#thisbeatsperfect

Amelie Ayres had picked out her outfit the week before. The deliberation in Topshop had been short and to the point; after five minutes, and to her mother’s disappointment, she’d opted for (in her mother’s words) ‘another pair of bloody jeans’. And now, here she was, on her seventeenth birthday, wearing true-blue denim and her favourite faded T-shirt, on her way to London’s old Hammersmith Apollo. She flicked open the mirror in her bag to check her look. Her brown fringe was sufficiently straight, and her blue eyes were looking less tired and bloodshot than usual. It would do. She quickly re-applied some of her best friend Maisie’s glossy candy-pink lippy.

She was buzzing with excitement. Not about seeing The Keep (they were dreadful beyond measure); no, tonight, for Amelie, was all about being backstage with her dad. She reached for her phone.

TO MAISIE: OMG, on my way. Legs shaved. Arm pits wiped. Not allowed to take pics, but will try a sly snapchat.

FROM MAISIE: You better! Have fun, beee-atch! X 

FROM MUM: Have fun. Be Good! No photos! Say hello to your father! Mum xo ❤️ 🐑 🐝 

Although Amelie’s parents had never been together, her father had been in her life as regularly as he could manage with his international career. He called or Skyped when he could – and he never let it go more than a few weeks between visits. But since he’d built his prestigious East End recording studio, he’d been way more settled in London and, for the first time, she was going to get a real glimpse into his world.

His band, Ash Fault, had had some small success. In the 1990s they had a few songs in the top forty, he’d appeared on Top of the Pops and even dated an actress from Hollyoaks, who Amelie had failed to find with Google more than once.

‘I actually don’t believe anything happened in the whole world ever before 1998,’ Amelie had complained. ‘What did you do before Google?’

‘You remembered things all by yourself, Amelie,’ her dad replied.

‘You could lie effectively,’ her mother moaned.

Amelie thought her dad used to be quite handsome, with his longish, shaggy hair and his classic nineties baggy T-shirts and flannel shirts, but she couldn’t for the life of her imagine her parents together. She’d never known it.

These days, Mike Church was one of the most sought after sound engineers in Europe. He preferred not to work with just one act, so he was forever being flown here and there to do big, one-off shows. That’s what he was doing tonight; and why, in forty-five minutes’ time, Amelie would be joining him backstage at the pop event of the year – The Keep’s only UK tour date.

The Keep were one of the biggest, most over-exposed boybands in the world. They had dominated entertainment news online, on TV, on radio and in every social media stream, everywhere, all day, all the time for the last few years. Comprised of five members – Charlie, Kyle, Lee, Art and Maxx – to Amelie they were nothing but a run-of-the-mill boyband. A BIG, massive, hugely successful one, but still with the slightly tragic matchy-matchy outfits, super-styled hair and swathes of tweenage fans. The band’s image was starting to look vaguely pathetic now they were around twenty-one.

Amelie hated everything they represented. But even she knew their names. Everyone did.

Charlie, the blond with the hair that sat entirely horizontal, was the clean cut All-American one with the white teeth and the slightly preppy look.

In contrast, Kyle’s brown, highlighted hair was completely vertical. He was tall and lean with an impossibly perfect body to go with his pretty, happy and open smile. Kyle looked like he might know what a curling wand or a collagen wave was.

Lee  – the rebel  – had longer, perfectly messy hair and wore rock star hats and long scarves around his neck. He was skinny and had the lion’s share of the band’s tattoos. Lee was the womaniser, the drinker and the one all the girls fancied.

Art was the most educated of the five, the oldest and also the strangest  – prone to political outbursts and speaking his own, actual thoughts. His tight, curly hair and perfectly symmetrical face had a slightly creepy air about them – he was always relegated to the back row/outer edge of the talk show couch for PR safety reasons.

Maxx, the Memphis boy, was dark haired and, with his current rockabilly cut, had a touch of the young Elvis about him. Those with forensic knowledge knew that he was actually a very good musician, but in a horrific series of life choices he had turned his back on a solo career and ended up in The Keep.

Amelie had to admit, grudgingly, that Maxx was kind of hot; but how could you fancy anyone whose current hit song contained the lines:

You don’t have to say you love me,  I can read it on your face. Baby the way you look at me; you must think I’m pretty ace. I’m your Ace Ace Baby [repeat × 4] 

Lyrics really were the least important thing in pop.