This Beats Perfect

by Rebecca Denton

  He walked the pavement with one foot on the road and one in the gutter, with both arms out for balance. The sky was clear and the stars were twinkling and he was walking around London on a cool summer’s night with a beautiful girl next to him, and the career he should always have had starting to take shape. He couldn’t wait to quit the band. He never wanted to see a white three-piece suit, a flaming rotunda, or jar of New Wave hair gel ever again.

  And the endorsements. He no longer had to pretend to only drink Pepsi, or wear a specific brand of headphones. He didn’t have to flog a range of Keep dress-up dolls or that goddamn toothpaste range to tweenagers, or turn on the Christmas lights at Macy’s. He didn’t have to appear on Fox! Or worse, Disney Channel.

  ‘That felt too goooood!’ he laughed. Holding onto Amelie’s shoulder to keep him steady as he balanced on the edge of the kerb. ‘And you were great! How do you feel?’

  Amelie smiled, her beautiful blue eyes catching the bright streetlights. She shivered slightly, though Max had already given her his shirt to wear around her shoulders.

  ‘A bit more sober. But on a bit more of a high.’ She smiled. ‘It was pretty awesome. I can’t believe you stayed up there and did three songs! There’s a two-song limit you know.’

  ‘Ha. I couldn’t stop it. I was possessed.’

  ‘Those other songs. I haven’t heard them,’ Amelie said. ‘Are they new?’

  ‘Yeah. I wrote them this week. They just shot out of me.’ He laughed. ‘All tour I’d been banging away at writing and not a damn thing sounded good. Then, a few days with your dad. Well, with you …’

  ‘It was awesome. Modern blues. Soul. A little Bluegrass edge. ‘You know your genres.’

  ‘I know every genre,’ Amelie laughed.

  ‘Cloud rap? Witch House? Chill Wave?’ Max laughed.

  ‘Rudimentary,’ she countered. ‘Try Porno Grind. Nerdcore. Japanoise.’

  ‘Baby Metal. Alpen rock. Nintendocore.’

  Amelie raised her eyebrows. ‘Nintendocore?’

  ‘Another punk/metal subgenre.’

  ‘Arghh. Well, electronica subs are even worse. Fidgetbass? And what about Happy Hardcore? That sounds like a mood disorder.’

  ‘No electronica in your collection then?’

  ‘No, no. There’s plenty,’ Amelie said earnestly, rubbing her hands up and down her shoulders and shivering.

  Max stopped. ‘We really need to get you into a taxi,’ he said, looking up and down the deserted street. ‘Where are all the taxis?’

  ‘Welcome to east London.’ Amelie grinned. ‘I’ll try Uber again.’

  As soon as he left the stage Max had been mobbed. He was extremely sensitive to Amelie, who had had a terrible experience of mob mentality after her brush with Charlie a few weeks back, but luckily Clint came immediately to the rescue and hustled them out a back entrance.

  ‘He knows every back door in this place.’ Julian had winked, showing them the exit through a supply door. ‘Be quick, I think there are photographers here already.’

  Max had grabbed Amelie by the hand. ‘Which way?’

  ‘This way,’ she’d said, the anxiety in her voice clear.

  ‘We’ll be fine. Let’s get a cab as quickly as we can.’

  But though it had proved impossible to find a taxi, under the cloak of the London night they’d managed to get away.

  Maisie hadn’t followed them. It was clear she’d wanted to give Amelie some time alone with Max, and he was thrilled to have her all to himself. After several beers, and high on the news that Amelie did not fancy Charlie, he wanted nothing more than to be alone with her before she disappeared from his life.

  ‘So, if we can’t get a taxi, what can we do at …’ He looked at his watch. ‘One-ten in London on a Saturday morning.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure what YOU are doing, but I need to get home and finish packing my things. I’ve got my train in a few hours,’ Amelie laughed.

  ‘Let me help you!’

  ‘Help me?’ Amelie snorted.

  ‘We can play records and I’ll make coffee.’

  He was sure he could see the hint of a smile on her face, and grabbed her by the hand. ‘Come on, Amelie Ayres. Let’s go to your house!’

  ‘It’s a good thirty-minute walk from here. But I suppose we can jump on a bus when one comes.’ She pulled her hand away, her eyes dancing with that alluring coquettishness he found so magnetic. Her bus timetable app thing was extraordinarily precise. ‘Eight minutes actually. Shall we just wait under the shelter?’

  ‘Ooh, the bus.’

  ‘No, my friend. Not just the bus. The night bus,’ Amelie said wickedly. ‘You’re going to have to keep your head down, and follow me.’

  The number 38 arrived, its harsh fluorescent bulbs highlighting the capricious state of fifty-odd young, drunk revellers heading back to their Hackney lofts after a night out. Max felt a touch nervous about being recognised in this environment, so under Amelie’s strict orders he kept his head down as they climbed the stairs and she ushered him into the front seat.

  ‘This is where you sit. With your feet up here,’ she said, swinging her legs up onto the front rail.

  He obliged, enjoying the view out over the east London streets.

  ‘We’re coming up to Dalston, where we were the other night with my dad. Which is really cool, by the way. You wouldn’t be allowed back there without some more facial hair.’ She grinned.

  ‘What’s the area called where you live?’

  ‘Victoria Park. Well, Hackney really, but it’s a little bit posher round the park. My mother’s flat is tiny by the way, and I’m really not into taking a multi-millionaire there.’

  ‘Well, I still technically live with my parents, if that makes you feel any better.’

  ‘No!’ Amelie burst out laughing. ‘You DO not!’

  ‘I do,’ Max said. ‘My residential address is with my ma and pa in a four-bedroom house with a wraparound porch and a double garage. Actually, I still have a single bed with a Spider-Man comforter. And posters on my wall. And I’m twenty-one next month.’

  ‘I seriously need to get off this bus.’

  ‘It’s true. It’s like I died in 2010. They have not changed my room one bit.’

  ‘Do you miss your parents?’

  ‘Every day. I don’t see them enough, but hopefully that’s all about to change.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, for one, I’m going to quit The Keep as soon as I’m back in the States.’

  ‘What? Really?’

  ‘For realz. I’m saying farewell to my white satin open-front shirts and tossing out the hair straighteners.’

  ‘Wow. That’s big news,’ Amelie said. ‘But shouldn’t you wait? You know, to see if your label likes the music? I mean, how will it work?’

  ‘I don’t really care,’ he said, though he knew he did. He would be following in the footsteps of a long line of aging boyband members breaking free and nauseatingly desperate to be taken seriously.

  ‘Yes you do,’ she said, flatly.

  ‘Well, I care that the EP is well received, but I don’t care about waiting for that. My decision is made either way. I don’t care about the band any more,’ he said, doing air quotes to emphasise how un-bandlike the band was. ‘I’m just happy to be writing and playing again.’

  ‘Ahh! This is us!’ Amelie squealed, reaching around to push the big red button on the post next to Max. ‘Quick!’

  They both jumped up and darted quickly off the bus and onto a darkened street by the park. It was quiet and creepy compared to the buzz of Angel.

  ‘It’s just down there.’ Amelie pointed just ahead.

  ‘I hope you never walk home alone.’

  ‘It’s literally one minute! And no, Mum makes me get a cab if it’s dark.’

  She led him down a metal staircase and opened a small door on the basement floor of a terrace house.

  ‘It’s seriously tiny,’ she said, without her usual sarcastic defensiveness.
‘And a bit weird.’

  ‘Oh, shut up.’ He pushed past her and flicked on the light switch. It was an Aladdin’s cave of china tea pots and Bakelite furnishings; a perfect little curiosity of a house, tightly packed and a bit ramshackle, but wonderfully cosy. The sideboard was purpose-built for storing records and within about ten seconds he was flicking through it, pulling out each treasure one at a time to carefully select the perfect record.

  ‘God, it’s late,’ Amelie yawned. ‘Cuppa?’

  ‘Coffee? Yes please,’ he said, switching on the 1970s record player and fixing a Stevie Wonder album down. She switched the kettle on.

  ‘Tea? I’m afraid my culinary skills only extend to tea.’

  ‘Sure, with lots of sugar!’ He put the needle carefully down on the groove, and turned the volume up slightly to hear the warm scratch of the start of the record. ‘I love that sound. Man, you’re so lucky to have this collection.’ He continued to flick through each wonderful record, pulling out a couple more to add to a shortlist.

  ‘My dad gave them to me.’

  ‘No Pet Sounds though.’

  Amelie rolled her eyes. ‘You were just being so smug.’

  ‘Is this collection actually yours?’

  ‘Well, most of it. Not the French jazz. My exquisite tastes won’t allow it,’ she laughed, flicking off the main lights in favour of tiny fairy lights that were enchantingly arranged around the room.

  She walked over with two cups of tea and a couple of biscuits. ‘A digestive,’ she declared, ‘with sweet, strong tea. You’ve reached peak English. Can you give me two mins and I’ll just pull my suitcase together? Then it’s done.’

  While she was gone he lay back on the sumptuous rug and pulled a cushion underneath his head. Staring at the yellowing ceiling with its ornate light fixtures, faint damp stains and quick-fix paint patches, he remembered something Mike had told him. He jumped up and followed Amelie through the tiny hallway.

  ‘Amelie?’ he called. ‘Let me see your recording studio?’

  ‘My what? No!’ she shouted from the bathroom. ‘You can’t go in. My room is mortifying!’

  ‘Too late,’ he laughed, throwing open the adjacent door, hoping it was her bedroom. At first all he could see was an unmade bed with some Spider-Man PJs crushed up half under the pillow.

  The studio was incredible. Like some kind of steampunk labyrinth of gear cobbled together with tape and wire and love and time and passion. There was a hum coming from the wall socket and he was sure he could smell a whiff of hot plastic. Instinctively, he moved the mouse and her computer lit up.

  ‘You know, you ought to power down when you go out. This thing is a fire risk,’ Max shouted.

  ‘I know.’ Amelie was standing at her door. Her eyes were wide, and he was shocked to see her looking almost frightened. ‘Please …’

  ‘What is this?’ He turned round to see her SoundCloud account open. ‘You’re on SoundCloud? But why do you call yourself Lou? Is this your account? You’ve got so many listeners.’ He hit play on her latest track. ‘Is this you? Oh. God. It is! Wow!’

  ‘They’re called followers,’ she smiled meekly. ‘Please, Max. That’s really private.’

  ‘You’re famous!’ he said clicking through her messages.

  ‘My songs are. Which is nice,’ Amelie said. ‘But I’m not.’

  ‘Just let me hear this and then I’ll stop. You’re a great songwriter. What’s this called?’

  She sat on the edge of her bed, looking at her hands. ‘I was thinking, this week, you know, that maybe I should focus on songwriting and producing. Try to get a publishing deal or something. I’ve had some interest from an independent label.’

  ‘Oh, wow. That’s amazing,’ Max said. ‘But it’s not what you want, is it?’

  ‘No. But tonight, playing in a little pub in Angel … that’s not performing, really. That’s just drunk jamming.’ She laughed a little, playing with the edge of a nail on her thumb.

  ‘Well, today it’s there, and tomorrow it’s a bit bigger, and each time you take to the stage you get a little closer. You have to work at it.’

  He watched her staring at the computer screen, glancing down the list of tracks, the hours of work, of time, of energy she had put into her music.

  ‘I do,’ she said flatly, standing up and flicking the machine off at the wall. ‘Come on, that’s enough.’

  He followed her to the other room in silence as she flopped down on the rug and yawned, pulling a blanket around her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry it’s cold. I would put the radiator on but it takes ages, and I’m leaving in the morning so I shouldn’t really be wasting money. I’ll light the gas fire though. Do you ever worry about money?’

  ‘Not really,’ Max said, feeling a bit ashamed at the vast chasm of difference in the way they lived. But here he felt the warmth of a loving home, just like his own back in Tennessee. She turned the switch on the little gas fire and struck a match, holding it close until the heater lit up blue, then slowly red. Max picked up a record.

  ‘Put that on. It’s good electronica,’ Amelie smiled.

  ‘AlunaGeorge,’ Max read on the sleeve as he slipped the record out. ‘What time do you need to be at the train?’

  ‘Eight a.m.’

  ‘Okay, well, let me book you a taxi now so you don’t need to worry.’ He watched her start to protest. ‘No, I won’t have it.’

  ‘Do you need a number?’ He shook his head, and after a couple of minutes typing into his phone, she poked him.

  ‘You’re not actually booking my cab, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Alexia. Our assistant. She’s in New York but it’s okay, it’s still evening there. She wants to know your zip code.’ He grinned.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re messaging New York to book you a cab in London. Ridiculous,’ Amelie laughed.

  ‘Well, let’s make the most of it. It’s all going to be over next month.’ He pulled a face. ‘I will miss Alexia’s amazing way of finding whatever you fancy at that exact moment before you’ve even realised you need it.’

  ‘Thank you for hanging tonight,’ Amelie whispered.

  ‘The pleasure was mine.’ He smiled as they lay side by side, staring at the ceiling.

  The record came to the end of the first side, and Max turned it over as Amelie stifled a yawn and lay her head down on the rug.

  He lay next to her as the second side played.

  ‘Being in such a massive band. What’s it like?’ she smiled.

  ‘I dunno. It was pretty addictive. The money, the attention. Obviously I had Dee as well, so … you know, I was kinda happy.’

  ‘There must have been something liberating, I guess, about totally selling out,’ she said bluntly.

  ‘Yep. Every gig. Every record.’ He grinned.

  ‘NO. I mean, you’re a sell out.’

  ‘Yeah, I got it.’ He looked at her. ‘You know, a bit of advice, if you want some. Not everyone is going to like what you do. No matter how real you are.’

  ‘Well, I’d rather be disliked for being me and real and an artist than for all that … stuff.’

  ‘And how’s that working for you?’

  ‘What?’ She sat up.

  ‘Well, you’re talented, no doubt. But there’s no point being an artist in your bedroom.’

  She looked at the wall, her eyes trailing the windowsill up to the light fitting, her mouth down. ‘You told me that I didn’t have to give myself away every time I perform. You said just to pretend, but how do you do it when it means so much?’ Amelie said timidly.

  ‘I was wrong when I said that,’ Max said, turning to her. ‘That’s what I did in The Keep, and that’s why I couldn’t write music any more. I didn’t know how to be me. The magic comes when the music comes from the heart, and is performed from the heart.’

  Amelie looked glum. ‘I don’t really know how that’s supposed to help.’

  ‘Maybe you should try singing to o
ne person in the crowd. Like you did tonight,’ he said gently, reaching out for her hands, which she let him take for a moment.

  ‘Well, there won’t always be someone there,’ Amelie said cautiously. ‘But I guess I could at least pretend at that.’

  For a moment, they looked at each other, and Max saw a vulnerability behind her eyes as she looked longingly at him. He wanted to kiss her. Badly.

  Amelie slowly pulled back and lay down on the rug.

  ‘I forget what that was like. To be starting out. It gets easier, you know. And at least, if you’re doing something that is real … well, I’m guessing a little piece of you won’t die every time you perform,’ he laughed.

  ‘Do you want some advice?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You should take some time out and come back and record another time.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just think you’re not ready.’ She burst out laughing. ‘That sounds bad. I mean, you know. You need to live a little.’

  ‘Another truth bomb from Amelie Ayres.’

  ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t very subtle. I’m really tired.’ She yawned again.

  Max looked across at her and realised he only had one thing on his mind. As if she could read his mind, she turned her head to his and he pulled himself up on one arm.

  For a moment it looked like she was hesitating, then she closed her eyes and breathed out gently. Opening them with a small whisper of a smile. ‘Well, hurry up then,’ she said in the quietest voice, her cheeks turning red.

  Pausing for a moment to look into her eyes, he gently pressed his lips against hers. His mouth opened slightly, and he lingered for a moment, before pulling back to look at her face again. Her cheeks were flush and her breathing fast. He kissed her again on the forehead and then lay down next to her.

  ‘I wish we had more time,’ he said.

  ‘Me too,’ she smiled, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

  ‘I might come back to London. In a month or so. When everything is done.’

  ‘It would be great to see you, for a visit.’

  ‘Why don’t you just close your eyes? I’ll set my alarm just in case … well, the driver will call anyway.’

  He watched as she closed her eyes. As her breathing began to slow he felt for her. His instinct was to protect her, to show her the way, to lead her where she wanted to go – but she didn’t want his help, and she didn’t need it.