this refused to leave my head
so plz, dun judge, kthx. i'm kinda shocked by this, too. title is a line from amy and mark's valerie.
| and in my head i paint a picture |
[musicians | pg-13 | mark ronson, amy winehouse, lily allen, sam/charlotte ronson | mentions of drug use]
i don't own these people. i wish i owned mark tho | 2603 words
the first time mark ronson meets amy winehouse, he kind of stares at her hair. okay, not kind of stares, outright stares at her hair.
The first time Mark Ronson meets Amy Winehouse, he kind of stares at her hair. Okay, not kind of stares, outright stares at her hair.
She's wearing cream ballet flats, a denim mini, a neon pink tank top with a purple bra underneath - Mark can see yellow chicks dotting the straps if he squints hard enough - and the big black beehive on her head. He's certain that it isn't her hair. On someone else, the entire outfit might have looked like something Trinny and Susannah would have wailed over. 'Blasphemy!' they would have screamed.
'Mark?'
He snaps out of the vision he is having - Trinny is calling 1800-HELP-US-GOD and Susannah is rolling on the floor, tears of blood gushing down her cheeks - and blinks at the woman in front of him.
Somehow, Amy manages to pull off that look perfectly. And that makes him certain that they would get along well, because he hates Trinny and Susannah, and he only watches it because Lottie forces him to. And yes, he calls his little sister Lottie even in his head, because he knows it pisses her off to no end.
'Amy,' he says, and she smiles, adjusting the beehive.
Yes, they were going to be good friends.
She's got a cigarette in between her fingers, and she exhales smoke like it's her life. Yeah, Mark's heard of the need to go to rehab, the supposed drug addiction, but he's yet to catch her with coke up her nose, or swallowing heroin like it's going out of fashion.
The nearest thing to drugs he's seen her pop is paracetamol, and that does not count, because even his mother takes paracetamol.
As Sonny and Cher croon to one another, Amy stabs her cigarette into the ashtray, leaning back on the couch.
'Do you think Sonny and Cher would have worked out?' she asks.
Mark shrugs. 'The world would have been different.'
Amy pouts, Mark thinks it works for her. 'Perhaps. Cher wouldn't have botoxed herself senseless. And Sonny may not have had three decades as a politician.'
'True,' Mark agrees. 'Maybe it was better that they split up.'
Amy is silent for a while, and when she speaks again it's so soft Mark isn't sure if he's hearing things. 'She was only nineteen when they got famous.'
Mark doesn't know how to respond to that, so he takes a swig of his beer.
'Have you ever wondered why all of Sonny's children have names starting with the letter C?'
No, he hasn't, and now that he thinks about it he realises it's true. And he doesn't know how to respond to that either.
He expected Blake to be someone suave and sexy and mysterious, like Amy, but to his surprise, the man's anything but.
Blake reminds him of Pete Doherty. He raises alarm bells everywhere in Mark's head.
'You Mark?' Blake grins, shouting over the thumping beat of the club. His arm is around Amy's shoulders, almost weighing her down, and Mark represses the urge to just fling it away, away from him, away from his friend.
Instead, he smiles winningly, scratching the back of his neck, because it makes people think that he's embarrassed and humble. 'Yeah, yeah I am.'
Blake's grin turns feral, and Mark isn't sure what he's done. 'Fan-bloody-tastic,' the other man says before he yanks Amy and kisses her hard, slow and deep.
Amy tries to push away, but after a while she smiles against Blake's lips, giggling, thinking that it's all a joke, and the love of her life - for now, until they break up again - is drunk off his arse.
He supposes it's true, Blake gives off the aura of being drunk off his arse, but Mark knows that kind of kiss. It's a claiming kiss, the kind of kiss that tells other people to 'Back off, because she's mine'.
Mine.
Amy is not a piece of property, and Mark stands in the middle of the club wondering what should he do.
Amy's scribbling madly on the scrap piece of yellow paper, humming a tune that only she knows. Mark has seen her like this; intense and devoted to her art that she just throws herself into it and makes sure it is just fantastic.
He's heard Frank. He knows her potential.
Amy gets off the armchair she's been perching on since early morning when he came with coffee, and throws herself next to him on the comfy red couch. She grips the paper tightly, as if afraid, and bites her lip.
'Hey,' Mark says softly, as if reassuring a skittish colt. He's never met someone as talented as Amy who is this afraid of performing. 'Let's hear it.'
Amy takes a deep breath and sings for him the first stanza of Rehab.
'Blake's pissed.'
Mark looks up from the fax that just came in. 'Why's that?'
'He thinks I'm spending too much time with you.'
Mark snorts. 'I'm your producer.'
'Exactly.' Amy fidgets with the bottom of her skirt. It's leopard print today, and her beehive is not around, just like all of the other days he's been at her house, and vice versa.
'Amy,' Mark sighs. 'It's your work. You're working, not fucking me.'
'God, I know, Mark,' she glares at him, and the effect is worse with the eyeliner. 'I've never seen your penis before have I?'
He can tell that she regrets it even before he says anything, because she bites her lips and fidgets even more. In fact, she's shuffling around now.
'I can show it to you if you want to,' he says flatly.
She looks up in disbelief, and relaxes when she sees the humour in his eyes.
'Well I broke up with him, anyway.'
Mark smiles.
Rehab is a hit.
They celebrate with champagne, red wine, beer, and just getting completely trashed.
He - or should he say his driver, who is unamused by their efforts to block the rearview of the car - sends her home, and before she manages to leave the car he pulls her to give her a kiss.
She breaks it, mumbling softly, 'Mark, you're drunk.'
Mark doesn't understand how she can sound so sober.
The next week, Back to Black is a success.
The next week, she's back with Blake.
Mark tunes in to Jo Whiley's Live Lounge sometimes, when he thinks the acts are worth listening to.
Amy's on today, so yeah, it's worth listening to.
She sings Valerie with a certain conviction that The Zutons, as much as Mark loves them, couldn't quite catch, and he's suddenly certain that he's going to record it with her, and that would be a single on his album.
Before he can pick up the phone to tell her, his assistant knocks on the door and tells him that Lily Allen's here already.
She didn't really need to tell him, he heard her five minutes ago. Lily's loud that way.
Amy and Blake get together and split up a total of three times before You Know I'm No Good was released.
Mark introduces Amy to Lily, and wishes that he didn't.
'Ladies!' he groans as they laugh and high-five one another like bullies in a playground. The fart cushion was the fifth prank they've played in two weeks. It's like dealing with the Little Rascals, only that it's two grown-up women that he can't spank, because that would be considered kinky and Mark is pretty vanilla, if he may say so himself.
'Was that alright for you, Mark?' Lily deadpans, and Amy laughs harder. Mark groans again and puts his head in his hands.
'You asked for it!' The drummer shouts across the room.
'I know!' He shouts back.
Before they record Valerie, they listen to Sonny and Cher. In fact, Mark brings along his laptop and they watch Sonny and Cher.
After giggling at the videos, Amy persuades him to re-enact I've Got You Babe, because it had always been her dream to be Cher.
'Babe!' They scream together, laughing crazily as that weird sound - Mark isn't sure how to put it, it's like a mix of a horn and a trumpet - comes out, and they brace themselves for the chorus, turning away from one another.
As the beat comes around, they turn to face each other again, screaming 'I got you babe!' their beer bottles acting as microphones.
Mark's never felt so stupid in his life, even when he had to shave his head for the Ooh Wee video. but it's a fun kind of stupid, and he doesn't mind jumping on the couch with Amy, until it give a loud creak and breaks on his side. He lands on his butt ungracefully and Amy laughs so hard she falls off the couch.
'She's smart, witty, intelligent...'
'Yeah,' Mark agrees, chugging down half his beer.
'Why is she with him, again?'
'Love.'
Lily snorts. 'Love my arse.'
'You know I do, baby.'
'Fuck you, Mark. She's wasting her time.'
Mark shrugs. There's nothing much to say. After all, Amy called him post-marriage, so it's not that he had much of a say in the situation.
He has a nagging feeling that Blake told her not to tell him, but it could be the beer that's talking. After all, the beer was good, and this was his fourth.
'Take care of her, Mark.'
Mark raises an eyebrow. 'She's married, and not to me, Allen.'
Lily grabs the beer from him and chugs it down herself. 'You know what I mean, Ronson.'
When Blake gets jailed, Amy appears at his doorstep, wrapped around a blanket he's seen at her house, red-eyed.
She's fiddling with the blanket, opening and closing her mouth but no words come out.
Mark understands. He reaches out for her and hugs her, and she cries, her sobs wrecking her entire body.
She's looking a little worse for wear when he meets her at a party. She's lost weight, as if that's possible, since Amy's always been skinny, and there's this haunted look in her eyes.
'I've been visiting Blake,' she fidgets, and Mark is tempted to grab onto her arm in case she loses her balance on those crazy heels and falls. He thinks that if she falls, she's shatter like broken glass.
As much as Mark hates the man, he also knows how to be a supportive friend. 'How is he?'
'Terrible conditions,' she laughs, but it doesn't sound like a laugh to him. 'He says he still loves me.'
It intrigues Mark how Amy can be so confident when she's in her element, when she's happy, and yet she craves to be loved so badly, and she can't sing on stage without getting nervous. It's like she has bipolar, but Mark's sure she doesn't. She needs to be consoled, reassured that the people she loves still love her.
'I'm sure he still does, Amy,' he smiles.
Whatever Blake's version of love is.
Mark cannot believe that he's defending Amy, Amy, of all people, from his sister.
'She needs help, Mark,' Samantha insists as she flips through his disc collection.
Mark shakes his head. 'She's perfectly fine.'
'She's on drugs!'
'You can't prove that!' Since when have they become children again? Mark is certain he's gone through this argument before, just that it's something to do with him sticking her underwear on the wall.
Sam nearly slams his album onto the table, and Mark swears that if anything is broken she will get for him the exact. same. disc. 'Have you seen her performances? She's slurring, her hands are shaking like crazy, she fidgets like mad-'
'That's the way she is! Surely stage fright's not sinning, Sammy!'
'It's Sam,' Sam says wearily. 'Mark, I know stage fright. What happens to her on stage every time? That's not stage fright.'
'You don't know her.' Mark protests, but it's weak.
'You're right Mark, I don't. You do.'
Sam is suddenly so rational, and it scares him so bad.
He goes to watch one of her concerts, and he sees her fidgeting just like how she does all the time. Her hands shake, but it's less as the concert goes along. She's booed off the stage just because she doesn't sing the way she does on her records, and Mark thinks that's the most fucked up shit fans can do to an artiste.
He sees Amy, teary eyed and dejected, stumble off the stage, and he tells himself that whatever his sister said is wrong.
When the paparazzi photos first come out, he immediately goes to grab a large bottle of Coca-cola and drives to her place.
She opens the door, and she's holding something between her fingers. Mark realises that it's not a cigarette. The house smells of... pot? Weed? He isn't so sure, hasn't taken any illegal substances since high school.
'Amy?' he whispers, bottle of Coke hanging limply in his hand.
She smiles at him, and it's heartbreaking. 'Gag gift, Mark?' she drawls. 'I have the real deal here right now, you know.'
Mark doesn't say anything.
'I'm so tired, Mark,' she tells him, leaning against the doorframe. 'I'm so fucking tired, Blake's been off lately, the pap has been chasing me, tours are cancelled...' she drifts off, dropping the joint. 'I'm so tired.'
Mark picks up the joint, nudges her gently into the house and closes the door.
When they get nominated for Grammys, he's convinced her to throw away whatever drugs he's found lurking in her house. She's better, but she shudders sometimes and Mark sees her tiny hands curl into fists as she fights the urge to get high.
That isn't supposed to happen, but Mark lets it go. Maybe going cold turkey isn't Amy's method. Maybe she just needs to slowly cut down, like what he did with cigarettes.
Amy's nose is buried in a thick book, she's completely engrossed, in her own world. Mark looks at her feet, she's wearing the cream ballet flats that she wore when they first met. His eyes flick to her head. The beehive isn't there.
Suddenly she snaps the book shut and turns to him. 'I've been reading nonsense for the past ten minutes, but it's just so interesting.'
She's becoming more of the Amy he knew pre-marriage, pre-Blake, pre-drugs, so he's okay with it .
'The winner is.... Mark Ronson!'
Daisy hugs him and kisses him. His mother practically screams into his ear. Mick, or Dad as he knows it, gives him a pat on the back, but he can see the tears, how proud he is.
He didn't expect the nomination at all. After all, he spent most of his life in America, being British merely by birthright, but the Brit Awards chose him, and he won. It's surreal.
He makes sure he thanks all the performers who have collaborated with him, especially Amy.
Amy squeezes his arm. 'Good luck,' she wishes.
Mark smiles, and a group of backstage crew swoon behind him.
Daniel's finishing his set, and Mark's prepping himself for the grand finale.
She stumbles up on stage, somehow making it graceful. Her heels and the beehive perched on her head make her almost as tall as he is. Her printed skirt is short, but as he's learned over the years, nothing's too short for Amy Winehouse.
She glances at him, and takes a breath.
'Well sometimes, I go out by myself...'
When she sings, it's like just the two of them. Mark completely forgets about the audience, and the orchestra behind becomes the background music, not real people putting in their 100% in this performance. It reminds him of the times they sang to Sonny and Cher.
She's fidgeting again, and he knows now that it's stage fright, he's seen the way her hands shake when she's high. She yanks on her skirt, and she's turning towards him because she can never, ever look at audiences and perform. that's not how Amy works.
He turns to her, smiling reassuringly, and she relaxes, continuing the song and keeping up the pace.
'So why don't you come on over Valerie...'
She turns to him, looking down at her heels, because the song is ending and she doesn't know how to end it. Amy's tensing up again, and Mark isn't going to let that happen.
He looks at her, bend down to get her attention, and smiles at her, looking at her straight in the eye to tell her that she's not the only one on stage who could end up looking like an arse. She gets the message, and she smiles back shyly, gripping onto the microphone.
The final chords end, and they look at each other, smiling. Mark swoops her into a hug, and she returns it.
'Thank you,' Amy whispers into his ear.
Mark kisses her cheek. He's nothing without people like her. He's just a producer, she's the one who sings like it's the last song she'll ever sing every time she performs and it just blows everyone away. 'Thank you,' he tells her.
Amy looks at him for a moment, and they take a bow. For the first time since she stood on stage, she looked straight at the audience, gesturing at him.
'Mark Ronson.'
| and in my head i paint a picture |
[musicians | pg-13 | mark ronson, amy winehouse, lily allen, sam/charlotte ronson | mentions of drug use]
i don't own these people. i wish i owned mark tho | 2603 words
the first time mark ronson meets amy winehouse, he kind of stares at her hair. okay, not kind of stares, outright stares at her hair.
The first time Mark Ronson meets Amy Winehouse, he kind of stares at her hair. Okay, not kind of stares, outright stares at her hair.
She's wearing cream ballet flats, a denim mini, a neon pink tank top with a purple bra underneath - Mark can see yellow chicks dotting the straps if he squints hard enough - and the big black beehive on her head. He's certain that it isn't her hair. On someone else, the entire outfit might have looked like something Trinny and Susannah would have wailed over. 'Blasphemy!' they would have screamed.
'Mark?'
He snaps out of the vision he is having - Trinny is calling 1800-HELP-US-GOD and Susannah is rolling on the floor, tears of blood gushing down her cheeks - and blinks at the woman in front of him.
Somehow, Amy manages to pull off that look perfectly. And that makes him certain that they would get along well, because he hates Trinny and Susannah, and he only watches it because Lottie forces him to. And yes, he calls his little sister Lottie even in his head, because he knows it pisses her off to no end.
'Amy,' he says, and she smiles, adjusting the beehive.
Yes, they were going to be good friends.
She's got a cigarette in between her fingers, and she exhales smoke like it's her life. Yeah, Mark's heard of the need to go to rehab, the supposed drug addiction, but he's yet to catch her with coke up her nose, or swallowing heroin like it's going out of fashion.
The nearest thing to drugs he's seen her pop is paracetamol, and that does not count, because even his mother takes paracetamol.
As Sonny and Cher croon to one another, Amy stabs her cigarette into the ashtray, leaning back on the couch.
'Do you think Sonny and Cher would have worked out?' she asks.
Mark shrugs. 'The world would have been different.'
Amy pouts, Mark thinks it works for her. 'Perhaps. Cher wouldn't have botoxed herself senseless. And Sonny may not have had three decades as a politician.'
'True,' Mark agrees. 'Maybe it was better that they split up.'
Amy is silent for a while, and when she speaks again it's so soft Mark isn't sure if he's hearing things. 'She was only nineteen when they got famous.'
Mark doesn't know how to respond to that, so he takes a swig of his beer.
'Have you ever wondered why all of Sonny's children have names starting with the letter C?'
No, he hasn't, and now that he thinks about it he realises it's true. And he doesn't know how to respond to that either.
He expected Blake to be someone suave and sexy and mysterious, like Amy, but to his surprise, the man's anything but.
Blake reminds him of Pete Doherty. He raises alarm bells everywhere in Mark's head.
'You Mark?' Blake grins, shouting over the thumping beat of the club. His arm is around Amy's shoulders, almost weighing her down, and Mark represses the urge to just fling it away, away from him, away from his friend.
Instead, he smiles winningly, scratching the back of his neck, because it makes people think that he's embarrassed and humble. 'Yeah, yeah I am.'
Blake's grin turns feral, and Mark isn't sure what he's done. 'Fan-bloody-tastic,' the other man says before he yanks Amy and kisses her hard, slow and deep.
Amy tries to push away, but after a while she smiles against Blake's lips, giggling, thinking that it's all a joke, and the love of her life - for now, until they break up again - is drunk off his arse.
He supposes it's true, Blake gives off the aura of being drunk off his arse, but Mark knows that kind of kiss. It's a claiming kiss, the kind of kiss that tells other people to 'Back off, because she's mine'.
Mine.
Amy is not a piece of property, and Mark stands in the middle of the club wondering what should he do.
Amy's scribbling madly on the scrap piece of yellow paper, humming a tune that only she knows. Mark has seen her like this; intense and devoted to her art that she just throws herself into it and makes sure it is just fantastic.
He's heard Frank. He knows her potential.
Amy gets off the armchair she's been perching on since early morning when he came with coffee, and throws herself next to him on the comfy red couch. She grips the paper tightly, as if afraid, and bites her lip.
'Hey,' Mark says softly, as if reassuring a skittish colt. He's never met someone as talented as Amy who is this afraid of performing. 'Let's hear it.'
Amy takes a deep breath and sings for him the first stanza of Rehab.
'Blake's pissed.'
Mark looks up from the fax that just came in. 'Why's that?'
'He thinks I'm spending too much time with you.'
Mark snorts. 'I'm your producer.'
'Exactly.' Amy fidgets with the bottom of her skirt. It's leopard print today, and her beehive is not around, just like all of the other days he's been at her house, and vice versa.
'Amy,' Mark sighs. 'It's your work. You're working, not fucking me.'
'God, I know, Mark,' she glares at him, and the effect is worse with the eyeliner. 'I've never seen your penis before have I?'
He can tell that she regrets it even before he says anything, because she bites her lips and fidgets even more. In fact, she's shuffling around now.
'I can show it to you if you want to,' he says flatly.
She looks up in disbelief, and relaxes when she sees the humour in his eyes.
'Well I broke up with him, anyway.'
Mark smiles.
Rehab is a hit.
They celebrate with champagne, red wine, beer, and just getting completely trashed.
He - or should he say his driver, who is unamused by their efforts to block the rearview of the car - sends her home, and before she manages to leave the car he pulls her to give her a kiss.
She breaks it, mumbling softly, 'Mark, you're drunk.'
Mark doesn't understand how she can sound so sober.
The next week, Back to Black is a success.
The next week, she's back with Blake.
Mark tunes in to Jo Whiley's Live Lounge sometimes, when he thinks the acts are worth listening to.
Amy's on today, so yeah, it's worth listening to.
She sings Valerie with a certain conviction that The Zutons, as much as Mark loves them, couldn't quite catch, and he's suddenly certain that he's going to record it with her, and that would be a single on his album.
Before he can pick up the phone to tell her, his assistant knocks on the door and tells him that Lily Allen's here already.
She didn't really need to tell him, he heard her five minutes ago. Lily's loud that way.
Amy and Blake get together and split up a total of three times before You Know I'm No Good was released.
Mark introduces Amy to Lily, and wishes that he didn't.
'Ladies!' he groans as they laugh and high-five one another like bullies in a playground. The fart cushion was the fifth prank they've played in two weeks. It's like dealing with the Little Rascals, only that it's two grown-up women that he can't spank, because that would be considered kinky and Mark is pretty vanilla, if he may say so himself.
'Was that alright for you, Mark?' Lily deadpans, and Amy laughs harder. Mark groans again and puts his head in his hands.
'You asked for it!' The drummer shouts across the room.
'I know!' He shouts back.
Before they record Valerie, they listen to Sonny and Cher. In fact, Mark brings along his laptop and they watch Sonny and Cher.
After giggling at the videos, Amy persuades him to re-enact I've Got You Babe, because it had always been her dream to be Cher.
'Babe!' They scream together, laughing crazily as that weird sound - Mark isn't sure how to put it, it's like a mix of a horn and a trumpet - comes out, and they brace themselves for the chorus, turning away from one another.
As the beat comes around, they turn to face each other again, screaming 'I got you babe!' their beer bottles acting as microphones.
Mark's never felt so stupid in his life, even when he had to shave his head for the Ooh Wee video. but it's a fun kind of stupid, and he doesn't mind jumping on the couch with Amy, until it give a loud creak and breaks on his side. He lands on his butt ungracefully and Amy laughs so hard she falls off the couch.
'She's smart, witty, intelligent...'
'Yeah,' Mark agrees, chugging down half his beer.
'Why is she with him, again?'
'Love.'
Lily snorts. 'Love my arse.'
'You know I do, baby.'
'Fuck you, Mark. She's wasting her time.'
Mark shrugs. There's nothing much to say. After all, Amy called him post-marriage, so it's not that he had much of a say in the situation.
He has a nagging feeling that Blake told her not to tell him, but it could be the beer that's talking. After all, the beer was good, and this was his fourth.
'Take care of her, Mark.'
Mark raises an eyebrow. 'She's married, and not to me, Allen.'
Lily grabs the beer from him and chugs it down herself. 'You know what I mean, Ronson.'
When Blake gets jailed, Amy appears at his doorstep, wrapped around a blanket he's seen at her house, red-eyed.
She's fiddling with the blanket, opening and closing her mouth but no words come out.
Mark understands. He reaches out for her and hugs her, and she cries, her sobs wrecking her entire body.
She's looking a little worse for wear when he meets her at a party. She's lost weight, as if that's possible, since Amy's always been skinny, and there's this haunted look in her eyes.
'I've been visiting Blake,' she fidgets, and Mark is tempted to grab onto her arm in case she loses her balance on those crazy heels and falls. He thinks that if she falls, she's shatter like broken glass.
As much as Mark hates the man, he also knows how to be a supportive friend. 'How is he?'
'Terrible conditions,' she laughs, but it doesn't sound like a laugh to him. 'He says he still loves me.'
It intrigues Mark how Amy can be so confident when she's in her element, when she's happy, and yet she craves to be loved so badly, and she can't sing on stage without getting nervous. It's like she has bipolar, but Mark's sure she doesn't. She needs to be consoled, reassured that the people she loves still love her.
'I'm sure he still does, Amy,' he smiles.
Whatever Blake's version of love is.
Mark cannot believe that he's defending Amy, Amy, of all people, from his sister.
'She needs help, Mark,' Samantha insists as she flips through his disc collection.
Mark shakes his head. 'She's perfectly fine.'
'She's on drugs!'
'You can't prove that!' Since when have they become children again? Mark is certain he's gone through this argument before, just that it's something to do with him sticking her underwear on the wall.
Sam nearly slams his album onto the table, and Mark swears that if anything is broken she will get for him the exact. same. disc. 'Have you seen her performances? She's slurring, her hands are shaking like crazy, she fidgets like mad-'
'That's the way she is! Surely stage fright's not sinning, Sammy!'
'It's Sam,' Sam says wearily. 'Mark, I know stage fright. What happens to her on stage every time? That's not stage fright.'
'You don't know her.' Mark protests, but it's weak.
'You're right Mark, I don't. You do.'
Sam is suddenly so rational, and it scares him so bad.
He goes to watch one of her concerts, and he sees her fidgeting just like how she does all the time. Her hands shake, but it's less as the concert goes along. She's booed off the stage just because she doesn't sing the way she does on her records, and Mark thinks that's the most fucked up shit fans can do to an artiste.
He sees Amy, teary eyed and dejected, stumble off the stage, and he tells himself that whatever his sister said is wrong.
When the paparazzi photos first come out, he immediately goes to grab a large bottle of Coca-cola and drives to her place.
She opens the door, and she's holding something between her fingers. Mark realises that it's not a cigarette. The house smells of... pot? Weed? He isn't so sure, hasn't taken any illegal substances since high school.
'Amy?' he whispers, bottle of Coke hanging limply in his hand.
She smiles at him, and it's heartbreaking. 'Gag gift, Mark?' she drawls. 'I have the real deal here right now, you know.'
Mark doesn't say anything.
'I'm so tired, Mark,' she tells him, leaning against the doorframe. 'I'm so fucking tired, Blake's been off lately, the pap has been chasing me, tours are cancelled...' she drifts off, dropping the joint. 'I'm so tired.'
Mark picks up the joint, nudges her gently into the house and closes the door.
When they get nominated for Grammys, he's convinced her to throw away whatever drugs he's found lurking in her house. She's better, but she shudders sometimes and Mark sees her tiny hands curl into fists as she fights the urge to get high.
That isn't supposed to happen, but Mark lets it go. Maybe going cold turkey isn't Amy's method. Maybe she just needs to slowly cut down, like what he did with cigarettes.
Amy's nose is buried in a thick book, she's completely engrossed, in her own world. Mark looks at her feet, she's wearing the cream ballet flats that she wore when they first met. His eyes flick to her head. The beehive isn't there.
Suddenly she snaps the book shut and turns to him. 'I've been reading nonsense for the past ten minutes, but it's just so interesting.'
She's becoming more of the Amy he knew pre-marriage, pre-Blake, pre-drugs, so he's okay with it .
'The winner is.... Mark Ronson!'
Daisy hugs him and kisses him. His mother practically screams into his ear. Mick, or Dad as he knows it, gives him a pat on the back, but he can see the tears, how proud he is.
He didn't expect the nomination at all. After all, he spent most of his life in America, being British merely by birthright, but the Brit Awards chose him, and he won. It's surreal.
He makes sure he thanks all the performers who have collaborated with him, especially Amy.
Amy squeezes his arm. 'Good luck,' she wishes.
Mark smiles, and a group of backstage crew swoon behind him.
Daniel's finishing his set, and Mark's prepping himself for the grand finale.
She stumbles up on stage, somehow making it graceful. Her heels and the beehive perched on her head make her almost as tall as he is. Her printed skirt is short, but as he's learned over the years, nothing's too short for Amy Winehouse.
She glances at him, and takes a breath.
'Well sometimes, I go out by myself...'
When she sings, it's like just the two of them. Mark completely forgets about the audience, and the orchestra behind becomes the background music, not real people putting in their 100% in this performance. It reminds him of the times they sang to Sonny and Cher.
She's fidgeting again, and he knows now that it's stage fright, he's seen the way her hands shake when she's high. She yanks on her skirt, and she's turning towards him because she can never, ever look at audiences and perform. that's not how Amy works.
He turns to her, smiling reassuringly, and she relaxes, continuing the song and keeping up the pace.
'So why don't you come on over Valerie...'
She turns to him, looking down at her heels, because the song is ending and she doesn't know how to end it. Amy's tensing up again, and Mark isn't going to let that happen.
He looks at her, bend down to get her attention, and smiles at her, looking at her straight in the eye to tell her that she's not the only one on stage who could end up looking like an arse. She gets the message, and she smiles back shyly, gripping onto the microphone.
The final chords end, and they look at each other, smiling. Mark swoops her into a hug, and she returns it.
'Thank you,' Amy whispers into his ear.
Mark kisses her cheek. He's nothing without people like her. He's just a producer, she's the one who sings like it's the last song she'll ever sing every time she performs and it just blows everyone away. 'Thank you,' he tells her.
Amy looks at him for a moment, and they take a bow. For the first time since she stood on stage, she looked straight at the audience, gesturing at him.
'Mark Ronson.'