Page 3 of Going Solo (The Brent Boys #2)

Chapter One

C olchester was absolutely heaving. There hadn’t been a free car-parking space anywhere. By the time Mum and I had circled the town centre for forty minutes trying to find a spot, stopped to let Gaston (our bichon frise) have a comfort stop against the wheel of a Range Rover, and dashed the half mile back into town, we were well late for the auditions.

“I don’t understand why we couldn’t park around the back of the salon,” I moaned as we trotted along the footpath.

“Because a rough sleeper’s set up his tent in my spot and I ain’t moving him on so you can get your face on the telly, Tobias Lyngstad,” Mum said.

The day was a scorcher. Not exactly Alicante, but hot for England in July—and way too hot to be running up the high street. I was regretting falling out of an exercise habit during school exams, and I was certainly regretting wearing spray-on super skinny jeans. My thighs were on fire from the chafing, and a bead of sweat was racing down my back towards my bum crack with the single-minded determination of a teenage boy on a mission to lose his virginity. (Which, given at this time I was literally a teenage boy on a mission to lose his virginity, was something I understood, one hundred per cent. To be honest with you, I’d have settled for a light fingering from one of the school’s rugby sevens in the back of their mum’s old Hyundai. Despite my best efforts, I hadn’t even got as close as that. I was too awkward, too queer, and too Toby .) As we dashed past Costa Coffee, I caught sight of my reflection in the window. I was a mess.

“What do I look like? I spent three hours doing my hair and make-up, and it’s already ruined.”

“Stop moaning, Tobes,” Mum said, “I’ve got half the salon in me bag. We can fix it.”

By the time we finally found the queue for the auditions, the line snaked all the way out of the shopping centre and around the churchyard. Half of Essex had shown up, scrambling for their chance at fame. (The other half of Essex was already famous and probably avoiding town in case the stench of middle-class ambition triggered their PTSD.)

A woman in a plaid shirt and a fit lad in a black leather jacket and with a guitar slung over his shoulder joined the end of the queue. Mum and I slipped in behind them.

“Is this the line for Make Me a Pop Star ?” Mum asked breathlessly. The woman turned to face us, her shoulder-length brown hair catching the breeze.

“I sure hope so,” she said in a thick Irish accent. She flicked a thumb towards the church. “If I get to the front and discover I’ve queued for some bastard’s funeral, I’ll be fuming.”

Mum laughed so hard she snorted. She slapped her hand over her mouth in embarrassment. The woman giggled. Gaston, upset at being left out, popped his fluffy little head out of Mum’s Hermès Birkin handbag and barked. And that’s when it happened. The lad in the leather jacket turned around. I remember it in slow motion, like he was in a hair care commercial. For the first time, I saw those sultry chestnut eyes and their soulful intensity. The lad was well fit: Dark olive skin. A strong Roman nose. Thick eyebrows. A voluminous swoopy mop of raven hair. A strand of rock star fringe that fell across his face, like he was Elvis or James Dean or pre-creepy Johnny Depp. I was mesmerised. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and upright and exuded the kind of confidence the advertising industry would have us believe can only be achieved by the right deodorant or an incontinence pad. He wasn’t just fit; he was, as we say in Essex, reem .

“And who is this?” the fittie said, crouching and offering the back of his hand to Gaston. His voice was deep and smooth and velvety. His accent wasn’t Irish, though. He sounded Suffolk born and bred. That surprised me, as I’d assumed the Irish woman was his mum.

“This is Gaston,” Mum said. The dog sniffed for a moment, then, rather regally, granted the boy in the leather jacket an audience.

“Hey, Gaston, I’m Cole,” he said. “And this is my mum, Orla.”

That answered that. Cole and Orla patted Gaston while Mum introduced us both, not passing up an opportunity to clarify she was the Chloe of Chloe’s Hair and Beauty on the high street.

Cole’s eyes drifted in my direction, taking in my super skinny jeans and sending me into a micro-panic that the sweat was showing through the fabric of my T-shirt. I shifted my weight so my thighs were side-on, which was angle enough to hide any lower-back sweat while letting him clock the goods round the back. I was sixteen and horny and I’d never been kissed, so if he wanted to look, I’d go full peacock. I was one flirty wink away from flipping my top up behind my head and shimmying my tail feathers. As he stood up straight, Cole’s eyes locked on to mine. One corner of his mouth turned up slightly, and my heart fluttered. Within months that smirk would grace everything from magazine covers and T-shirts to billboards and bed linen. But in that moment, that unconsciously sexy half smile wasn’t for the cameras, it wasn’t for millions of screaming fans, it was for me—awkward, queer, uncomfortable-in-his-skin Toby Lyngstad. It stirred something in my loins that neither my brain nor my jeans had the capacity to handle.

“Lovely to meet you, Toby,” Cole said. The sound of my name rolling off his tongue vibrated through my groin, and I nearly pissed my knickers right there on the footpath outside the Trinity Church. A charge of heat surged through my body as Cole’s hand slipped around mine. The tips of his fingers were hard—calloused, I guessed, from hours of guitar practice—but his hand was soft and his grip firm. The way he looked me up and down was well intimate. It was like he was undressing me. Sweat burst from my palm. It couldn’t have been more obvious I was into him if I’d slipped him a fistful of lube and a note with my opening hours.

“You too,” I said. The words squeaked out of me like my voice was still breaking. I coughed to clear my throat. Cole smirked again and let go of my hand. I was still lost in the deep mahogany pools of his eyes and noticed how they sparkled with flecks of amber.

Mum nudged me with her elbow. “Orla asked you a question, Tobes.”

I felt like I was emerging from a general anaesthetic. How long had I been under?

“Huh?”

“Orla asked what song you’re singing for your audition,” Mum said, voice slightly impatient.

“‘Firework,’” I said, suddenly super embarrassed by my song choice. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the song. But with his leather jacket and his guitar, I was willing to bet Cole’s song choice would be something much cooler than Katy Perry.

“Toby loves Make Me a Pop Star ,” Mum said. “He’s never missed an episode. We’ve been up to London every year to be in the audience for the live shows. He knows everything there is to know about the show. I told him he should start a YouTube channel or a podcast or something. He’s so smart, he’s like the Stephen Fry of pop stars.”

“Mum!” I felt sweat prickling on my face, my hands, my back. My pores were opening like fire hydrants.

“Cole’s doing ‘Hallelujah,’” Orla said, and I was sucking air through my teeth before I could stop myself. Cole frowned. “The Jeff Buckley song,” she added.

“Leonard Cohen, actually,” Cole said. His eyes seemed to question me, as if this bit of information might allay my fears.

“It’ll always be Jeff Buckley to our generation, ain’t that right?” Mum said, nudging Orla with her elbow.

“What’s wrong with the song?” Cole asked, serious.

“Everything,” I said. “If you go in there and sing Leonard Cohen, Felicity Quant is going to stop you before you’re two bars in, and she’s going to ask you to sing something else.”

“How do you know that?”

“Didn’t you watch season four?”

Cole and Orla looked at each other meaningfully.

“Oh my God, do you not know what happened in season four?”

Cole shook his head.

“You’ve never heard of Jamie Struff?”

He shook his head again. How did Cole not know this? This was Make Me a Pop Star folklore. This was British cultural history—like Shakespeare’s plays, the Beatles’ music, and that bit in Love Actually where Alan Rickman gives Emma Thompson a CD for Christmas.

“At the Manchester auditions, Jamie Struff starts singing ‘Hallelujah.’ Felicity Quant raises her hand, and the music stops. Jamie’s thrown completely. He looks shattered. Felicity says, ‘Save it for your nan’s funeral, mate. What else have you got?’”

“She did not!” Orla said.

“One hundred per cent. In short, you need to pick another song.”

Cole looked crestfallen.

Mum rallied. “Well, if anyone can help you pick the right song, it’s my Toby. Tell you what, why don’t Orla and I pop down to Costa and get us all a nice cup of cino, while you two put your minds together?”

“Great plan,” Orla said. She put a hand around Cole’s neck, pulled him down to her height, and kissed him on the forehead. “Do you want a water, darling?”

He nodded. “Still, please.” She released him, and he flicked his hair back, running his fingers through it so it bounced back into place with the perfect swoopiness. It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen—and I’d been in the front row of the Jonas Brothers at Wembley Arena. Both nights. I’d been so close I could actually smell Joe’s eyebrows. But Cole Kennedy was somehow even sexier than that.

“Did you seriously not watch Make Me a Pop Star season four?” I asked as Mum and Orla disappeared around the corner.

Cole leaned into me and whispered in my ear. “Will you think less of me if I confess that I’ve never watched a single episode?”

I stepped back, literally clutching my imaginary pearls.

“Sorry. I’m not much of a reality TV person.”

I shook my head. “Babes, you need to sort your priorities out. This is a life-or-death situation.”

“I’m… not sure it is.” He giggled, studying my face with amusement.

“If you don’t like reality TV, what are you even doing here?”

“Well, I’m not supposed to say anything, but a producer called up and asked me to audition.”

“Shut up, they never!”

Cole nodded. “No, really. They saw a YouTube video of me singing at my local pub, tracked me down to the farm, and got in touch. I didn’t particularly want to audition, but Mum and Fiona were dead keen.”

The mention of a girl’s name cut through my consciousness like a record scratch. “Is Fiona your girlfriend?” I asked, poised for heartbreak.

“My sister,” Cole said, to my relief. “Anyway, they insisted, so here I am.”

“You’re a shoo-in, then.”

“I’m not expecting anything,” Cole said, as cool as a cucumber that’s jumped into an ice bath to recover from a long weekend at home with a lonely homosexual.

“You must be good,” I said, dialling up the flirting a notch.

Cole blushed. A coy side-smile widened into a sexy grin. It was infectious. I smiled and blushed in return. Our eyes met, and I held his gaze. For all that outward confidence, my legs turned to jelly. Cole laughed awkwardly, and in that moment, I felt the instant, undeniable spark of something between us—like a magnetic force was pulling us towards each other.

The silence had gone on for too long.

“Isn’t it warm in that?” I pointed at his leather jacket, hoping he’d agree and take it off. He was only wearing a tiny vest underneath. The scooped neckline showed the valley of lean muscle that divided his chest, with its olive skin and light smattering of clipped dark hair. It was almost too much to bear, but obviously, I wanted to see more.

“It’s my look,” Cole said. “For the audition.”

I nodded, disappointed. “Fashion is pain, right? To be honest, these skinny jeans chafe around my thighs something shocking, but it’s the classic look, innit?”

“So, you’re planning to keep them on, then?” Cole winked, and my heart burst out of my chest and punched him in the face. “Fair enough. It’s a good look on you.”

I felt my cheeks flush. “Shu’up! Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, flicking his gaze to the ground. I couldn’t believe it. As if a lad as fit as Cole was flirting with me? Mum always said the blond hair and blue eyes of my Swedish heritage would make me irresistible to the right lad one day, but to be fair, I thought that day was years away. I had acne. I was carrying around so much teenage puppy fat that if you harvested it and rendered it down to make candles, you could light up Colchester town centre for Christmas. Silence hung between us for a minute. Cole’s foot moved back and forth across the pavement. I let my eyes trace the line of his jeans, up his calves and thighs, across his torso. Our eyes met, and we giggled and looked away. Had we both been checking the other out? Cole flicked his hair back, refreshing the swoosh.

“So, what happened?” Cole asked, his head tilted to reveal a sexy vein in his neck.

“Huh?”

“To Jamie Struff. You never told me.”

“Oh! He panicked, sang Cheryl Cole’s ‘Promise This,’ and was never heard of again.”

Cole frowned. “How come you remember his name, then?”

“Because the poor lad became an internet meme! People have been openly laughing about him for two years. His face is shorthand for making a terrible panicked decision.”

“That’s… awful.”

“I know. It weren’t right.”

Cole let his guitar case slip from his shoulder and swung it around to rest the base gently on the ground.

“You think I should change my song?”

“Definitely.”

“Maybe I could sing one of my own compositions?”

Of course Cole wrote music. He oozed proto–Bob Dylan.

“Whatever you do, do not sing one of your own songs.” Cole looked surprised. “Not only will the audience think you’re full of yourself, but you’re robbing them of familiarity, which is important because that’s how they connect with you. And the judges will think you believe you’re better than the last sixty years of pop music. Which, given they’re all music-industry legends, they’re likely to take personally.”

Cole was visibly starting to panic. A bead of sweat dripped from his neck and ran down his chest. I wanted to collect it in a bottle to stick up my bum later.

“What should I sing?”

“Pick something upbeat that shows off your vocal range.”

Cole tapped two fingers against his forehead, as if he were scrolling through a mental list.

“What about Queen? ‘Somebody to Love,’ maybe?”

“It gets done every year, babes.”

“‘Feeling Good’ by Nina Simone?”

I shook my head. “Tommy Baldock did it three years ago and went on to win.”

“Vocal range…” Cole was muttering to himself now. I’d sent him into a tailspin, and I would have felt bad but my advice was solid. One hundred per cent.

“I Will Always Love You!” he said, inspired.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but you ain’t even taken me for a test drive yet.”

Cole didn’t laugh.

“If you can’t do it better than Whitney, don’t do it,” I said.

“Livin’ on a Prayer?”

“Not being muggy, but why is that song even in your repertoire?”

“I play it at the pub sometimes. It goes down well.”

This was an idea I could work with. “When you’re singing down the pub, is there a song the crowd goes absolutely batshit for?”

“I’m not doing ‘Five Hundred Miles.’”

I laughed.

Cole roared in what I guessed was frustration. “I was so prepared!” The vein pulsed in his neck. Another bead of sweat rolled down his chest, and I wondered if there was a discreet way to lick it off him. His intensity was dead sexy.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, touching his elbow, “you’ll find the perfect song. Trust me, you got it.”

Cole seemed to grow two inches taller. His confidence had returned. “You’re a genius.”

“Who’s a genius?” Orla asked. She thrust a bottle of water between us, and I let my hand drop from her son’s elbow.

“There’s been a change of plan,” Cole said.

“Hallelujah!” Mum said.

Gaston barked.