Page 69 of Going Solo (The Brent Boys #2)

Chapter Forty

I t was Denzil who broke the news, in the most Denzil way possible. I was on air at the time.

Denzil: You proper came through for me, bruv! I knew you wouldn’t let the team down.

The small skittish ape that lives in the primitive part of my brain smashed its fist repeatedly against the big red button marked Panic Now.

Denzil: The board is thrilled. This is exactly the shot in the arm we needed. Get in, my son! I won’t forget this, you beautiful homosexual.

Now I was seriously frantic. I googled myself and found the photograph. It was Cole and me kissing on his back patio earlier that morning. He’d told me it was safe from the paparazzi, and I’d let my guard down. I threw my headphones off in disgust. They slid over the end of the desk and swung from the cord like a hanged man. Nick and Tarneesha stared back at me in astonishment through the glass.

“You OK, pal?”

I wasn’t. My whole life felt like it was unravelling. Since that moment in the car park under the hotel in Manchester, this had been inevitable. If you keep pulling at the thread that’s keeping everything together, what do you expect? I held my phone up to the glass, showing Nick the Bulletin article and the carousel of images of me making out with a shirtless Cole, in the glorious morning sunshine, not three hours earlier. Nick’s voice came through the studio speaker. “Well, that was a bit careless, you walloper. How’d you let them get that?”

“Helpful, thanks,” I said, pressing the button to speak to the booth. “It’s meant to be a private forest behind Cole’s house, but someone must have let them in. Apparently, there’s no honour among the mega rich.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “What’s this country coming to when you can’t even trust hedge fund managers, commercial barristers, and the chinless fuckers who hide their intergenerational wealth from His Majesty’s Revenue and Customs inside dodgy family trusts not to sell you out to the paparazzi?”

“Is this really the time for a lecture on this country’s gross inequality, Nick?”

But he had a point. Someone had let the photographers in—and I realised the chance of Felicity knowing someone who lived in Cole’s enclave was, let’s be real, incredibly high. With the first instalment of Dirty Little Secret in that morning’s Bulletin , interest in Cole was fever-pitched. We’d been reckless. Stupid. And we were paying the price.

Tarneesha hit the button to speak to me. “Track’s ending, Tobes. Fifteen seconds.”

We limped through the show, neglecting the phones and filling the airtime with music and pre-recorded interviews. The chatline screen spun like a dentist’s drill the whole four hours. When the on-air light finally plunged into darkness for the last time at the end of the show, Tarneesha made a dash for the exit, claiming she had to help her mum with a church thing. Nick’s voice came through my headphones.

“Miss Timmy’s?”

I shook my head. “Can’t risk it.”

“Of course you can, you dafty. We’ve refined our escape plan now. You’re not going home with a face like a slapped arse. Come on, you’re coming out with the boys.”

I wavered. I was lugging a suitcase of dirty clothes around with me. Who knew what the press would make of that? Cole turfs Toby out into the street! Or Toby dumps cocaine Cole! But to be honest, a drink and a laugh was exactly the distraction I needed. The risk, though…

My phone pinged.

Tarneesha: Bedlam out the front. At least a dozen photogs. xx

I pressed the button to speak to Nick. “Haven’t got any cash on you, have you babes?”

“What for?”

“In case I need to bribe John again.”

Twenty minutes later, I burst through the station’s back door onto Charing Cross Road—the fire alarm wailing into life—dashed past our resident busker, and flung my suitcase in the back of the waiting accessible taxi.

I lobbed a crumpled twenty into John’s open guitar case. “That’s to keep shtum, OK? Maybe spend it on the Bob Dylan songbook? Expand your repertoire with a second song.”

John looked at the note, then back to me. “The price has gone up for keeping shtum.”

“Jesus.” I’d done this to myself. Why did I have to be a smart-arse? I flicked my gaze up to the street corner to check for paps and frantically fished another crumpled twenty out of my pocket. “That’s all I’ve got, OK? Do me a solid, will you?”

John pointed up Charing Cross Road. “There’s a cashpoint up by?—”

But my time had run out. I leapt into the idling cab, where Nick was already waiting for me. As the taxi drove off, a disorganised gaggle of photographers came screaming around the corner of the building. I ducked my head down as the cab rumbled past them and off up the street.

* * *

I pushed against the door for Miss Timmy’s and let Nick enter first. As I stepped in behind him, dragging my suitcase, the whole venue went quiet. At the far end of the restaurant, Sandy Crotch appeared from behind two green velvet curtains and made a beeline towards us.

“That’d be right,” she called out across the room, loud enough for everyone to hear. “When I want a bit of hush to sing Barbra Streisand, I can’t shut you fuckers up. But the minute someone a bit famous walks through the door, suddenly I can’t get a peep out of you. You’re sat there like stunned mullets, drooling into your foreskins like my grandad in his final week at the hospice.”

“Married him yet, Toby?” someone called out.

Sandy clapped her hands together, pointed at the lad, and stared him down. “One more word out of you, Jeremy Arkwright, and you’ll be drinking that salad through a fucking straw down Saint Thomas’ A&E. Are we clear?”

The colour drained from Jeremy Arkwright’s face faster than a British water company can drain sewage into a river.

“This is a safe space for everyone in our community,” Sandy told the room. “Unless you fuck me off. In which case you’ll learn precisely how unsafe this community space can become, because these fists have seen more action than Jeremy Arkwright’s internet-famous arsehole. And I’m fast. I could be pounding you before you even realise I’ve moved. So, don’t try me.”

The crowd laughed. Sandy grabbed me by the elbow and leaned into my ear. “I’ve put the lads out the back in one of the curtained booths. Give you a bit of privacy.”

Nick rolled off ahead of us. Sandy threaded her arm through mine. We walked up the aisle between the tables, the punters watching us as intently as if we were underwear models at a Calvin Klein catwalk show.

“Don’t mind them all staring, Toby darling,” Sandy said, in a stage whisper. “This dress is vintage Schiaparelli, and you know how Italian haute couture attracts the gays like flies on shit.”

Two-thirds of the way up the room, I spotted a lad filming us on his phone. I tried to hide my face, but one arm was trapped in Sandy’s and the other was dragging the suitcase. As we walked past him, there was a flash of magenta fingernails as Sandy whipped the phone out of the guy’s hand.

“Naughty, naughty, Derek. If you want this back, come and see me after class.” Then, as we walked by the next table, Sandy dropped it into a jug of water. “Bring a bag of rice.”

The room burst into applause. Sandy pushed me through the velvet curtains into the back room, where all the boys were waiting for me. She pulled the curtains to a dramatic close behind us both, then stuck her head back through it, into the restaurant.

“Have I made myself abundantly clear?”

“Yes, Sandy,” came the chorus from the queers.

I flopped down onto the banquette seat beside Nick, Dav, Sunny, and Ludo, and let my head fall onto the table.

“Drink?” Sunny asked.

* * *

Sandy brought me two Essex Girls, on the house. I knocked both shots straight back. The alcohol burnt through my stomach hot and slow, the way a fire moves through a peat bog. As I put the second glass down, I noticed my hand was shaking.

“You OK, pal?” Nick asked.

“No.”

My phone vibrated. The caller ID said it was Mum. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Bubby, we’re in chaos here,” Mum said. “Are you orright?”

“What’s happening?”

“There’s a heap of reporters out the front of the salon, and they won’t leave. They keep shouting things and harassing customers. Your Aunty Cheryl threw a box of penises over them and told them to piss off, but now they keep goading her to see what else she’ll do. The salon phone’s been ringing hot with reporters all day. We’ve had to unplug it. We close in half an hour, but your sister says they’re camped out the front of the house as well. What should I do?”

I looked at Sunny and Ludo for advice.

“Paps?” Sunny asked. I nodded. He waved for me to give him the phone.

“Hello, Mrs Lyngstad, this is Sunny Miller. Let’s see if we can find a way to get the wolves from your door. What have you told them so far?” Sunny nodded as he listened to my mother. “Are you certain you’ve given them no reason to think Toby’s heading back to Essex any time soon?” A pause. “OK, great.” Sunny’s green eyes flashed back towards me. “Toby, can I check. Do you have any photos from a holiday abroad that you’ve never posted on your socials? Preferably somewhere remote. Lying on a beach somewhere, or better yet on a cruise, or trekking up a mountain.”

Nick laughed. “You won’t get Toby up a mountain unless he’s carried up there in a sedan chair with a Hemsworth on each corner.”

Dav whacked his husband on the arm.

Sunny’s green eyes were still on me. “It’s vital it’s something you’ve not posted anywhere on social media. And nothing that looks like anything else you’ve posted. And you must have the same haircut.”

“Probably,” I said. “I’ve got heaps of pics from Gran Canaria.”

Sunny gave me a thumbs up.

“OK, Mrs Lyngstad, we’re going to try a diversion. It probably won’t last long, but it might buy you some time until things have died down. Tomorrow lunchtime, we’re going to post a picture on Instagram that makes it look like Toby’s skipped the country. Once it has been posted, there’s a chance some reporters will notice it and drift away. Others either won’t see it or will be suspicious and will stick around. Give it a couple of hours, then we need to plant the idea that Toby is genuinely abroad.”

This could not have sounded madder to me if Sunny were sitting there with visible signs of mercury poisoning while pouring tea for an impatient rabbit, but the other boys were smiling like Sunny was a ginger genius.

“It’s absolutely vital you don’t say it like it’s an announcement,” Sunny said. “Don’t throw open the salon door and say ‘Toby’s in Gran Canaria,’ or they’ll be proper suspicious. You need to mention it in passing. In fact, it’s best if it comes from someone else entirely. Is there someone you could get to walk past the salon, ask what all the commotion is about, and then get them to say something like ‘but Toby’s in Gran Canaria.’ Can you do that?”

Sunny smiled. “Mrs Fitz sounds perfect.”

With the plan in place and my phone back in my hands, I started absently scrolling through my photos, looking for the perfect image.

“Do you want to stay at ours until this blows over?” Nick asked.

“Jolly good idea,” Ludo said. “Rather ruins the ruse if you’re spotted taking the bins out in your jimmy jams.”

“You’d be very welcome,” Dav added.

I smiled, grateful to have such wonderful friends. Sandy popped her head through the velvet curtain and plonked a bottle of champagne down on the table. “I don’t mean to alarm you, my darling, but there’s a swarm of photographers turned up out the front.”

My heart sank.

“How did they find you so quickly?” Ludo said.

Sandy picked at the foil on the bottle. “If it was one of the punters, they’ll soon discover six inches up the arse is more than enough when it’s a rhinestoned stiletto.”

I shook my head. “John will have sold me out. Serves me right for being chippy with him.”

“John?” Ludo asked.

“PureFM’s entrepreneurial resident busker,” Nick said. “It’s amazing he doesn’t have his own house by now, the way he shakes everyone down.”

The champagne cork popped, and Sandy began pouring out the fizzing golden liquid. “What do you want me to do about the photographers?” she asked.

Sunny answered for me. “Nothing at all.” He pointed at my suitcase. “When you’re ready to leave, Toby, you’re going to march out of here with that suitcase and get straight into a taxi. The last thing you’re going to let the photographers hear you say before you shut the door is ‘Airport, please, driver.’ Make sure you don’t say which one.”

“But they’ll have mopeds,” I said. “They’ll follow us.”

“Up the motorway?”

Maybe Sunny was a ginger genius? I smiled and raised my champagne flute. We might even get away with this, I thought.

As we all clinked our glasses, a text pinged my phone.

Mum: Elsa says someone’s up the side of the house going through the bins. What should we do?