Amelie managed a weak smile, but Maisie was confused. ‘Hang on, who’s going to Paris?’ She shot a hurt and confused look at Amelie, who dropped her head and focused everything she had on not screaming.
‘I know! Back to Paris, for the summer at least! It’s quite a shock, but to be honest it’s always been on my mind.’
‘That’s great, Mum,’ Amelie squeaked. ‘Well done. But … tomorrow?’
‘Oh, darling, you said you didn’t want anyone at the audition! And anyway, I didn’t have any choice – it was the only day.’
‘But you can’t go to Paris, Amelie. You’ve got exams. Final Year. Your audition is tomorrow! What about working at your dad’s studio?’ Maisie sounded panicked.
‘Oh, Amelie can stay in London. You’re old enough to stay, Amelie.’ Ella smiled as if this made it okay.
Amelie looked down at her nails and felt a sharp elbow in the ribcage from Maisie. ‘Tell her,’ she whispered through gritted teeth. ‘Tell her you don’t want her to go.’
‘It’s okay,’ Amelie huffed. ‘Leave it.’
‘What are you afraid of? Tell her!’
Amelie’s cheeks were burning. She willed Maisie to stop probing as she felt her eyes begin to sting.
Amelie blew out, hard. ‘LEAVE IT!’
Suddenly and mercifully the clattering of two loud, squawky girls weighed down with Primark bags came crashing through the door of the salon – the tension dissipated immediately and Amelie felt the tightness in her chest ease.
‘FRANKIE! Emergency. Broken Nail,’ wailed the taller one. ‘OH LORD MY NAAAAAAAAAAAAAIL!’ she screeched, holding up a snapped blue-and-yellow-striped acrylic monstrosity.
Ella slid down off her stool. ‘Here you go, love, I’m done,’ she said calmly, blowing on the end of her perfectly finished scarlet-red nails. She walked down to towards Amelie and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry, I was going to talk to you over lunch. Nothing is set in stone yet. I have to GET the job first. Ooh, look at your nails! They almost look like the hands of a young lady.’
Amelie blinked, took a deep breath, looked up and smiled at her mum.
‘It’s great for you, Mum. I’m happy. Really.’
‘I knew you’d be pleased for me.’ She grinned. ‘Maisie, I don’t want to jinx things, but if I DO get the job, you two must come and spend a long weekend with me in Paris.’
Momentarily sidetracked, Maisie grinned. ‘Oh my god, Ella, that would be amazing!’
CHAPTER 15
Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want
There were three ways you could get a slot on stage at Music in the Park.
You were asked by the promoters – for the mega famous.
You entered online via the hugely competitive unsigned bands competition – there was one place and it always went to established, gigging bands.
You won a place through the high school audition. This was Amelie’s plan.
The auditorium was filled with a hugely diverse group of young musicians from six different schools in the east London area. The competition was fierce, with everyone turning on their very best to nab that one wildcard spot on stage. She only recognised a handful of other people in the auditorium: the fourth form three-piece pop/rock band (who were pretty good actually); Tara would be her main rival as the other singer/songwriter; and a few from the jazz band had gotten together to create a cool, small unplugged band which they’d asked Amelie to join, but she’d turned them down since she was auditioning by herself.
Amelie sat on a seat alongside the fifty-four other hopefuls, her guitar at her side, listening to a sixth form rock band – Blind Envy – playing a punk rock version of the Play School theme song.
‘There’s … A … BEAAAAAR! There’s a bear in there,’ the lead singer growled, swinging his head in circles, his long black hair whipping across his face.
Next up, an all-girl a cappella choir, dressed in matching silver, singing a cover of Rihanna’s Diamonds – Amelie thought it was all a little bit out of tune, as she eyed the judges for some kind of hint of what they might be thinking.
There were three judges. One was a youngish blogger and general music industry whiz kid called Tom. He owned an indie record label in Shoreditch and had recently signed some awesome singer/songwriters. Amelie had to impress him.
Next to him was Hackney’s Councillor for Children, a squat lady in a purple suit with sensible shoes and a bob cut. Strictly there as the council representative, and not for her impeccable taste as an A & R woman, Amelie wondered if she’d ever even been to a gig.
And finally there was singer/songwriter/DJ extraordinaire Trinx. She was a formidable player in the London music scene and cool as cool as cool can be. She was also the headliner on the dance stage at Music in the Park, so certainly boosted the credibility of the process.
A bespectacled third year with a harpsichord walked onto the stage, and Amelie took the opportunity to head out for a quick bathroom break and to call her dad.
‘Amelie?’ He turned off the playback in his studio. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Are you recording?’
‘Yeah, Maxx is right here – he says hi. Just trying to get going. So what’s up?’
‘Audition is in about fifteen minutes, I reckon.’
‘Okay! Oh, wow. Well, remember, just relax and take a deep breath. You can do it.’
‘I feel pretty good, Dad.’
‘Great. Is your Mum with you … ah, sorry, of course, she’s in Paris.’
‘Yep.’
‘What’s the competition like? Anyone we need to worry about?’
‘Not right now, but there is this girl Tara, she’s got pipes.’
‘Pipes, huh?’ Her dad laughed. ‘Well, good luck, darling.’
‘Thanks! I’ll call you right back afterwards.’
She snuck back into the auditorium just as she was due backstage to get herself ready. She slipped up the side entrance and sat in the wings, tuning her guitar and picturing herself playing to a hall full of naked people, as Maisie had suggested. She laughed. That was NOT going to work.
Suddenly there was a clatter from the back of the hall and all heads shot round to see Brooke and Ashleigh clambering over chairs to get to the front of the audience.
‘SCUSE ME!’ boomed Brooke, as she pushed her way past a row of trombonists.
‘SORRY!’ Ashleigh shouted, tripping and crushing the cake box she was trying desperately to hold aloft.
Amelie peered around the curtain to catch Brooke handing a slightly squashed cupcake to each of the judges.
‘Don’t let us interrupt. Hello there, I like your music,’ she said, shaking the hand of a very bemused Trinx.
Amelie cringed. Thankfully Tara was next up, which meant they would hopefully be gone before Amelie auditioned.
She turned her attention to Tara, and was intrigued to see her younger brother accompany her onstage and sit at the piano.
‘Hi, I’m Tara. I’m eighteen years old.’ She spoke way more softly than Amelie imagined, and there was definitely a hint of nerves in her voice.
‘What are you going to play for us today, Tara?’ asked Hackney’s Councillor for Children, with a warm smile.
‘I’m going to sing a song called “Breeze”, which I wrote myself,’ Tara explained. ‘My brother will be accompanying me on the piano.’
‘And why do you want to perform at Music in the Park?’
Amelie watched with surprise as Tara took a step back from the mic and looked back at her brother. She saw a hint of a lip wobble and perhaps even a glassy eye. Her brother nodded in encouragement and Tara turned back, taking a deep breath.
‘Um, I want to get a chance to prove myself, I guess. That I can do this …’ Her voice trailed off, but there was no mistaking the crack in her voice as she spoke.
Amelie allowed herself a little sneer – it’s not bloody X Factor, she thought, imagining ‘You Raise Me Up’ by Westlife playing in the background of her audi
tion montage.
The piano began. The track had a modern R & B sound despite its somewhat staid accompaniment. Tara held the microphone, took another deep breath, and then out came this incredible sound. Smokey, bluesy and without a hint of nerves to betray her. This was nothing like the uniform vocals she’d heard from Tara in the school choir. This was different. Amelie closed her eyes and could hear a thoroughly perfect, current sound.
Amelie was suddenly thrown. She hadn’t imagined this kind of competition, and Tara was REAL competition. Her music was, Amelie thought despairingly, good, polished and original. And above all, her performance was confident.
As Tara finished to rapturous applause from the other auditionees, and plenty of whoop whooping and whistling from Brooke and Ashleigh, Amelie felt the sense of dread start to seep into her veins.
‘Thank you, Tara,’ smiled Tom. ‘That was excellent.’
Tara smiled, caught her breath and whispered ‘Thank you,’ before hugging her brother and exiting the stage right in front of Amelie. As she passed by, Tara missed Amelie completely, she was so wrapped up with her brother and buzzing from the reception of her performance.
‘Who’s next? Amelie Ayres, is it?’ Trinx was speaking now. Amelie had to get onstage. She craned her neck to see Brooke and Ashleigh still there in the crowd. They had their feet up on the seats in front and were both waiting for her. She hesitated, but her name was called again.
‘Amelie Ayres? Hackney College?’ Trinx said once more.
She had no choice. She walked slowly from the wings onto the corner of the stage, and felt the blood begin to drain from her face. With one foot in front of the other, looking down at the cracks in the floorboards, hearing the creaking sound amplified around the auditorium, she began to feel the nausea.
‘You need to turn the mic on!’ One of the judges was speaking, but all Amelie could hear was the pounding of her heart in her ears. Her shaking fingers struggled with the tiny button on the microphone, and when she finally managed to switch it on there was an almighty screech of feedback.
It’s happening again, she thought, as she began to feel light-headed.
‘So, you’re Mike Church’s daughter?’ She tried to focus on the judges but the room started to close in on her.
‘Yeah,’ she managed, plucking at the strings on her guitar as best she could to test the sound.
‘I’ve worked a bit with your father.’ It was Tom speaking. ‘He’s really great. It’s awesome to see you play. Good luck!’
Amelie was trying desperately not to throw up. She could taste the bile at the back of her throat. She tried to clear it, swallowing, but it was dry and scratchy. She hoisted the guitar strap up over her shoulder and tried to hold down the strings to make a chord but her fingers felt like sausages, big and clumsy.
‘Well, Amelie, let’s have your song then?’ Trinx said gently.
Amelie wasn’t sure how long they had been waiting, but she knew the room was silent.
‘I need some water,’ Amelie coughed, still looking down, her face and ears burning red.
‘Here,’ one of the volunteers threw a bottle of water up towards her, which Amelie tried to catch but it fell to the floor with a thump, then rolled along the stage and, with another thump, onto the floor. There was a giggle, and then a ‘shush’, and then silence again.
‘Sorry.’ She stepped to edge of the stage and the volunteer loosened the lid and passed the bottle to her. Amelie gulped down half of it. Water trickled down her arms and face and she gasped, the room came momentarily into focus, so she quickly put the bottle down and strummed her opening chord.
‘Um, this is a song. Well, I wrote …’ She started to pick the strings on her guitar, it sounded clumsy, and she couldn’t get the rhythm. She closed her eyes and focused with everything she had, and opened her mouth.
All that mattered was getting to the end, that’s all she could focus on. She sang and played, unable to play her guitar properly, her voice cracked on the high notes, and the timing fell apart. When she strummed the final chord, she looked up at the judges, too breathless for tears.
The Hackney Council lady looked pitying. ‘Thanks, love,’ she said with a warm smile, writing something on a piece of paper in front of her.
‘Is that your track?’ Tom said. ‘I’m sure I’ve heard it before?’
‘Yes,’ she squeaked.
‘Thanks, Amelie. And well done for writing your own music,’ Trinx said without condescension.
‘Tell your dad hello from me,’ Tom said kindly.
Her legs were like jelly as she walked back off stage. She stumbled on the stairs, steadied herself and kept walking towards the double doors. When they were safely closed behind her, she collapsed onto the grass outside.
And burst into tears.
All the work and effort Amelie had put in had been wasted. She couldn’t get the better of her nerves, despite the practice. She’d felt different this year. Stronger. She had played that song a thousand times, each note was seared into her brain, she could play it literally blindfolded (she did this on more than one occasion). ‘I’ll never be able to do this,’ she fumed.
Sobbing into her hands, she fumbled for her phone and rang her dad.
‘It was … oh, Dad, I can’t do it!’ She could hardly speak. She broke down completely, gasping for breath, she felt five years old.
‘Amelie, honey, what happened?’
‘I couldn’t play! It was terrible.’
‘Oh, Amelie.’
‘Can you pick me up?’
‘Sure, sweetheart. Is Maisie with you?’
‘No. I told her not to come,’ she sniffed.
‘I’ll be there in five minutes. Can you get yourself to the front gate?’
‘Yes. I just have to get my guitar case and my bag.’
She hung up and pulled herself off the ground, sneaking in the back to pick up her things while a rockabilly band played a cover of Elvis’s ‘Heartbreak Hotel’. Amelie felt the world was against her.
Her eyes red and puffy, she stood at the gate waiting for her dad. She looked around, checked she couldn’t see anyone and picked up her guitar. She smashed it three times on the school fence until the body broke free from the neck and it lay in a heap on the ground.
CHAPTER 16
Red-Eyed and Blue
Mike leaned in and pressed the talkback button on his mixing desk so that Maxx could hear him through his headphones. ‘I need to pick up my daughter. Can you give me half an hour or so?’
Maxx gave him a nod through the glass screen.
Maxx needed to run through a few things anyway. He pulled out his notebook and pencil and scribbled down a few more lyric ideas, and then flicked back to the duet he’d started writing. It was a pared-back song, sugary-titled ‘Sweet Something’, and so far it totally sucked. It was not the new sound he was looking for – it was a slightly less pop version of one of the sixty-eight songs he’d recorded with The Keep.
Inspiration was not forthcoming. And neither was Dee. Since London she had become difficult to pin down; they were all so busy, busier than ever this tour – with press engagements, photo shoots and everything else. Dee had to shoot the video for her new single in Paris, so that took her totally out of action. But Maxx couldn’t shake the niggling feeling that she had altogether lost interest in recording with him.
She had managed one forty-five minute writing session with him, but it was awkward – thematically they wanted different things. Dee wanted an upbeat song about redemption, moving on – and Maxx something sad, and more lingering.
It had quickly become clear that he was going to have to do the lion’s share on his own if he wanted to take advantage of his short time in the studio with Mike. The three of them had managed to have some brief discussions about the track during the tour, but they’d obviously had to be very discreet. Maxx had one week at the studio and though Dee was only two hours away in Paris, it had so far proved impossible to get her to commit to a day
and time she would come to record with him, let alone write.
Mike had suggested getting her to lay her vocals down at a studio in the States, but Maxx was really hoping to get her input into the production as well as just the vocal. But, at this rate, he couldn’t really even consider it their song. If she was coming on board, it was as a passenger.
After their final gig in Paris a few days before, Maxx found her in the downstairs bar of the Maison Souquet having a cocktail with Lee and Charlie.
‘Dee, hey. I’ve been trying to call you.’
‘Maxx, hi.’ She’d definitely looked guilty, no doubt for ignoring his messages.
‘Um, well, I wondered. Did you want to get together to, um, do that, look into that music we talked about,’ he’d said clumsily.
Out of the corner of his eye, he’d caught a hint of a smirk from Charlie, but Dee appeared embarrassed. Lee made a lame excuse and had gone to show the hot bartender a trick he could do with an olive and a martini glass.
‘Sorry, I’ve been really busy. Maybe another time?’ she’d offered, with a genuinely apologetic smile. Charlie had pretended to do something on his phone, which was clearly upside down.
‘Okay. Maybe see you in London?’
‘Let’s talk later,’ she’d said quickly, clearly keen not to discuss anything in front of Charlie.
Feeling frustrated, he’d left the hotel and taken the first Eurostar to London, determined to try her one more time when he was settled in at the studio. If it really came to it, he could do this track with any number of up and coming singers who would jump at the opportunity.
He put down his notebook, tucked his guitar into its place on the rack and hung his headphones over the music stand, before heading out into the reception area to try to figure out the coffee machine.
Mike had an assistant called Julian – a tall, built, black-haired, tattooed guy who was as handsome as he was flamboyantly camp. He hung about in the control area working with the electrics, and he was the best at his job.
This Beats Perfect Page 10