Her phone beeped so much that she flicked the side switch to silent in a panic, but the barrage of messages from total strangers just kept coming. Had she been hacked?
@Charleelove03: Lucky B*TCH! #hesmyboyfriend
@keepfandom1xx: OMG WHO ARE YOU? #cantcope
@SweetCharlie45: IM SO EMOTIONAL! WHO IS THIS GIRL THATS DATING CHARLIE OMG OMG KILL ME NOW.
@lovelovekeepgl: The fandom be like ‘WTF!’
And, to her absolute horror, #Ameliewho was the number two trending topic, underneath #NoCharliesAngel
On they went. Pages and pages of messages from mostly girls from all over the world. She was confused at first, trying to figure out who these people were that were tweeting her. She scrolled down further, frantically searching for something that would explain – then she suddenly froze.
@Keeponcharlie: Great gig & nice hangin’ backstage with my girl @callmeamelie98 tonight in #London
Oh god. It had been retweeted 3,450 times.
At that moment, a text message:
FROM MAISIE: OMG OMG OMG
And then another.
FROM MAISIE: Um Amelie. You’d better call me in the A.M.! OMG!
In a blind panic, Amelie turned her phone off. Sitting there on her bed, breathing heavily, her mind was spinning out of control. Oh god, this wasn’t happening. He’d not only mentioned her in a tweet, he’d written it in such a way that EVERY ONE of his MILLIONS of followers would see it, he’d called her ‘my girl’ and also mentioned that Amelie had been backstage. What the hell was he playing at?
Her mum popped her head in. ‘I’m just heading out to the market, do you want anything?’
‘Cheese,’ said Amelie, without really thinking, and then, ‘Oh god,’ as she heard the front door shut.
She decided the best thing was to go back to bed, so she crawled in and pulled the covers up over her head and felt the thump, thump, thump of a headache between her temples. She felt exposed and vulnerable. School on Monday was going to be an utter nightmare.
She thought for a moment about tweeting Charlie back, something flippant, cool, nonchalant, but she couldn’t compose anything in her head that might calm the situation.
Arghh. She squeezed her eyes shut and rolled over. Her mind was a wandering mess as it worked through all the different scenarios that might play out over the coming days. She tried to calm herself by repeating ‘Tomorrow they will move onto something else. Tomorrow it will be another girl. Tomorrow it will all be over.’
CHAPTER 8
Tally Ho
On Monday morning, Amelie walked along the canal and picked up Maisie on the way to school. She had left her guitar at home that day and was wearing her school hoodie up along with her mother’s huge dark sunglasses to complete the full incognito look.
Maisie Stone lived just three minutes’ walk away in a huge house that her father had worked on tirelessly, renovating it into something a little bit Grand Designs, a little bit bonkers. The house was a perfect amalgamation of both parents; part warm family home and part inner-city wellness retreat, complete with a sun salutation roof terrace and meditation room.
Maisie was from a huge family who had immigrated to London from Australia. Her dad had opened a fancy butcher’s on Broadway Market and her mum took private yoga classes. She had opened Sydney’s first wellness clinic back when yoga was strictly practised by middle-aged women in open marriages and tomato juice was the only superfood.
A very un-meditated Maisie came careering out of the front door.
‘BYE, MUM!’ she screamed as the door slammed behind her. ‘Holy shit! This is totally awesome. You’re famous! And I’m your best friend! Don’t forget it! What the hell are you wearing!?’
‘Hiya, Bonkers, you should ease up on the acai berries or whatever.’ Amelie flinched, her eyes still not adjusted to sunlight after twenty-four hours locked in her bedroom.
‘The Keep fandom are total freaks! I can’t believe the things they’ve been posting about you! OMG. But some love you, did you see?’ Maisie laughed.
‘No, I made my accounts private and logged off. I’m not really into cyber bullying,’ Amelie said wearily, feeling slightly irritated that Maisie didn’t find this woefully, life-changingly tragic.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. They’re just jealous. I don’t think you look like a ferret, by the way,’ Maisie said in all sincerity. ‘You can look a little drawn. But that’s lack of sleep and – I know I keep saying it – too much gluten.’
‘I’m not gluten inadequate like you,’ Amelie sniffed.
‘It’s intolerant.’
‘Well, thank you very much. So are you right now, to be honest.’
Maisie grabbed Amelie by the arm and squeezed her close. Amelie felt sick. She had hardly eaten and had locked herself in her room with her phone off and watched every film in her collection, telling her mother she had a migraine (which was 99 per cent true) until she had no excuse but to go to school and face the music.
‘You do look terrible, Amelie,’ Maisie said, unable to hide the excitement in her voice. ‘I didn’t think you were coming today. I called round yesterday afternoon, did your mum say? You do look sick actually. What’s up? We need to talk about the tweet! OMG! Don’t you think it’s awesome? What happened? Did you kiss him or something?’
Maisie was all this. One hundred miles an hour and full of beans. She was so bubbly and full of unyielding optimism that Amelie couldn’t maintain her achingly cool persona around her. Maisie ignored melodrama and thrived on positivity and excitement, and Amelie was reluctantly but wholly drawn to her.
Maisie had lately, with the help of her mum, started a kind of wellness blog and Instagram feed – her photos were green food, green drinks, green spaces, dainty feminine crafts and Maisie fixed firm in unfathomable yoga poses against gritty east London backdrops.
Over the last couple of years she had grown increasingly beautiful – her broad, round features and huge caramel hair no longer looked oversized and awkward on her long and lean body. But Maisie wasn’t used to her new skin; she still had the mannerisms of a child, and was blissfully unaware of the attraction she held for the boys in her form.
In moments like this, though, she was so chronically upbeat that it was a frustrating, and a terrible dampener when Amelie’s desire was to sink into the drama.
‘No!’ Amelie snapped. ‘I hate the attention. I’m totally dreading school.’
‘It’s bloody awesome! Cheer up. Everyone will be dead jealous! They are! He called you “my girl” – I thought you said Charlie was an idiot?’
‘He is.’
‘Really? No! His message was sweet; he certainly made it sound like you got on. Was he being sarcastic then? This is hilarious. Everyone’s going to want the dirt. You’re going to be bombarded. I’ll be your security!’ she joked, pretending to clear the way for Amelie as they passed a stream of cyclists and early morning dog walkers.
‘Arghh. It’s a nightmare.’ Amelie reached behind the sunglasses and rubbed her eyes for the hundredth time.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. What exactly is bothering you? Apart from the attention, I know you’re not great on that. But you must secretly want it, if you’re going to be a rock star.’
‘Firstly, people are going to think I actually like The Keep. And secondly, they’re going to know my dad worked for them.’
‘Yeah, so?’ Maisie was confused.
‘Well, Maisie, apart from obliterating my credibility …’ Amelie shook her head.
‘Oh pleeeeeeease!’ Maisie said, her Australian accent coming through.
‘… And I didn’t tell those senior girls in music class – you know Brooke, Ashleigh and Tara? And they were going on and on about it during band practice, how they were going and they had seventh row tickets and I didn’t say anything. I let them brag away.’
‘Well, that’s kinda funny,’ Maisie giggled.
‘I know,’ Amelie conceded, ‘but …’
There was not
hing worse than notoriety at high school. If you stood out from your usual place in the pecking order two things happened: 1. The popular kids resented you for encroaching on their turf without invitation, or worse – making them look off the ball for not discovering you themselves; and 2. The unpopular kids resented you for taking a step up in the world. The result? A social outcast without a place, in desperation you ended up bequeathed to the lunch duty teacher whose job it was to bust smokers.
‘… but the audition! I’m against Tara, you know. I don’t want them to think I’m getting any kind of preferential treatment because of my dad.’
‘That’s your mother talking,’ Maisie said. ‘Just because she won’t accept help from him, doesn’t mean you don’t have to. It’s perfectly normal to get a foot up from your parents. Look at Brooklyn Beckham. Or any Kardashian. Nicole Richie? Bad examples. But you get me.’
Amelie felt momentarily angry at Maisie, who had stopped to tie her shoe laces. She watched her hoist her leg up on the railing with the strength and elegance of a ballerina, pulling her knickers out of her bum when she was done.
‘There’s no need for drama here, really. You met a pop star!’
‘You don’t understand. I just want to focus on the audition.’
‘Unless you end up dating Charlie and becoming a hashtag Keeper, none of this is going to stop you. Amelie,’ Maisie stopped walking. They were late – the bell had already rung and everyone would be making their way to their classes by now. ‘You’re really bloody stubborn. I know this is about the attention. It will totally pass. And if you want to be a musician you’re going to have to get some kahunas and put yourself out there a bit more!
‘This is actually a gift. All those people wondering who you are!? I keep telling you to put your name on that secret YouTube account of yours and just get on with it – imagine if you had done and all those Keep fans were on there listening to your music. Life,’ Maisie began, as Amelie winced and braced herself for yet another corny self-help quote, ‘is there for the taking – what’s taking you so long?’ She raised her perfect eyebrows and allowed the silence to settle for complete dramatic effect.
‘Maisie. What if I’m terrible again? I can’t bear it.’
Maisie threw her arm around her and pulled her in tight. Amelie knew her friend could see the shy vulnerability behind her self-assured and surly demeanour, though Amelie rarely actually broke down and showed it to her.
‘You won’t be. If you want to be on stage, you need to put yourself out there,’ Maisie reasoned. ‘You’re going to need thick skin, babe. Or do you want a way out?’
Amelie shook her head, trying to hide her eyes.
‘About today, do as Tay Tay says. Shake it off. Say as little as possible. It will all pass.’
‘Okay,’ said Amelie, sniffing.
‘Just say you happened to meet Charlie for five minutes and he asked for your Twitter handle. Say he asked for everyone’s. That’s all.’
Amelie grimaced. ‘But Brooke, Tara and Ashleigh. They’re totally terrifying.’
‘I know. But, you never know, they might just be happy for you,’ Maisie tried. ‘Or, maybe they’ll be onto the next thing by now. I mean weren’t they all about The Wanted a couple of years ago?’
‘Just devoid of cool,’ Amelie said in wonder.
‘Honestly, just brush it off. It’s cool. One of the most famous people in the world – sort of – tweeted a personal message to you. It’s a great story! Be cool. Let them all wonder …!’ She grinned. ‘Now. Can we talk about the gig properly? Did you meet the whole band or was it just Charlie and Dee?’
‘Oh, I met Maxx, briefly. The brunette one.’
‘Ooh. What’s he like?’
‘Big southern accent. He was kinda nice I guess,’ she said, remembering the outline of his shoulders in the darkness. ‘I don’t know really. I think he’s dating Dee, isn’t he? Well, he was totally glued to her performance on stage. Was unrecognisable at the after party.’
‘Oohh, after party …!’ Maisie nudged her in the ribs. ‘And how fancy was the show?’
‘I think it’s not quite as flash as some of the bigger gigs they play, but to me it looked pretty damn fancy. They even had fire synchronised to their dance moves – it was pretty hilarious.’
‘Oh my god, the boyband dance moves,’ Maisie laughed.
‘I know! And I met the director guy who is filming them – Clint – Julian’s boyfriend? He’s like twenty-three or something, but he tours all over the world with them.’
Amelie tried to forget her worries as she and her best friend wandered down the canal to school. By the time they arrived, the playground was empty and first period classes were well under way. Luckily, Amelie had PE and she sped off towards the gym to join the others getting changed.
‘Remember: the less you say the better.’ Maisie wagged her finger as she turned to go. ‘It’s going to be fine.’
Amelie felt better, but the relief was short-lived. The moment she opened the gym door it was clear this was not going to go away quickly.
CHAPTER 9
Empty Room
Huddled up, sharing headphones and chatting away next to each other on the tour bus, Kyle and Dee were the only ones who seemed to be full of beans on their arrival in Germany. Art was reading The Economist, while Lee and Charlie were bickering like an old married couple about something to do with a video game and Maxx, just awake again, stumbled out of the toilet with his baggy, dark eyes and pale face.
‘Oi, ignorant horseshits,’ Geoff bellowed as he looked back over his shoulder from the front of the bus. ‘You’re at the start of your SOLD OUT EUROPEAN TOUR you know. Can we at least start out pretending to be pleased and/or get along?’
Of course, they all pasted on their happy faces as soon as they disembarked the bus outside their hotel. There were about a dozen girls waiting for them with flowers and placards welcoming them to Berlin.
‘I LOVE YOU MORE THAN FREE WIFI’ read one.
‘KISS ME I’M LEGAL’ read another.
‘YOU’LL NEVER BE ONE DIRECTION’ read a third. There was always at least one Directioner to put The Keep in their place.
They signed some CDs and a few bored photographers took official press images of them, selfies were snapped, Instagram pictures carefully edited and uploaded, and even Maxx managed half a smile and a wave. It wouldn’t matter what he did anyway, the papers would all run the photos of Lee, who had jumped into the fountain in just his underwear.
Their Berlin hotel was totally luxurious, and unlike the last-minute accommodation that was arranged in London, here their every whim was anticipated and catered for. They had the entire tenth floor, including both suites, for the five boys, Dee, Geoff, Mel and Ashton.
Dee was given a suite, as was usual, and the boys and Ashton got ‘Executive King’ rooms with Geoff and Mel in the enormous two-bedroom suite, so they could work. The rest of the gang were in regular rooms on the floors below – but despite this upstairs/downstairs separation, they all did hang together.
Maxx threw himself down on the crisp white bedsheets, and let them envelop him in their feathery softness, while a porter and maid began to unpack his belongings and sort everything into the cupboards – they needn’t have bothered, but Maxx had given up trying to stop all this extra-special treatment, even though he found it intrusive. He had learned quickly that the more he complained about the attention, the more he looked like an ungrateful jerk. Best to accept it and tip well.
He needed to call home right away, since it had been nearly a week since he’d been picked up by the chauffeur from his parents’ place and left his mum crying on the porch. She rarely cried, so it was all the more unsettling to see, and Maxx often worried about the impact all this fame was having on them.
Outside, Berlin basked in the baking hot sun, perfect weather for their two nights at the Olympic Stadium. They had four hours until they needed to head there for a soundcheck, so first a call home, and then a sleep
. Maxx waited until he was alone, slipped the hotel staff a fifty-dollar bill each, awkwardly explaining that he didn’t have any euros yet.
The phone rang off and went to the same answerphone message his parents had had for over five years – it was his mother’s sing-song voice with the dog barking in the background.
‘Hello. You’ve called Clare, John, Jimmy, John Junior, Christian, Bonny and Maxwell. We’re very sorry we cannot take your call right now, but please do leave us a message and we’ll …’
Maxx hung up, shaking his head. After a couple of moments he tried again, and this time his mum picked up, panting as if she’d run in from tending the hedgerow in the yard.
‘Maxwell? Is that you?’ shouted down the line.
‘Hiya, Momma!’
‘MAXWELL!?’
‘It’s me! You don’t have to yell, Momma,’ Maxx said. ‘It doesn’t make a difference if I’m overseas – the phone still sounds the same!’
‘JOHN! IT’S YOUR SON ON THE PHONE!’ she yelled at his dad, who was probably still in the garage, working late on his car. Maxx imagined him in his denim overalls, the ones with ‘John’ in red writing on the breast pocket. He could see his greasy hands working on the engine, a cold beer by his side and The Rolling Stones or Johnny Cash playing on his old radio.
‘Is it hot there?’ his mum asked. There was always a conversation about the weather. ‘It sure is here. I could’ve cooked a chicken on the porch. It’s too hot to prove dough or bake or anything in the kitchen, mind. Your father had to make do with cornbread tonight. JOHN! I don’t know where that man is.’
‘Momma, how are you doing?’
‘I’m fine. Least I was until those nosy Galloways came here wanting more money for repairs to the driveway. Why should we have to pay the same as everyone else when your daddy and I have one car and those families have at least two each. I think the Andertons have four! That’s what happens when the kids don’t leave home though, I suppose. A garage full of cars.’
This Beats Perfect Page 6