Page 1 of Going Solo (The Brent Boys #2)
T ap . My microphone was live. The On Air sign bathed the studio in the soft red glow that made my heart race every time. The moment the song ended, I’d be talking to the entire United Kingdom. Well, the part of it obsessed enough with pop music to still listen to the radio. OK, mostly I’d be talking to people trapped in motorway traffic jams in cars without USB cables, but my show, Pop Review , did also have a loyal audience of dedicated music fans. My listeners were the Swifties, the Arianators, the Mendes Army, and they tuned into my radio show like they turned up to Glastonbury—strapped into a pair of cheap hardware store rubber boots and prepared to wade through a lot of shit to hear some great music. Pop Review was the place the UK’s pop music conversation took place—every Saturday afternoon, between midday and four o’clock. And, for the past four years, I had been its host.
The final notes of the song faded out.
“This is Pop Review . I’m Tobias Lyngstad. That’s the new one from Norwegian wunderkind Metteson. Not gonna lie, I love it! What do we think, pop tarts? Bothered or not bothered? Let me know. Hit me up on the chatline.”
Tap . I fired off the five-second “sweeper” promo giving the chatline number. Through the studio glass, I saw the heavy door to the news booth swing open on its automatic hinges and Nick steer his wheelchair in. He nodded at me. I gave him a thumbs up. The door closed behind him, and he slipped his headphones on. I loved working with Nick. Not just because he was my absolute best mate—a guy who spoke with an honesty as raw as my penis that time I caught syphilis from a hot tub hook-up on a package holiday to Magaluf—but because he was, to be fair, the best in the business. When you made radio with Nick, everything ran like clockwork.
The sweeper ended.
“Don’t forget to use the hashtag Metteson . I’ll share all your hot takes after the news. Also, next hour, we’ve got Manu Fernandez coming into the studio.” I dragged out the vowels of the Spanish pop star’s name, helping build the excitement. Tap . I faded up a clip of the chorus from Manu’s big hit of the summer, “Te Encontré,” then faded it back down as the clock on my screen told me I had five seconds to go. “Gets right in your nut, don’t it?” I said, letting a little bit of the Essex accent out to play, because PureFM’s focus groups said listeners loved it when I did. “You’ll be singing it for days. Manu’s here after the news at three. Don’t miss it.”
Tap . I fired off the commercial break. A highly produced station promo reminded the audience they were listening to “Pop. Pop. Pop Review . The UK’s top pop music review show. On PureFM. Taking. Pop. Seriously . PuuuuureFM.”
Tap . I turned off the mic, and the on-air light flicked off. Nick’s smooth, lilting Aberdonian accent rumbled through my headphones. “Have you checked your socials in the last hour, Tobes?”
His voice had a tone my Aunty Cheryl called “a real panty dropper.” And she was right. Although I’d have preferred it if she hadn’t said so to his face.
I pressed the button that allowed me to talk directly into Nick’s headphones. “Haven’t had time, babes. I’ve been prepping for Manu. What’s up?”
He was staring at me through the glass, giving me that look people give each other in disaster movies when the meteor is about to hit or the plane is about to crash and they realise their only hope for survival is Nicolas Cage.
“OK, pal,” he said, his voice calm, “I need to issue a personalised trigger warning for this bulletin.”
I sensed what was coming instantly. There was only one thing it could be.
The news theme jolted me out of my head.
“It’s three o’clock. This is Nick Ross in the PureFM newsroom.” I steadied myself against the studio desk. “Cole Kennedy has announced he’s leaving the Go Tos?—”
Cole . The four-letter word that had been haunting me for a decade, like a poltergeist with clinical attachment issues. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. I shivered. Nick was still talking, but my brain couldn’t process a word he was saying. The name Cole was echoing around my head like Nick had hollered it across a canyon. Through the glass to the left of the news booth I could see my producer, Tarneesha, laughing and joking with Manu Fernandez. I felt like I was watching it all on TV. I tried to tune back into Nick’s voice.
“After ten years with the world’s biggest boy band, the twenty-six-year-old pop star said he wanted to take his music in a new direction—one that, in his words, better reflects his artistry.”
“No, no, no, no, NO!” I said, feeling my blood pressure skyrocket.
“The Go Tos came together a decade ago on season six of the reality TV show Make Me a Pop Star and went on to become the world’s most successful pop band, regularly topping the charts with multiplatinum albums and selling out stadiums over multiple world tours. Kennedy, a talented songwriter, wrote the band’s biggest hit, ‘Genevieve.’ There’s no word yet from Kennedy’s bandmates, but Make Me a Pop Star executive producer and Totally Records chief executive Felicity Quant said she wished Kennedy well, and the Go Tos would go on without him.”
This was huge . Cole’s fan base, the Kenneddicts, were going to lose their minds. On my screen, the PureFM chatline was spinning like a Las Vegas poker machine, with dozens of new messages loading every second. Cole Kennedy had completely ruined my carefully planned show. But what was new? Ten years earlier, Cole Kennedy had ruined my entire life.