This Beats Perfect

by Rebecca Denton

  For a moment he fantasised about living in London, working with Mike and dating his daughter, and then his mind wandered to the conversation he would be having with Geoff and the rest of the band.

  He felt surprisingly sad. And guilty. Guilty because of the likelihood that they’d be made to press on as a foursome for a while, but ultimately knowing that when one member leaves – the jig is up.

  He wondered what they would do next. Would Charlie end up on Disney Channel? Would Art do a degree and disappear into obscurity, only to reappear on a reality show? Would Lee move to Hollywood with his girlfriend and buy a huge bungalow in the hills? And what of Kyle? He was sensitive and he genuinely loved being in a boyband. He thought Kyle would probably remain committed to The Keep until the bitter end, playing solo gigs in Vegas with wrinkles and a fully realised paunch, definitely out of the closet, belting out hits to an audience of gay men and housewives. Still with the fire, and still with the white costumes. And loving every minute. He smiled.

  CHAPTER 27

  Jealous Hearted Blues

  Amelie stood sulking on the Eurostar platform at Gare du Nord as her mum came rushing through the crowd, pushing aside haughty Parisian business people on their way to do business with equally haughty business people in London.

  ‘Amelie, what’s wrong!?’ She threw her arms around her daughter, but Amelie pulled away.

  ‘Nothing,’ Amelie said, rubbing her eyes. ‘Nothing. Oh god, sorry, I just had a big night.’

  ‘New guitar?’ Her Mum grabbed her case and coat. ‘Looks flash! Your father said you were going out last night. I hope you didn’t drink too much, Amelie.’ She tried to lift her chin up so she could look into her daughter’s eyes. ‘I hope you didn’t take any crack.’

  ‘Mum! Jesus.’

  ‘Well, you never know. I was doing all sorts of … well. Regardless of that, you’re seventeen now and I suppose I worry.’

  ‘I wasn’t doing crack,’ Amelie said dryly, the tears gone and an all-together more familiar emotion of parental irritation taking over.

  ‘Well, that’s great news, darling. Now, I have a car. We’re going to brunch at a place called Oliver’s and then I’ll take you to the apartment I found – I hope you like it – and then to the restaurant in the afternoon.’

  ‘Is there time for sleep?’ Amelie said, hearing the teenager in herself.

  ‘Sure, of course.’ Her mum threaded her arm through hers. ‘This way.’

  She led them through the massive station. A filthy welcome to Paris, Amelie thought, as they strode under the grand architecture, past the lost tourists, charity collectors, homeless people and thick plumes of cigarette smoke by the main doors and out onto the street, where the sun was blazing hot.

  Amelie tried to focus on the day ahead, though her mind kept wandering back to Max and the events of that morning.

  She had hardly slept, drifting in and out of a blissful doze. Both of them had been the same. She would stretch and turn to see his sleepy eyes on her, and he would touch her cheek, or kiss her fingers. He was gentle and a gentleman.

  At around 6.30 she was stirred by the vibration of a mobile phone. Max was fast asleep next to her, his arm draped heavily around her middle. Managing to wriggle free, she searched for it, only to find Max’s iPhone had slipped from his pocket. Without thinking, she read the message on the screen.

  FROM DEE: Arrived. I can’t wait to see you baby – The hotel? Or Studio? Besos. Dx

  Amelie felt as though she had been punched. She sat back against the sofa, dropping the phone with a thud. She felt a cold chill rush through her and a wave of nausea about Max, who lay there, completely oblivious, the faintest of snores escaping his slightly open mouth.

  She had to wake him if Dee was on her way.

  She shook his arm and he woke with a huge start, looking around confused yet still managing to look ridiculously hot, even with the imprint of the rug across his cheek. He lunged forward to pull her close.

  ‘Morning, beautiful,’ he croaked.

  ‘You’ve got a text message.’ She tried to sound steady but could hear the fragility in her voice.

  He looked surprised, then confused as he fished around for his phone.

  ‘Here.’ She pointed to the floor where she had dropped it. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to read it, I thought it was mine.’

  Max looked at his screen for a moment and then at Amelie. ‘Oh, Dee’s here. Shit. What time is it?’

  ‘I’m going to take a shower.’ Amelie got up to leave the room.

  ‘Okay, sure,’ he said without looking up, shaking his head, furiously typing.

  ‘Amelie!’ Her mum shook her. ‘What is WRONG with you? Here’s the car.’

  Amelie towered above the old, beaten-up Citroën that looked like someone had tried to make a VW Beetle without the correct plans. It was pale blue with one dark green door that didn’t open properly. ‘You have to give it a good jiggle, then a bump, like this,’ her mum was saying as she heaved Amelie’s things into the tiny back seat, and wedged the guitar through the middle of the front seats.

  Max apologised profusely for ordering the car to come earlier. Asking over and over if she would be all right at St Pancras on her own.

  ‘I’m not that early,’ Amelie retorted.

  ‘I feel like an ass, rushing off like this,’ he apologised, as she pointedly dropped her bag to create a barrier between them in the back seat of the most luxurious cab Amelie had ever seen. ‘Damn it,’ he said several times under his breath, no doubt freaking out that Dee would discover he’d been out all night.

  ‘Can you wait here? I have to get something for you. I think you’ll want to take it to Paris.’

  She tried to protest but he was already speaking to the driver. ‘Five minutes. I’ll be right back,’ he said.

  She watched him run inside his hotel, and immediately saw Dee through the window. Dee rose, bounced even, and gave him a warm hug. She looked incredible. Blonde hair pinned pack in braids around her head, gold shimmering top hanging loosely over her scuffed designer jeans. Who had she been kidding? I’m nothing next to Dee, she thought bitterly.

  He had been gone no less than ten minutes before he came back panting with his guitar.

  ‘It’s a Gibson J50. Got a righteous vintage sound, as well it should. It’s from 1965. I think it will suit your voice. I had it fixed up and it plays perfectly.’

  She sat there dumbfounded.

  ‘It’s a thank you, for everything you’ve done. For the music. You have to take it.’ He looked unsure of himself for the first time, and as Amelie sat frozen he slid the instrument into the back seat next to her. She knew she had to speak next, but she couldn’t, she could feel the tears welling and would certainly crack when she finally uttered something in return.

  ‘I have to go,’ she managed. Not even thank you. She couldn’t find the words. She wasn’t sure what she would be thanking him for. For the kiss? For the guitar?

  ‘My contact details are in there. My private number. My email. Please send me yours. I have a lot going on over the next month. I need to speak to Geoff and the guys and go home and see my folks as well. But I … I will try to be back next month. Go back to the open mic night!’ he pleaded as the driver started up the engine. ‘Shit. Why do I feel like this is goodbye?’

  ‘I suppose because it is. Good luck in the studio. I hope you get a great vocal from her,’ Amelie said, the bitterness thick in her tone as she pulled the door shut.

  Her mum was fiddling with the radio, which was stuck on an angry talk show punctuated by shouty French adverts every five minutes or so. Ella was gesticulating out the window at almost every car that overtook them or honked at them – even the odd parked car got a fist wave – although it was clear that it was her mother who was a little precarious driving on the other side of the road.

  ‘Honestly, the traffic here,’ she sighed, shaking a fist at a lovely old Parisian woman in a very flash red sports car. ‘Money, style, no l
icence …’

  Her mum pulled up at a tiny épicerie, as French as they came, with strings of onion and garlic hanging in the window and a basket of baguettes at the door. All that was missing was a guy in a Breton top with a red scarf and a small dog.

  ‘Cute.’ Amelie grinned at last.

  ‘You like?’ her mum said, proudly pushing a side door open and leading Amelie into a cold concrete hallway with small stone steps leading upstairs to the apartment. ‘I still have the key from the agent. Well, I say agent, he’s the shop owner from downstairs. Cheap cheese.’ She winked.

  The flat was almost exactly as Amelie imagined. Small and impossibly cute, with a tiny bathroom and one small bedroom with a gorgeous window seat adjoining an elaborate cast iron balcony, just big enough for one. Utterly Parisian. Romantic even. She smiled at her mum.

  ‘It’s lovely.’

  ‘My summer home! And it’s just a short walk from work.’

  Amelie sat on the edge of the radiator. ‘Mum, you don’t need to sell me this.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I just feel bad. Leaving you alone.’

  ‘I’ll be with Dad. Don’t worry about it.’ She looked out the window and onto the busy market street below. She took a deep breath and lied to close the conversation down. ‘I’m happy for you.’

  ‘I know you’re not. But I really appreciate it, darling.’

  She was happy enough.

  Later that evening, after Amelie had been dragged the length of the Seine and back, she rolled over on her pullout sofa bed and checked her phone. Two texts from Maisie wanting to know how her night with Max ended up. Then one asking why she wasn’t returning her texts. Then another dramatically declaring Amelie ‘the worst friend that ever existed’ for not replying. There was one from her dad asking her if she had had fun last night and telling her to enjoy Paris. A missed call from an unknown number. And, finally, two missed calls from her mum from earlier that morning.

  She closed her eyes and tried to get comfortable on the soft and sunken mattress.

  For a few minutes she allowed herself to forget all the complications and sink into a moment’s indulgent bliss. The feeling of that one solitary kiss on her lips. Soft, gentle, and sweet. The feeling of his hand on her face, and the warmth of his body against hers. She felt a shooting sensation down the base of her spine and warmth spread through her body.

  But then she shook herself. He lives in America. His talented, beautiful, incredible ex-girlfriend is with him – right now – recording their duet, their love song, together in a big love fest full of fucking love. Amelie would be erased from the final track, and Max would be heading back to the States imminently to get on with his life without her.

  She called Maisie.

  ‘Amelie.’

  ‘Hi, I am safely in Paris. What are you doing?’ She could hear her friend breathing erratically.

  ‘Sirsasana. A headstand. Just a sec! Let me come down.’ She heard the thud of Maisie’s feet hitting the floor, her friend unwinding from some crazy yoga posture. ‘What happened, Amelie? I’m dying here!’

  ‘Hmm …’ She could feel her eyes welling up. ‘I feel ridiculous.’

  ‘What do you mean? Did you kiss?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh my god, what was it like.’

  Amelie closed her eyes. ‘Magic.’

  ‘I knew it! He couldn’t take his eyes off you! He was totally smitten all night. And, oh my god, when you guys sang together it was literally the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. You, my dear, are even more talented than even I thought.’

  ‘But, you know, Dee is with him now. I don’t know. I don’t think it’s totally over between them.’

  There was silence on the other end of the line. And then the sound of a blender. ‘But you asked if they were together! He said no, right? What’s the problem? Where did you kiss?’

  ‘On the mouth!’ Amelie shrieked.

  ‘No, I mean where did you kiss?’

  ‘Oh. At my house.’

  ‘OH MY GOD. Hang on.’ The blender whizzed again. ‘Nutribullet. I just made a Green Goddess to help cleanse. I’m still suffering. I’ve been a wreck all day – so hungover. YOUR HOUSE? You had that hot thing in your house? And you only kissed? Once?’

  ‘None of which is the point,’ Amelie said dryly.

  ‘Oh, Amelie, it was always going to be a long shot. What did you expect? A relationship? He lives in AMERICA.’

  ‘I know. I need to let go.’

  ‘You do,’ Maisie agreed, and then her tone shifted to serious and concerned BFF. ‘I wouldn’t worry about Dee. They’re old friends and they have music business to do.’

  ‘I saw her text. It was very … familiar.’

  ‘You went through his phone?’

  ‘No, it flashed up. She called him baby. She was heading to meet him. We had to leave really quickly.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘When I told him I’d seen it he seemed very rattled.’

  Maisie let out a long sigh.

  ‘That’s not the worst. When I dropped him at the hotel, she was there, waiting, in the lobby. They were so warm with each other. What if they haven’t actually broken up? I mean, we’ve only got his word to go on, right? All that media attention yet the press don’t know yet? I’m just not so sure.’

  ‘Duh.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘I dunno, Amelie. I think you might just have the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘Well,’ Amelie mumbled, ‘I suppose it was a bit ridiculous to think anything …’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure whether to tell you this next part or not.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘Well, someone took a video of Max on stage. There’s a few minutes at the beginning of you and him, but it’s mostly his song after. It’s all over Twitter and YouTube. Haven’t you been online?’

  ‘Oh, good god. No.’ Amelie shook her head. ‘Not again.’

  ‘Well, at least this time the speculation is more about why he was there and why he was singing original songs. Basically, the press are speculating about him leaving the band and going solo. No one is speaking about you being a love interest or anything.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ Maisie paused. ‘Is that a bad thing?’

  ‘No, no,’ Amelie sighed. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So what’s the plan then, with Paris?’

  ‘I told Mum I’ll come for a full week later in the summer, but otherwise I’ll be in London working with Dad when he’s around, I guess. Well, you have to come with me, at least for a long weekend or something.’

  ‘I will! Whenever you like.’

  ‘Okay, I’d better go. I need to do some cleansing of my own, and by that I mean sleep. Bye!’

  The next morning Amelie and her mum went for breakfast at a tiny café on the corner of their street-to-be. It was tiny in every sense of the word. Tiny tables, tiny chairs, tiny coffee cups, tiny waiter and tiny menu but, luckily, enormous croissants and pain au chocolats – Amelie ordered one of each.

  ‘I’m starved,’ she told her mum.

  ‘Thank goodness, since you didn’t eat a thing yesterday! And all that free food on offer.’

  ‘I wondered, though, Mum – why this job?’

  ‘It’s just so prestigious, darling. Imagine me, an English woman from Devon working as a chef pâtissier in a fancy French restaurant under Monsieur Lamont.’

  Under. Amelie cringed.

  ‘It’s just that I thought you were going to do the market stall?’

  ‘Come on, Roman Road is hardly Paris, darling. I mean, I can’t spend the rest of my days making croque monsieur for people who call it a cheese toastie. Honestly.’

  ‘But it is a cheese toastie.’

  Her mum laughed, a giddy high-pitched shrill, which Amelie recognised immediately as the sound of nervous uncertainty.

  ‘Okay, but you’re always saying I should make it on my own,’ Amelie said gently. ‘I just, well, it would be good to
see you—’

  ‘But think how amazing it would be if I make a good impression over the summer. I mean, if I spent even a year or two working here with Monsieur Lamont my cooking could be incredible. Imagine that! It’s such an amazing opportunity! Then they would really take me seriously. They’d have to!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know, the customers.’

  ‘You need the good patrons of Roman Road market to take you seriously? The cheese toastie people?’ Amelie raised her eyebrows. ‘You would have gotten a stall place this summer – you said so yourself.’

  ‘Oh, Amelie, I really wish you wouldn’t put a dampener on this. I will be such an amazing cook at the end of a summer here.’

  ‘You already are!’ Amelie lectured her mum. She had spent her whole life looking at this optimistic, confident, happy woman, and wondering how she could be her daughter. But for the first time she could see it clearly. Her mum was crippled with fear of failure, just as Amelie was. She hadn’t done the market in London because she didn’t feel she could pull it off. She was here in Paris because working for someone else was easier than trying to go it alone. Amelie got it. The parallels were unmistakable.

  Amelie had tried and failed at that audition. Max and the week she spent in her father’s studio had been her own perfect ‘French Restaurant and Monsieur Lamont’. She didn’t need to be the star of the show under her own steam, she could draw on Max and her dad for the strength to shine. Sure, she’d been able to perform live for the first time – but was that only because she’d been forced into it? Because Max and the others had been there?

  ‘Amelie, don’t you see that I’m getting there?’ her mum laughed.

  ‘Yeah, Mum.’

  ‘Oooh! Isn’t that the musician you were working with?’ Ella said suddenly, flicking through the lifestyle supplement of the paper to the celebrity gossip section. There he was – a photo of Max, his face slightly obscured by his hair, leaving his hotel. The caption below was in French.