Page 6 of Going Solo (The Brent Boys #2)

Chapter Four

A few hours later, I stood in the wings of the stage at Colchester’s Mercury Theatre, watching Cole sing “You Got It.” The judges lapped it up. Cole played guitar along with the backing track and rocked around the stage in his leather jacket like he owned the place. He was effortlessly cool and sexy, with a voice so full of flavour it was like popping one of each colour Starburst in your mouth at the same time. A few steps in front of me, Dorinda Carter hammed up her reactions for the camera.

“That voice!” she mouthed, fanning herself.

The song ended, and the audience erupted into applause. On the monitor I could see them on their feet. The judges swivelled in their chairs to look at the crowd. Robbie Johnswagger—an old-school rocker from the 1980s—slowly got to his feet, joining the standing ovation. The crowd went wild. Cole slapped his hand to his heart in thanks. A moment later Johanna Thorsdóttir—an Icelandic songstress who had a string of hits in the early 2000s after a spectacular Eurovision appearance—also stood. That left Felicity Quant—the multimillionaire music-industry mogul and Make Me a Pop Star executive producer—sitting down. The audience wasn’t having it. They began stamping their feet, making the theatre vibrate. Felicity played it cool, looking around at them, looking down at her notes, looking at her fingernails. The crowd’s outrage was deafening. Finally, Felicity leaned forward in her seat and stood. The audience lost its collective shit. Literally.

Cole held his hands up as if in prayer, humbly accepting the applause. When the noise finally died down and everyone had taken their seats, it was time to film the judges’ comments.

“From one old rocker to another,” Robbie Johnswagger said in his broad Leeds accent, “thank you for bringing this performance to this stage. It gladdens my heart to see the younger generation paying respect to a legend like Roy Orbison and doing such credit to his artistry in this way. You’re an incredible performer already, and I can’t wait to see what you can achieve on this stage.”

Robbie hit his button, and a big green tick lit up over his head. The crowd erupted. Felicity Quant put up her hand, the accepted symbol on the show for “That’s enough, shut up, you plebs, the adults are speaking.”

“I agree with Robbie,” Johanna Thorsdóttir began, “it was an incredible performance. You have a beautiful tone. But your voice is in the lower register, and we’re trying to find a pop star here, not?—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Robbie leapt in, “you think baritones can’t be pop stars? What about Elvis, Hendrix, Tom Jones, Neil Diamond?—”

“Got anyone this century?” Johanna hit back.

Everyone in the audience oooo ed in unison.

“I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.” Robbie looked exasperated. “Chris Martin. Will that do you? The front man of the biggest band in the world.”

The audience booed and laughed and cheered. Felicity’s hand went up. They shushed. This was amazing telly. There was no way someone of Johanna Thorsdóttir’s experience thought a baritone couldn’t have a fantastic pop career. They were creating tension to milk Cole’s moment onstage.

“But I think you’re incredible,” Johanna said. “And you deserve to go through to London.”

A big green tick appeared above her head, and the audience burst into rapturous applause. Felicity Quant raised her hand, and a hush descended over the room. It all came down to this moment. Everyone knew the other two judges had no real say. Felicity’s word was final.

“You’re a good-looking young man,” she said. “You’re confident. You can sing. You can move. You can clearly play guitar. Do you play anything else?”

“Piano,” Cole said. “Most instruments, I guess. With time.” Felicity nodded. “And I write my own songs as well,” Cole added.

Felicity raised an eyebrow. “Who are you here with today?”

Cole pointed to the wings, where Dorinda was standing with Orla. The camera beside me swung around to focus on them.

“My mum,” Cole said.

Dorinda and Orla waved into the camera.

“And you come from Suffolk, I believe?” Felicity Quant said.

“My family have a dairy farm,” Cole offered.

Felicity’s eyebrows were on the move again. “I come from Suffolk,” she said. “Do you know Long Melford?”

“Of course! We’re only over in Polstead.”

This was more than small talk. This was Felicity Quant establishing a personal connection with Cole. She only did this when she knew she was sitting on a superstar. This was a moment that would be cut up and reused all over YouTube for “humble beginnings” videos for years to come.

“In the Dedham Vale!” she said. “I know it. Do you ever go to the Crown at Stoke-by-Nayland?”

“I perform there sometimes!”

The penny dropped. Felicity already knew that. It was obvious to me in that moment that Cole was going through. Heck, he was a real contender to win.

“They do a great Sunday roast,” Felicity said.

Cole nodded.

“And what’s your heritage?” she asked. The question was the elephant in the room. Where did those smouldering dark good looks come from? Because they weren’t from Orla, and they certainly weren’t from a sunbed.

“My father is Polstead born and bred,” Cole said. “My mum is from County Wicklow in Ireland. But if you mean why am I so brown when my parents are so white, I’m adopted.”

That made sense.

“I don’t know the full story, but I know my birth mother was white British. I don’t know where my father was from. Greece, maybe. Perhaps somewhere in the Middle East. All I know is I was fostered out to my parents as a baby… and they must have taken a shine to me, because they adopted me.”

The audience applauded. Johanna Thorsdóttir managed to weep—something she did so often I was pretty sure her contract insisted she was paid by the tear. It was a weird vibe, and I thought Cole looked uncomfortable.

“To be fair, I think I was too good at milking cows, and they couldn’t afford to let me go.”

Laughter rippled through the audience.

“But my parents are amazing people. As are my sister, Fiona, and my brother, Tully. We’re a close family. I’m doing this for them. To make them proud.”

The audience clapped uproariously. Cole smiled. Felicity raised a hand. She’d got all the narrative and all the footage she needed for now.

“Well, I look forward to meeting them all in London,” she said, and pressed the button for the big green tick.