Page 19 of Going Solo (The Brent Boys #2)
Chapter Thirteen
T he editing of the group stage of Make Me a Pop Star was as brutal as the auditions. You know how in a nature documentary, when the killer whales are stalking the seal and it’s clear the poor bastard is done for, the whales play with him for a bit, flinging him into the air and catching him again, but then before the actual kill the editors cut away to some adorable lion cubs or something? There was none of that mercy for me. They showed the capture, the torture, and the kill in high-definition Technicolor CinemaScope and Dolby Digital surround sound. At every turn, I was shown pining after Cole like a lovesick puppy, and he was shown blanking me. In that final moment by the swimming pool, when Felicity Quant plucked Taylor from the reserves and sent me off into obscurity, the audience saw me looking longingly over at Cole with my bottom lip quivering, and Cole looking directly forwards with all the emotion of an Easter Island statue. It was total and utter humiliation. The next morning, someone had sprayed the words SAD FAG across the front of the salon. We filed a police report. Aunty Cheryl cleaned it off herself. The next day it was back. The council’s CCTV showed two teenage girls were responsible. It was the first warning of how obsessed and how evil Cole’s fandom would become. No one was ever caught or charged. Mum put up new security cameras around the salon and the house. I deleted all my social media accounts. I dreaded the show going to air. Each week, the memes and the jokes and the calls from the newspapers and the “funny” FM radio breakfast hosts got worse. My only consolation was the occasional titbit from Orla, via Mum, saying Cole was doing well.
If I’d thought my summer holidays had been a nightmare, returning to college was an unimaginable horror show. A first-year I’d never even seen before pointed and shouted down the corridor, “Hey, Toby, am I marriage material?” Everyone laughed. When I ignored him, he shouted, “What’s the matter, am I not good enough for you?” Then his chinless mate chimed in with “I’d marry you, Toby… if you weren’t so pathetic.” A couple of girls walked into my media studies class side by side, humming the bridal march and pretending to carry bouquets. Then, while waiting for Mr Bourgault to turn up for our music tech class, Tamillah Fayet, who I’d always got along with, yelled across the room, “Hey, Toby, is it true even your dildo has now turned you down?” Everyone was in fits. This room had always been my safe space in the school.
“I hear you like your sex like Cole Kennedy likes his knock-backs,” Tamillah continued, “rough and public.”
The whole class descended into uncontrollable laughter. My fight or flight response was speeding down the runway in sensible shoes, shouting, Cabin crew, please arm doors and cross-check. I started to shake uncontrollably. My chest tightened. I couldn’t breathe. The fear was total. I grabbed my bag and dashed out of the room. I ran, gasping for air, until I was well clear of the school, then slowed to a walk, sat in a bus stop about a mile from home, and cried until the district qualified for flood relief. Two, maybe three, buses went past. The next bus that rolled in had an ad for Make Me a Pop Star on the side. Cole Kennedy’s dark, chiselled face stared back at me from a group photo with Chase and the boys. It stretched the whole length of the bus.
“You getting on, bruv?” the driver asked.
I shook my head. “Thanks. I’ll walk.”
The driver shrugged, the door closed, and the bus drove off. Another image of the boys was on the back of the bus, with the Make Me a Pop Star glitter ball logo and “7.30pm every Saturday and Sunday.” As Cole’s face disappeared into the distance, it felt like Cole himself was getting further and further away from me. If it hadn’t been for the relentless taunting and misery I was enduring, the whole thing could have been a dream. I felt empty, lonely, shattered. Cole was slipping away from me, and I wanted him back. I couldn’t lose him. I had to fight for him—fight like that poor bloody seal—or die trying.
I got out my phone and dialled the number Orla had given me.
“Hello?” It was one word, but it was unmistakably Cole’s smooth, sexy voice.
I couldn’t speak. Every word I needed to say got caught in my throat, unable to reach my tongue.
“It’s Toby.”
“Oh my God!” Cole changed his voice to a whisper. “It’s so good to hear from you. I’ve missed you so much.”
Tears burst from my eyes. If my face stayed wet any longer, my eyelashes would turn into peat.
“I’ve missed you!” I said.
“You shouldn’t be calling me on this number.”
There were footsteps and rustling, as Cole moved from wherever he was to someplace safe to talk.
“I know. Your mum gave it to me.”
“She shouldn’t have done that. I could get in sooo much trouble.”
“I’m sorry, I wanted to hear your voice.”
A heavy door creaked open. Cole cleared his throat. “I’m glad you called.” The acoustics had changed, Cole’s voice no longer echoing off walls. He was outside. “I was hoping maybe I’d see you at one of the live shows. I know you never miss them. Are you coming along?”
“Are you serious?” I said. “Do you know what it’s been like for me? Cole, I’m a laughing stock.”
A moment of silence on the other end of the phone.
“Is this the marriage material thing?”
“Are you winding me up?” Anger rose inside me. “I can’t leave the house without an armed escort, babes. I’ve got the paparazzi hounding me. Have you seen what they’re saying about me on social media?”
“To be honest, no,” he said. “They don’t let us go on the apps. We see a rundown of important media stuff at breakfast each morning. I know a heap of rock fans have started a ‘let Cole be Cole’ campaign because they think I’m better than pop songs, which is awesome, but?—”
“My life is a living nightmare.”
“I’m so sorry, Toby. I had no idea.”
“Have you even thought of me at all?”
“Of course I have! The other day I was doing an interview, and this girl outside the radio station had a sign that said ‘I’m marriage material,’ and I thought of you.”
My piss had officially boiled.
“Are you having a laugh?” I was in utter disbelief. “Your fans are pure, unrefined evil. This whole situation has ruined my life.”
There was a long pause, then a sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think that through. Hey, listen, like I said, I’m glad you called. I needed to speak to you.”
“You could have called at any time. I was waiting.”
“I didn’t have your number in this phone.”
“Seriously?”
Cole yawned. “Sorry. Incredibly long days. So, listen, um… about… us…”
“I don’t believe this,” I said, sensing what was coming in the same way a rabbit senses that the oncoming headlights are probably not good for their health: dazzled, frozen, about to be flattened by the inevitable. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
“I’m sorry, look… they… they don’t want me to be… out … on the show.”
“What are you saying?”
“It’s the fans, apparently,” Cole said. “It’s the girls with ‘marriage material’ signs. Felicity said they need to believe I’m ‘achievable.’ That’s the word she used.”
“You’re going back into the closet for a TV show?”
“I guess. But it’s not like I was ever very far out of the closet, anyway.”
“You’re breaking up with me.”
“I don’t want to! I’m sorry. I tried to reason with them. They didn’t give me a choice. It’s only until this is all over, then we can be together.”
I scoffed my disbelief and disdain. My whole body was numb, but at least I finally knew where I stood.
“Listen,” Cole said, “a Totally Television lawyer is going to contact you about signing a non-disclosure agreement.” Nothing would have surprised me by this point. The rabbit was already dead, why not reverse over it? “It’s to protect us both, you know?”
“ Both of us?” I laughed.
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“I’m sorry,” Cole said. He sounded like he meant it, but I wanted to hurt him for epically disrespecting me.
“I’m not signing an NDA.”
“Please, you have to,” Cole said, a little too quickly. “Felicity said otherwise I’ll be walking around with a loaded gun pointed at my head and you could pull the trigger at any time.”
“You think I would out you, Cole? Really?” My voice was fizzing with anger. “Do you seriously think so little of me?”
“People do crazy things, Toby,” he said, then added, meekly, “Especially when they’re angry.”
“I would never ‘out’ you, Cole .” I spewed as much venom as possible into his name. “That’s Queer Code 101. So, no. Respectfully, you can take your NDA, roll it up into a ball, and shove it up your arse.”
“Toby, please. I need you to sign it.”
I was so angry I was shaking. “You think you need me to sign it because they’re dangling fame and fortune in front of you. You might feel like you’re walking around with a loaded gun at your head, but one day you’ll be begging me to pull that trigger—because one day, Cole, you’re going to be sick of not living your truth.”
“Please, Toby. Don’t do this to me.”
“I’m not doing this to you, you’re doing this to me, and I can’t get my head round it. Like an idiot, I loved you. I can’t believe you’re mugging me off. It’s bang out of order!”
“You… love me?”
“I hate you.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” And I did. I meant it.
“I’m so sorry.” Cole was pleading now. I could hear him crying on the other end of the phone. I imagined his eyes all puffy and red, his swooshy hair getting stuck in his tears.
“Well, you should have thought of that before. How did you think this was gonna play out?”
“I thought you would understand!” Cole’s voice was scratchy. “You would do the same. You know you would. Felicity?—”
“Fuck Felicity. I made one stupid joke, and she’s literally ruined my life.”
“She made you famous. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Famous for doing something worthwhile, not for being a melt!”
“But you can still leverage it, right?”
“Piss off, Cole.” I’d had enough. I wanted out of this call. “I’m not signing your NDA. I’m going to say it as it is: You do not have a gun pointed at your head. But I’ll gladly let Felicity think she has a gun pointed at hers.”
“Why are you being so petty? Is revenge more important to you than I am?”
“Is fame more important to you than I am?”
“You mean sharing my music with the world?” Cole said. “Toby, this is my dream.”
“Well, you can sod right off, then.”
“Please, Toby, I love y?—”
I hung up the phone.
Two days later, a lawyer from Totally Television turned up on the doorstep. I refused to sign the NDA. I’d doubtless made a powerful enemy. But then, how could they possibly make my life worse? I called Cole to give him a piece of my mind, but his new number was disconnected.