Page 38 of Going Solo (The Brent Boys #2)

Chapter Seventeen

T ap . I hit the button to fire off the ads leading up to the four o’clock news. I was off-air, and exhausted. I slumped back into my chair, leaned on the desk, and put my head in my hands. The news that Pop Review was “going on the road” with Cole Kennedy was irretrievably out in the world. “The genius was out of the brothel,” as Aunty Cheryl liked to say about ex-Uncle Mike. Cole’s team had supplied some specially recorded audio of Cole saying how excited he was about the whole thing, which, mercifully, meant I didn’t have to interview him. Yet. The second we were on air, the studio phone lit up faster than a group of sixth-formers with a packet of newly nicked fags. I knew it would. Tarneesha had done a good job of weeding out any caller who even smelt like they might mention “marriage material,” let alone indulge in the ludicrous fantasy that Cole Kennedy and I might become a thing. Pop Review ’s fans weren’t as obsessed as the diehard Kenneddicts, but they did seem to care about me. As the ads played out towards the news at the top of the hour, I heard Nick’s voice in my headphones.

“You OK, pal?”

I lifted my head. He was smiling hopefully at me from the news booth. I gave him a thumbs up.

“If you’re not doing anything, I’m meeting Dav and some of his pals for a drink at Miss Timmy’s after this. Do you wanna come?”

I glanced at the clock on my screen. Thirty seconds before the news theme.

“Who’s going to be there?”

“You know Sunny and Ludo.”

“Sure.”

“And I think maybe Petey Boy and Jumaane. I’m not sure. Depends whether GayHoller is in fruit today.”

“What about the big Greek guy?”

“No, Stav’s on his big Greek gap year. Come on, it’ll be fun. Sandy Crotch is performing.”

I weighed up my options. Taking the train home to Essex was now too risky. Someone might recognise me. My plan had been to take a taxi, but I’d only have spent the drive obsessively doomscrolling social media.

“Sure, I’m in,” I said. The news theme started playing, and the red light went on in the newsroom, showering Nick in ruby hues. He gave me a thumbs up. His soft Aberdonian accent informed the Great British public they were listening to Nick Ross in the PureFM newsroom.

Ten minutes later, gagging for a restorative bevvie and looking forward to some top drag banter, Nick and I took the elevator down to reception. When the doors opened, all hell broke loose.

“Oh, holy shit!” Nick said.

Beyond the glass walls of the building were dozens of reporters, photographers, and camera operators. They were shouting my name, waving their arms and notepads, cameras clicking away madly, blocking my exit to Leicester Square. I turned my back to them while Nick frantically pressed the button to close the lift doors.

“What do we do?” My heart was racing. I felt a panic attack coming on and tried to slow my breathing. This felt like Cole’s coming out all over again. I was going to have to go into total lockdown. It was everything I knew would happen when Denzil insisted on this idiotic plan. The lift doors finally closed, and the elevator started going back up. It was only buying us time. Eventually, I had to go through that door.

“You’re going to have to make a run for it,” Nick said.

“On foot? Are you mad?”

“Some of us would love to be on foot, Tobias.”

The elevator pinged, and the doors opened on the third floor.

“It’s a joke, Toby. You can laugh.” We stepped out into the radio station lobby.

“You think this is a time for jokes, babes?”

“It’s always a time for jokes.”

“Oh sure, when the garbage lorry hit your bike, were you laughing then?”

He stared at me, blinking.

“Steady on, Ricky Gervais.”

“Sorry, babes. I’m a bit stressed, to be fair.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “No, Tobias, I didn’t laugh when the bin lorry shattered my spine. But that was the day I learned the value of laughter in shitty situations.”

“Sorry, I don’t feel like laughing right now. I’m going to have to run the gauntlet with half of Britain’s gutter press. They’ll have mopeds, you know. Even if we get into a cab, they’ll only follow us to Miss Timmy’s and camp out there. There’s literally no escape.”

“There literally is.”

“There isn’t.”

“Take the fire exit. It opens right out onto Charing Cross Road. You’ll be on the far side of the building, and you can disappear into the crowd and weave your way up to Old Compton Street. Easy.”

“What if they have someone posted on the back door?”

“They’re not the Tactical Response Group, Tobes. Besides, you can’t even tell it’s a door to our building. You can barely tell it’s a door. It’s mostly a shelter for rough sleepers and a pitch for that terrible busker who only plays one song.”

He had a point. “What about you? No man left behind and all that.”

“I’ll only slow you down,” he said. “In the sense that you’ll have to carry me down the stairs. And it’s all uphill to Soho. And I don’t fancy it. No, you go out the back and I’ll go out the front and distract them.”

“With what, babes? A puppet show?”

“I’ll tell them you’ll be down in ten minutes and you’ll make a short statement. By the time they’ve worked out it’s a ruse, you’ll already be tucked up in Miss Timmy’s, sticking a fork into a fat slice of Occasion Cake.”

It was so cunning it might work. Nick ordered himself an accessible taxi. We waited until his phone pinged to say his driver was two minutes away; then he got back into the lift to face the media scrum, and I made my way down the fire stairs. As I circled down the floors, I wondered how the hell Nick would get out of the building in the event of a fire. He’d probably insist on a fireman’s lift from Denzil. He’d have to fight me for it.

When I reached the fire escape door, my heart was thumping like it was attending an underground rave. I rested one hand on the door, putting my ear against it, as if I might be able to hear a photographer lurking on the other side. A deep breath to summon my courage, and I pressed the escape bar.

Pandemonium!

The fire alarm screeched through the building, into Leicester Square and beyond. I dashed out in the street in a panic and slammed into the back of a busker, sending him flying forwards into the road.

“Shit! Sorry, mate!”

“Dude!” he said.

I didn’t even look at the guy. I was too busy scanning the street for photographers and reporters. The coast was clear, but it wouldn’t be for long. The press would have known what was up immediately. They’d have taken one look at Nick’s face when the alarm went off and hightailed it around the back of the building.

“You could have killed me,” the busker said, holding his guitar protectively. “That’s a busy road.”

“I’m sorry! I have to go.”

I made to run, but he grabbed my sleeve. It was so sudden and unexpected, it swung me around, making me lose my feet. My head whacked into the bins, and I landed awkwardly on the ground. Pain shot through my knee. My palms were grazed and already starting to sting. I was losing precious seconds.

“I could have been hit by a red bus, mate.”

I rocked back, holding my knee, finding something soft to lean against—a rough sleeper’s stashed sleeping bag. I looked up at the busker and apologised again. I peered around the bins and up the street.

“Shit.”

Photographers.

It was too late. Short of a miracle, I’d been caught. This was going to make for an embarrassing front page.