‘I can help with the cost of the driveway, Momma.’
‘Did you hear that pretty little Leah-Anne is getting married? And only twenty-one! I always thought you and her …’
There was a click on the line as his mom’s voice trailed off.
‘Max? ’sat you?’ His dad had picked up the second line in the garage.
‘Dad.’ He loved to hear his voice. ‘How’s the Chevy?’
‘Pile o’ crap.’ He always said this about the classic cars he refurbished – until he’d finished with them.
‘Don’t you swear in front of Maxwell!’ his mum pipped in. ‘What city are you in?’
‘I’m in Berlin.’
‘That’s in Germany, John.’
‘Yes, Momma. It’s great here. Lots of sausage and beer – Dad, you’d like it.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ he replied firmly.
‘We’re going to the Brandenburg Gate tomorrow and then to see where the wall used to be. And we have two shows here and then we move on to Copenhagen.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘That’s in Denmark. I hope you’re eating well. You looked too darn skinny last time you came home, didn’t he, John?’
‘If you say so, Clare.’
‘I miss you guys,’ Maxx said, wishing he were at home being fussed over by his mum. When he was tired he longed for her chicken and a cool lemonade while he sat in the games room and caught up on baseball. Not that he actually liked baseball, but his dad did, and he loved hanging out with his dad.
‘Well, you can always come home.’ His dad was ridiculously impractical. ‘Your brother’s here at the moment with his nice girlfriend. You met her, oh of course you did, at Christmas.’
His brother, Jim, was the firstborn and had finished his MBA. His parents were really proud of him. They were proud of them all, although Maxx knew they found his career choice a little difficult to understand and it had impacted on their lives too, since he was just so incredibly famous now.
Occasionally, Maxx would ask if they saw a new music video or a clip of him at an award ceremony, but he always got the same response.
‘Oh, honey, I wouldn’t even know where to look for that. Can you post it to me?’
Although his Dad would never say it, Maxx knew he was uncomfortable with the whole ‘boyband’ thing. He would have been far happier if Maxx had been in a blues or rock and roll band – something he understood.
‘It would be nice to see you dating a good girl, you’re old enough now.’
‘I was dating, remember, I told you? Dee?’
‘A real girl, Maxwell. A Southern Girl.’
‘It’s kind of hard to meet real girls, Momma.’
‘There’s plenty back home looking for a nice boy like you,’ his mum sighed. ‘Did we tell you it’s really hot here?’
‘You did, Momma.’ Maxx smiled at the consistency and predictability of his parents. They were like old slippers. He longed to be home.
‘Well, you need your sleep. Good night, honey.’
‘It’s morning, Momma.’
‘Good morning then, honey. Get some sleep. I worry you don’t sleep enough.’
‘I will, Momma.’
‘Be good, son.’
‘I will, Dad. I’ll call you from Copenhagen, okay?’
He hung up and lay on the bed feeling very alone. This year he would make sure he got home as often as possible in the breaks, instead of taking holidays abroad like last year. It was time to ground himself. Between doing some recording with Dee and pulling back a little on the obligations of The Keep he hoped he could find a bit of balance. Things were going to get better, he told himself. As he began to relax his mind wandered back to the events of last night in London, to the conversation with Mike and then to his awkward and embarrassing confession to Dee, the niggling feeling the duet they had vowed to work on was somehow not quite right.
Then his mind wandered to Mike’s daughter.
He pictured her looking over at him backstage – those inquisitive eyes staring at him – and something stirred. He tried to remember all of her – her face, her hair colour, what she was wearing when she had stormed into the green room, but he couldn’t remember details, just an overall impression of beauty and restlessness. She had been flustered and flushed and didn’t want to talk to him – she was even rude – but those blue eyes were so alluring, despite their sulky insolence. He was definitely intrigued.
When he awoke he rolled over, confused and disorientated, and checked his watch. He’d been asleep for nearly six hours! He stumbled to the bathroom and threw some water on his face. Why hadn’t anyone called? He picked up the room phone and dialled Mel’s number but there was no answer, so he checked his mobile. There was a text.
FROM GEOFF: When you get up, have the hotel arrange a car to soundcheck. We thought you needed a good sleep, you grumpy jerk.
He probably deserved that. He had been extremely grumpy for more than a few weeks – maybe even the past month. The relentless rehearsals in New York before they took off, the last minute pick-ups at the studio for their new single, filming three music videos in one week! It was too much.
He decided to chill for a little longer and took the opportunity to check in on his social feeds. Lee, who had the most followers, but said the least, had posted a photo from the hotel room of the empty mini bar in his room (a record label rule since some were still under twenty-one, despite being in Europe, where they could all legally drink).
@LEEkeepofficial: Whaa not even OJ? ;-)
@kyleeyeofficial: A wonderful day in beautiful Berlin!
@arthousesinger1: So much history here. #berlin
@keeponcharlie: Oops. Busy makin’ headlines again. #columninches #wasntme
He cringed, closed his phone and hauled himself out of bed. He hoisted back the heavy black-out curtains to see the late afternoon sun across another city in another country. He pulled his jeans on and ran his fingers through his dark hair. He picked up the room phone and dialled reception.
‘Hello, Mr Cooke.’
‘Hi, I’m ready for my car.’
‘No problem, sir.’
‘It’s just … Can you tell them I want to go to a music shop on the way?’
‘A record store, sir?’
‘No, for musical instruments, a guitar shop.’
‘Of course. I’ll arrange that for you now.’
‘Thanks.’
If he was going to start writing music again he needed a guitar, and now was as good a time as any to buy one. He texted Geoff.
TO GEOFF: Making a quick stop, but I’m on my way.
TO MAXX: Good. Someone needs to calm Lee down. Code F*ing Red.
CHAPTER 10
Celebrity Skin
Amelie had been batting off some pretty full on, unwanted, but rather amusing attention at school. She was practically rugby tackled when she arrived at PE that first morning. She walked in late, and for a beautiful and brief moment had thought she’d slipped into the changing room unnoticed, until Bridget Greenaway shrieked from the furthest corner of the room so loudly Amelie had to cover her ears.
‘OMG! Did you meet CHARLIE from The Keep!?’ She marched over and pointed right at Amelie’s chest. ‘Were you backstage? Is it true?’
‘Are you a fan?’ another queried suspiciously, a circle of agitated, excited girls forming around her.
Amelie’s lip curled automatically, and she hurriedly and hopelessly tried to disguise the reflex action as an itchy lip.
‘She’s not a real fan!’ one declared, pointing at Amelie’s Hole T-shirt.
‘Why did you go?’
‘How did YOU get a ticket?’
‘How did you meet Charlie? Is he hot in real life?’
‘My dad,’ she began, her voice wavering as she felt the room go deathly silent and the penetrating gaze of a dozen teenage eyes. ‘It was a birthday present. I only spoke to him for like five minutes.’
‘Happy birthday, Amelie!’ said one
of the girls from her jazz band. Amelie smiled back meekly.
‘How did your dad get you backstage? AND WHAT HAPPENED?’ Bronwyn cried.
‘Um, it was a birthday present,’ she repeated. ‘He was working there.’ The less information the better, she kept reminding herself, just as Maisie had coached her.
But she was ambushed. The scrum was two deep, six across, all the girls wanting to know what Charlie was like, what he was wearing, what happened between them, how did he get her Twitter name, were there any other girls there, did she get any photos or an autograph, will she see them again?
‘Ugh. I hate boybands,’ moaned Kate Dawkins, the school’s only goth and possibly the only person who knew as much about music as Amelie did. ‘You only like them because they’re good-looking,’ she said cattily to Bronwyn.
‘Yeah, I bought the record to listen to their faces,’ Bronwyn sneered in retaliation.
‘I thought you had good taste?’ Kate scoffed at Amelie. ‘I didn’t take you for a Keep-worshipping fangirl.’
She looked at Kate and shrugged hopelessly.
But as Amelie clammed up and tried to brush off the increasingly hostile questions, she could sense that among some of the girls the excited jealousy had turned to resentment.
A small group of eavesdroppers were whispering among themselves and Amelie could feel the penetrating stench of high school bitchiness in the air. Today was going to suck.
But, no matter how little Amelie said, Bridget, head of the amateur dramatics society, would not be deterred. The interrogation continued.
‘Why did he call you “my girl”? Did you kiss? Did you meet Lee? He’s my favourite.’
‘No. No Lee. And certainly no kiss,’ Amelie scoffed. ‘Honestly, it was nothing. I don’t even like them. My dad won’t ask me again.’
Despite this she got the inevitable barrage of requests for tickets, backstage access, introductions to Charlie. Some girls were impressed, some feigned disinterest, some were jealous and some were downright nasty.
‘Really. Honestly.’ Amelie held a hand up in frustration. ‘It’s never going to happen. I can’t get tickets, not even for myself. I’m nobody! It was a one off!’
But on it went, throughout the day. Her English teacher, Mrs Wilkinson, had to ask the class to settle down twice.
‘For every five minutes you talk, I’m holding you back at lunch!’ she threatened, firing her signature single eyebrow raise and pursed lip combination in Amelie’s general direction.
During lunch, Maisie had been good to her word and had brushed off the story with a kind of theatrical nonchalance that shut even the most diehard gossip down. There was a small group of fourth form girls who had begun to hang around, trying to befriend Amelie, who was now something of a celebrity among the younger students.
‘Wow, Amelie. I thought you had taste?’ sighed Jasper, her guitar tutor, as he closed the storage cupboard in between third and fourth period. ‘A Keeper, huh?’ he said, shaking his head.
Despite all the attention, in general the situation was more manageable than she imagined it would be. There was a pecking order at school, and despite her short-term notoriety, the status quo must be maintained, so things quickly began to die down.
But she still had to get through the moment she’d been dreading. When she finally saw Brooke, Ashleigh and Tara, clicking their way down the corridor in their barely acceptable school shoes – kitten heels, hitched-up skirts, this week’s matching dip-dye hairstyle – she froze.
‘Hi there, Amelie Ayres.’
‘Hi,’ she said, turning to her locker and pretending to look for something, though there was just mouldy lunch and a box of guitar picks in there.
‘You were backstage at The Keep?’
‘I didn’t know,’ she said with a sigh.
‘Why didn’t you say you were going?’
‘Didn’t you want us there?’
‘Were you embarrassed of us?’
‘No, no. I just didn’t know until last minute. My dad got me in.’
‘I thought you hated boybands and pop music. I thought you thought it was all beneath your exquisite music tastes?’ Ashleigh said. ‘That’s what you’re always saying anyway, isn’t she?’
Brooke nodded, while Tara looked off down the hall, a little bored.
‘Well?’ Brooke said, in her thinly veiled threatening tone.
Amelie kept steady and turned to face them, shutting her locker with more of a thud than she intended. ‘Sorry, I’m late for final period.’
‘Well, another time then,’ Brooke said menacingly. ‘Let’s go,’ she added to the others as they sauntered off down the hall.
‘You’re fucked,’ said the ever-present Bridget Greenaway, who had overheard from across the hall.
‘Completely,’ agreed Kate Dawson, pulling her black hair back with a black band.
The online story was even more outside Amelie’s control, and things were gathering momentum. After Charlie’s initial tweet there had been a bit of a buzz online about how he had been hanging backstage with a local girl from east London. Fans had poured through her Twitter and Instagram feeds, they had hacked her Facebook, which luckily Amelie hardly used, and they had even tracked down her address and her school.
And as for Charlie, infuriatingly and somewhat puzzlingly, he was clearly enjoying the storm he’d created and later that afternoon posted a couple of cryptic tweets, including one about ‘missing London’. So, without public confirmation or denial from either party, the speculation grew even more wild and ridiculous.
By the evening a couple of websites, including notorious gossip columnist Theo Marlon’s The Buzz, had posted stories about the tweet. The general tone at this point was intrigue, and people seemed genuinely keen to latch onto a potential love story between a big American pop star and an east London schoolgirl.
Maisie kept Amelie updated, as things kept changing by the hour.
‘No fine details,’ Amelie had begged.
‘Okay, well, for now, you’re a mystery poor girl from east London. General internet affection level? I’d say 6/10. It’s up on yesterday,’ she smiled. ‘If you do a search for “Amelie”, “Charlie” and “ship” – you do get quite a few positive responses. Oh, and there’s a Tumblr.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’
‘Yeah. Someone has written some fanfic about your night together. You’re quite the minx, Amelie! But you die. Yeah. Let’s leave it at that.’
She still hadn’t replied to Charlie’s tweet, and had resolved not to. All the advice was that she should let things blow over. As old news, Amelie would fade back into the background at school and life would move on. But if she contacted him, or denied it, she could certainly end up fanning the flames.
But, sadly, they had all underestimated the fame of The Keep and the interest of the British tabloids.
CHAPTER 11
Fallin’
The headline and accompanying photograph were massive. Huge. Enormous. It may as well have been a huge red arrow pointing to Amelie’s head and following her around wherever she went. She’d spotted it on her way to school and immediately rushed home with a copy. Her mum sat with her at the kitchen table staring at it too, more bemused than panicked, much to Amelie’s irritation.
There on the front page of the Sun was her photo, clear as day. It was taken by the paparazzi that had snapped her when she arrived at the backstage gates.
‘She’s no one,’ the security guard had told that photographer. How she wished that were still the case.
She was looking over her shoulder, long brown hair waving in the wind, with a startled look on her face that somehow made her look all the guiltier. The caption read: ‘The Keep’s Charlie Bags a Brit.’
‘Well,’ said her mum with a wry smile. ‘This is a bit of a nuisance.’
‘This is a total catastrophe, Mum,’ Amelie wailed. ‘Why won’t he say something! He must have known he would do this to me! What the hell was that tweet about column inche
s? Why does he keep winding things up? Read it to me again!’
‘Oh, Amelie,’ she stifled a giggle. Her mother was not taking this quite as seriously as Amelie was, creeping to the window, she peaked through the blinds at the photographer that had set up camp outside the front door.
‘Read it to me again!’
Her mother turned around and in a dramatic newsreader voice she began.
‘The Sun can exclusively reveal the girl behind the infamous tweet from The Keep heart-throb Charlie Childs. Schoolgirl and east Londoner Amelie Ayres, 17, whose father is said to be working for the band, was secretly ushered in backstage just moments before the boys arrived. Sources say Charlie, 22, met Amelie when they were last in London at an undisclosed location. They spent the evening cosying up backstage before the boys headed on to Berlin for the second leg of their European tour, leaving Amelie Ayres behind to pine for her pop prince. The Keep’s management could not be reached for comment.’
‘Arghh. Pining for her prince. VOMIT!’
‘At least they got your name right. I mean, some of the article is factually correct,’ her mum offered.
‘I can’t leave the house for the rest of my life.’
‘Well, you don’t have to go to school today at any rate.’
‘Dad is coming over. I called him.’
‘I wonder if that nice man wants a hot drink, he might be out there for hours and it’s actually cold today – I wish summer would hurry up.’
‘Mum!’
‘Well, he’s actually very nice. Helped me with the groceries earlier.’
‘MUM!’
‘I’ll just take him a blanket. Won’t be a sec.’
‘Oh god, this is an actual nightmare.’ Amelie put her head in her hands again. Just as she thought things might begin to calm down!
As her mother popped out the door, her father arrived, unkempt and extremely wound up. He marched in holding the offending newspaper and threw it down on the kitchen table.
This Beats Perfect Page 7