Page 17 of Going Solo (The Brent Boys #2)

Chapter Twelve

A n empty shampoo bottle glanced off the side of my face, hit the computer screen, and skittered across the salon counter, burying itself among the stationery.

“Ouch!”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Aunty Cheryl said. “The towels are finished in the dryer. Can you fold them please.” She turned to Mrs Fitzpatrick, who was having her freshly blue-rinsed perm set. “Love the bones of him, but honestly, who’d have kids?”

“I had twelve,” Mrs Fitzpatrick replied.

“Jesus, love.”

I got up and walked to the back of the salon in a stupor. I’d been in a daze since Saturday night. It was now Thursday lunchtime, and I still hadn’t heard from Cole. I wanted to be at home in bed, but Mum had insisted I come into the salon to help out.

“How’d your fanny hold up with all them kids?” Aunty Cheryl asked.

“By the fifth one I didn’t even put down my knitting. She shot out of me like a Nissan Micra out of the Blackwall Tunnel. I haven’t sneezed with confidence since 1972.”

I’d just opened the dryer when I heard the doorbell tinkle. I craned my head to see if I was needed at the counter, but it was only Mum and Gaston coming back with lunch. I squatted to pull the towels out of the dryer, the heat of them radiating through my leg and the fresh smell of laundry powder filling the air. Gaston nuzzled against my bum, his nose cold and wet against the exposed skin where my jeans had pulled down.

“They didn’t have any chicken and avocado left, bubby, so I got you the Caesar,” Mum said, plonking the salad bowls down on the benchtop. “Thanks for doing that, Tobes.” She leaned down to kiss me on the head. “Any news from Cole yet?”

I shook my head.

“Look, I been thinking. Why don’t you give Orla a call? Find out whether something serious has happened or if he’s mugging you off. Cos all this moping ain’t healthy, Tobes.”

“Can you do it?” I said, standing to dump the pile of towels on the benchtop.

“And be the go-between between you and the other go-between?” Mum opened her salad bowl and shoved her fork into a piece of boiled egg. “No thank you. Besides, I’ve got Priti from Dress for Successex coming in for a cut and colour in fifteen minutes. You’re a big boy. You know how to use the phone.”

I rolled my eyes.

“And you can’t keep sitting at the front counter with a face like that. Mrs Fitz come in this morning, said she nearly turned around and walked back out again. Said she thought she’d walked into the funeral home by mistake.”

She shoved the egg into her mouth.

I put the towel I’d been folding down on the benchtop. “I’m scared, Mum. What if he doesn’t want to see me because of all this ‘marriage material’ stuff?”

“It’s better to know, bubby. We’re all here for you, whatever happens.”

* * *

There was silence on the other end of the phone, followed by a deep sigh.

“They said they were going to call you,” Orla said, frustration obvious in her voice. “I asked them specifically, and they promised me someone from the show would be in touch with you.”

“Is Cole upset with me? Have I embarrassed him? Because I promise whatever he’s been going through, it’s been so much worse for?—”

“What? No, sweetheart. They took his phone off him.”

“Are you joking me?”

“They took their phones off all the boys. For filming reasons, supposedly. And to keep them from seeing coverage and socials and so on. Then they made them all sign new contracts—at two in the morning, mind you, after a full day of rehearsals—stipulating who they could have contact with. They gave them new phones with new numbers. I only found out yesterday. I’m fuming. Fiona says the contracts are probably not legally binding, because they’re minors and they signed under duress with only a Totally Records lawyer present. But Cole is worried if we kick up a stink, they’ll boot him from the show.”

“So, he’s not angry with me?”

“No, darling, he’s not angry with you.”

“Do you have his new number? I need to speak to him.”

More silence.

“Listen, I’m not sure, darling. This contract they made him sign. If any information about the show or what they’re filming gets out, he’ll be kicked out of the competition.”

“I won’t ask about the show. I ain’t bothered about that. I need to hear his voice. I miss him.”

“I know. He misses you too,” Orla said. “When I spoke to him yesterday, he asked after you.”

“Did he?”

“He did.”

“What did he say? Did he have a message for me or anything?”

“He asked how you were doing and whether I’d spoken to you.”

“Is that all?”

More silence. This time it felt loaded.

“Look, I shouldn’t have to tell you this. I can’t believe those arseholes are making me do this. They’ve told Cole he can’t have contact with you during the competition.”

“What?”

“Apparently, it doesn’t ‘fit the narrative,’ whatever that means.”

I knew what it meant. The narrative was that I was Cole’s love-crazed stalker and he wasn’t interested in me. That’s what the editing of the audition episode showed. That’s what the internet thought. If anyone knew we were boyfriends, it’d ruin their storyline. Our strategy of avoiding one another on camera had played right into their hands.

“When I spoke to them,” Orla continued, “I told them they had to call you and tell you that because I wasn’t going to. They should have called you by now.”

“No one’s called me.”

“I’m sorry, Toby. Look, when this is all over, we’ll have you up to the farm and you can stay for the weekend, longer if you like, as long as it doesn’t interfere with school, and you boys can hang out. We’d love to have you. It’ll only be a few months.”

“It won’t be a few months,” I said. And I knew it was true. “Cole is going to win this thing. You realise that, don’t you? By Christmas he’s going to be a big celebrity, and I’m never going to see him again.”

More silence.

“Listen, I’m going to text you his new number so you can message him,” Orla said. “Please, for the love of God, be careful with it. This opportunity means the world to Cole, and he’d never forgive either of us if he lost it because of something we did.”

I started to cry. I was thrilled I was going to be able to speak to Cole, but I also could not be the reason Cole got kicked off Make Me a Pop Star —not when it was clearly going to change his life and help him share his music with the world. I took a deep breath.

“No,” I said. “It’s OK. Tell him I miss him, and that I’m rooting for him, and that… and that… you know. He knows. I just… miss him.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I hung up the phone and crumpled onto the salon front counter for all the world to see. Ugly tears streamed down my face, staining my clothes. My phone pinged.

Orla: In case you change your mind x

She’d sent me Cole’s new number. I felt like I was choking. I needed air. I scrambled around the counter and out the salon door. My hands on my knees, bent over in the street, I cried and cried and cried until I thought I’d be sick. I cried because it was all so unfair. I cried because I hated myself. I cried because my situation was hopeless. I cried because Orla had given me the means to blow everything up. I cried because I knew I couldn’t do it. I had enough sense to realise I could never, would never, call that number. Cole’s future wasn’t mine to risk. If the situations had been reversed and he’d put my place in the competition at risk, I’d have been fuming. What I didn’t have enough brains to realise was that if you’re going to cry like your life is ending, do not do it in a public place. Not if your face is going viral all over the internet.