’ He smiled.
On he droned. Amelie couldn’t resist an eye roll, which she indulged just at the moment Dee looked over at her. Ashamed of herself, Amelie quickly looked away.
Amelie willed her father to come and save her from Charlie’s incessant rambling. She wondered if the band didn’t get to meet people their own age often – or at least ones that weren’t dressed head to toe in Keep merchandise.
‘Are you two together?’ Charlie asked. Prompting Clint to burst into laughter and Amelie to blush wildly.
Amelie had never had a boyfriend and had only once been kissed – Leslie Kilpatrick on the back stairs at the third-form disco. Leslie was the dumpy lead in choir, and Amelie did it purely out of boredom, and then deeply regretted it after it took all of the next year to shake him.
She had had a small crush on her guitar tutor, Jasper Poshwood (not his real name), who was really handsome and a great guitarist. He was something of a local celebrity – he often busked at Columbia Road flower market alongside a friend on double bass – but last summer Jasper had grown a twirly moustache, so that ruled him out immediately. And he was also called Jasper, which was far too west London for her tastes.
‘Eh, no,’ Amelie stammered.
‘So, you on Twitter?’ Charlie asked. ‘I’ll follow you. What’s your name on there?’ he said, pulling out a brand new iPhone.
‘Umm …’ Warning bells sounded and Amelie racked her brain for a stalling tactic.
Just then Kyle walked over. ‘Hey, Charlie. Cars are here.’
‘Well?’ Charlie’s finger was lingering on the keypad. ‘Come on, I like to follow someone after every gig.’
She couldn’t get out of it. ‘Um, it’s @callmeamelie98.’
‘Sorry,’ Kyle apologised to Amelie. ‘He really has to get CHANGED! Oh my god, happy birthday, right? It’s Amelie?’
She nodded and smiled at Kyle, his warmth irresistible.
‘Two L’s?’ Charlie asked as he was leaving, Amelie pretended to be distracted by the dessert canapés that were now doing the rounds.
‘Looks like you’ve got a fan there,’ Clint grinned. ‘Look at you! You lucky, lucky thing. I forgot it’s your birthday, how rude of me. How old are you. Let me guess. Seventeen?’
‘Exactly.’ Amelie smiled. ‘This was my present. It’s my first gig backstage.’ It was almost 100 per cent likely that Charlie would forget he
r Twitter name and not follow her, but she had to admit the idea was a little amusing.
‘Your first gig!’ Clint laughed. ‘Well, happy birthday, Amelie.’ He handed her the world’s smallest cupcake canapé; it was no bigger than a 20p coin and had a tiny flag in it, which read ‘sugar free’.
‘How perfectly depressing,’ Amelie said, as she popped it into her mouth, and watched Maxx file out the main door.
CHAPTER 5
Futile Devices
Maxx stood hunched over by the entrance of the Sanderson, watching the London nightlife stumble past. He stared longingly across at the White Horse, a proper British pub, where weary staff wiped down tables and collected empty pint glasses while trying to usher out the last of the singing drunks. One made a beeline for a parked Porsche and gleefully took a piss on it while singing The Keep’s second ever single, the dubiously titled ‘Golden Rain’, at full volume.
A black cab pulled up and two impeccably suited young men and their beautiful, high-fashion partners stepped out onto the street. The women’s thousand-pound Louboutin’s were welcomed warmly by the fawning, stuttering doorman.
‘Soccer players,’ Art’s deep, gravelly voice sounded out from the shadow where he was waiting. ‘They’re like gods in England.’
‘Oh,’ Maxx mumbled, watching two paparazzi arrive on motorbikes. He bowed his head slightly as they set up their lenses, willing the rest of the band to hurry.
He tucked the piece of paper with Mike’s phone number into his back pocket. Mike seemed intent on pushing him to come and ‘just record some songs and see how it goes’, and his fatherly and encouraging way had made Maxx feel like it was something he could almost do.
Maxx wanted to make sure he got in a car with Dee who, after unhooking herself from numerous lecherous admirers, was waiting with her small bag for the chauffeur to open the door.
‘Can I ride with you alone?’ Maxx blurted out.
Dee glanced briefly at Charlie, who was also waiting by the car. ‘Go ahead,’ Charlie remarked.
She then nodded towards the paparazzi, who were starting to shout.
‘Dee! Dee! Give us a snap.’
‘Come on, love! One of you and the fella!’
‘Maxx! Come on, mate.’
‘One photo!’
‘Sure, Maxx,’ Dee said warmly. ‘Quick.’
She spun around and, grabbing Maxx by the arm, flashed a huge smile at the waiting paparazzi – their cameras went crazy and she gave a small wave as they slipped into the waiting car.
‘May as well give them one,’ she smiled. ‘Might be the last.’
‘Yeah,’ Maxx said, caught off-guard, his eyes stinging from the flash of bulbs.
‘Great gig as usual. I loved your solo number!’ she teased.
‘Thanks, Dee.’ Maxx felt ashamed. He hated his solo number, a moody, faux-country hit he had to sing while straddling a pink fibreglass horse.
‘I hate that we have to stay tonight! Arghh … we have to get up at five a.m. now – did Mel tell you?’
Maxx looked at his watch. That was in five hours’ time! Damn it. Another night of little sleep.
He watched Mike get into the car in front with Amelie. They were heading back to the East End for ‘a proper supper of pie and mash’ before he dropped his daughter off. For a moment he imagined going with them, to see the real London with a couple of locals. To slip into a booth somewhere cosy, eat that pie and ‘chew the fat’ into the small hours, talking music with Mike and maybe with that feisty daughter of his.
‘So, I just wanted to talk.’ He looked out of the window, feeling too pathetic to look Dee in the face. The driver turned the radio on, sensing a moment of intimacy, but unfortunately for Maxx he chose the Love Songs Until Dawn programme on Heart FM, kicking off with that awful 70s classic, ‘I’m Not in Love’, which was the worst possible score to this scene.
‘Yes? What’s up?’ Taking a big deep breath, Dee turned her phone face down and looked at him over-earnestly.
‘I just needed to talk to you.’ He was sounding out his thoughts. He hadn’t actually thought this through properly.
‘What is it?’
‘I dunno.’ He gazed out the window as they drove down rainy Oxford Street past the massive flagship stores – Topshop, H & M, Selfridges – London still brimming with life even as the heavens truly opened. ‘I guess, I feel …’
What did he feel exactly? He wasn’t sure. He looked over at her now; she looked smaller, more real, more like a girl you might meet at school or at the mall. Her hands clasped together on her lap.
‘Maxx.’ Dee shifted in her seat.
‘No, no, it’s not what you think.’
I’m not in lo-ove …
The song on the radio seemed to be working overtime to humiliate him further. He rubbed his head in his hands and felt sweat forming on the back of his neck.
So don’t forget it …
‘Jesus. This isn’t going well,’ he said regretfully.
It’s just a silly phase I’m going through …
‘I still don’t understand, I guess. I mean, what happened,’ he tried.
‘I told you, I’m busy with … you know, the new album …’ She paused.
‘Yeah, I just don’t understand. I guess I wasn’t expecting it. I didn’t think you were so unhappy.’
‘If I’m honest, Maxx,’ she spoke gently, ‘you seemed pretty unhappy yourself.’
He hadn’t considered this; he had been unhappy in the band of course – but he’d never felt unhappy with her. He sighed, thankful the song was starting to fade.
‘It wasn’t you,’ he started.
‘It was me?’ she smirked.
‘Sorry.’
‘Well, neither of us were having a good time, you know, so it was better to call it off. And, of course, management were pissed that the press found out we were dating,’ she said practically, before quickly adding, ‘Not that that had ANYTHING to do with it!’
He sat in silence, trying to make sense of his feelings.
‘Can you at least admit you weren’t happy?’ she tried.
‘Yeah, I guess. Arghh … this band. I can’t escape it.’ He put his head in his hands.
She tried to steer the conversation. ‘You should really get on with it. You know, writing again. Everyone knows you hate it in the band – it’s pretty obvious.’
He looked up with shock. ‘It is?’
‘You seem bored. Even, embarrassed sometimes? You shouldn’t, by the way. There are plenty of much worse bands out there – and you’ve had, like, how many top ten singles? How many platinum albums? How many Teen Choice awards? But you want to do your own thing, right?’
Maxx nodded. ‘Yeah. I don’t know if I can do it any more. I just don’t know how to pick up a guitar any more and play. Do you get that?’
‘Yeah, I do.’ She touched his hand. ‘You need to just enjoy your time with The Keep. Like, you know, Charlie does. He knows it’s a short-term thing.’
Maxx curled his lip up at the mention of Charlie.
‘No one likes a Man Band,’ Dee tried to joke. ‘It’s not forever. And lord knows, you’re all getting on a bit. Art is talking about doing a degree in Roman Economics, for god’s sake.’
‘I’m boring. Jesus, Maxx. Get a grip.’ He sighed, looking across at her, starting to wonder what the fuck he was doing. She fidgeted with her phone impatiently.
‘Can you hold that thought?’ She held a finger up. ‘I’m so sorry, but I really need to finish this Instagram post. Which one?’
She held up her phone to show him three photos – one of her Union Jack-painted nails, a moody shot of her from behind, standing in the rain with a yellow umbrella, and finally one of her waving from inside a red phone box.
‘The phone box one?’ Maxx said half-heartedly, wondering where she found the energy for it all.
‘I don’t like my hair in that,’ she said doubtfully. ‘I’ll do the nails.’
The car holding Lee and
Charlie pulled up next to them at the traffic lights. Lee did a blowfish on the window.
‘Sorry. That was insensitive of me. So, what were you saying?’ Dee asked distractedly, her fingers still fondling her phone. ‘By the way, do you hashtag England or Great Britain or the UK? It’s a mystery.’
‘London?’ Maxx offered limply.
She finished up, and turned back to him. ‘Sorry,’ she said once again, smiling at him to continue.
‘I guess I miss someone to connect with in the down time, like we used to …’ His voice trailed off.
‘But I’m completely deranged, remember?’ She tried to make light of it, but on a rare and slightly risky evening out together she had knocked a huge glass of red wine over Maxx when he tried to kiss her – and unfortunately for everyone the incident was caught on video and ended up on notorious gossip website The Buzz. Dee-Ranged to The Maxx! was the headline.
They had managed, through various diversionary tactics, to keep their short relationship so secret that the press was caught completely off-guard, and there was a surge of attention at the discovery, despite the fact they were actually at the end of the road.
Management had made the call not to let them go public about their break up, since Dee had a new album coming out in the autumn. Dee didn’t seem to care about playing the part; she was good at the game.
‘Ha!’ He stared back out the window as they drove along the edge of Hyde Park, neon lights shining across puddles on the pavements as young Londoners hid under awnings or made their way arm in arm under umbrellas.
‘But seriously, it’s strange. Talking to you now, I’m not sure what’s been going on with me. I was a good musician once.’
‘I know. You still are, you’re just rusty.’ Her voice was becoming a little clipped.
‘I sometimes feel like I don’t know myself,’ he said, accidently and far too dramatically, just as Coldplay came on the radio. ‘Oh god. Kill me now,’ he laughed.
But he knew Dee got it. At his level of fame you become your image, you lose yourself in the promotions, appearances, photo shoots, red carpets. You ‘turn it on’ because it’s what everyone expects, and the more you do that, the harder it is to turn it off again.
This Beats Perfect Page 4