Page 73 of Going Solo (The Brent Boys #2)

Chapter Forty-Two

T he internet had exploded. I could almost about forgive Cole for the meatballs comment. He meant it innocently enough, even though a naked mole rat trapped in a Pringles tube at the back of the pantry could have seen the jokes coming. What I couldn’t forgive him for was baring his soul about our relationship. Why had he done it? He hadn’t listened to a thing I’d said. I’d spent a week in hiding, waiting for things to cool down, and he went and threw gas on the fire. By Thursday night I was well annoyed and determined to get my life back. Before I could even consider flying to Stockholm for Cole’s gig, I needed some time in my happy place, surrounded by the people I loved and trusted. I called Mum and arranged to head into the salon in the morning for a trim, an eyebrow threading, and a facial. But when Friday morning came, I was woken by a text.

Mum: Please don’t worry bubby, but it’s best you don’t come into the salon this morning. Probably a good idea to stay off your socials and the news sites, too. Have a safe trip and give all our love to your grandparents if you get to see them. Xxx

As far as messages designed to not invoke panic go, that was right up there with “I don’t mean to alarm you, Captain Smith, but I think that was an iceberg.” And, like the Titanic , I had a terrible sinking feeling. I tried to call Mum immediately, but she didn’t answer. So, I did the thing she had expressly told me not to do and checked social media. That’s when I saw it: a photo of Chloe’s Hair and Beauty in the Colchester high street—or what was left of it. Someone had smashed the windows, trashed the inside, and tried to burn it down. Spray-painted across the wall in big red letters were the words UR 2 UGLY 4 COLE!!!

My heart broke. I burst into tears. This wasn’t simple wanton vandalism, this was a deliberate desecration. It was a hate crime, and it was directed at me, but it was my family who were paying the price. Shock took hold of my body. I began to shake. I grabbed Nick’s keys, got straight in the car, and—after ten frustrating minutes pissing about trying to work out the hand controls—drove towards Essex.

* * *

An ambulance was driving away as I pulled up to the salon. There was glass everywhere. The press had long since beaten me there and were waiting—the whirring and snapping of digital cameras announcing my arrival. Mum flung open the salon door and ushered me in.

“I told you not to come, bubby.”

“The ambulance. Is everyone OK?”

“The photographers were getting a bit up in your Aunty Cheryl’s face, so she took a swing at one of them.”

“Oh my God.”

“With a bottle of rosé.”

“Wait, she had wine?”

“Only she missed him, went tits up, and landed flat on her arse on all that broken glass.”

“Is she OK?”

“She was flirting with the paramedic, so I think she’ll be fine. But they’ll be pulling bits of window out of her bum for weeks, I reckon. That’s the thing about a G-string, it don’t offer you much protection in an emergency situation.”

I looked around the salon. They’d tried to set fire to the reception desk, burning piles of paperwork and foam from the chair, melting the computer screen, and scorching up the wall. The graffiti was three feet high in blood red. It was over the mirrors—which were all smashed—the brickwork, the art. Products and glass were strewn all over the floor. All four of the sinks were smashed. The curtains to the back room had been yanked down and lay trampled on the floor.

“I’m so sorry, Mum,” I said, choking on my tears.

Mum had built this business up from nothing. She didn’t deserve this. This salon had paid for my school fees, it had trained me in my first profession, it had given me countless hours of joy and friendship. This salon was more than somewhere to get your hair or nails done: It was a home from home, a sanctuary of respite and relaxation and rejuvenation for hundreds of people in our community. It was my happy place, and someone had violated it. I stood there, surrounded by the shattered remains of the salon, unable to shake one clear, resounding thought: This had happened because of my relationship with Cole Kennedy. All the horrendous things that had happened to me since I was sixteen had happened because of Cole Kennedy. My family was suffering because of Cole Kennedy. I was miserable because of Cole Kennedy .

Absolutely miserable.

And I could not see how my life would get better as long as Cole Kennedy was in it. This chaos—this circus—came with him.

I stayed to help Mum clean up the salon. Dad arrived with some of the boys from the construction company, and they set about repainting and replacing broken and burnt fixtures. By six o’clock that evening, thanks to a massive team effort, the salon was almost restored. Mum had lost a day’s trade, and goodness knew what the day had cost Dad, let alone Aunty Cheryl’s buttocks, but the salon was back to something like normal. As Mum folded the last of the clean towels, I knew normal was exactly what I wanted. And I could have either normal or Cole Kennedy, but not both.

“I’ll put those away,” I said. “I need to make a call. I’ll lock up. You go home.”

With nothing of interest left to photograph, the press had gone home. They had their story for tomorrow. I pulled the new curtains across the rail and sat on the floor in the back room with my back against the cupboard. The air was warm and damp from the dryer, but I found myself shivering. The place smelt like fresh paint. I pulled out my phone and considered sending a text but decided Cole deserved better than that. He picked up on the first ring.

“There’s my beautiful boy,” he said. “Are you here? I’ll send Fiona to go get you.”

I couldn’t speak. The words had left me completely.

“Tobes?”

“I…”

“Are you OK? What’s up?”

“I’m at the salon,” I said, and I told him what had happened.

“Toby, I’m so sorry. Look, I’m onstage in like an hour’s time, but I can fly home right after the show. Stockholm’s not that far. I can be with you by about one o’clock. Sooner if Mitch will let me parachute out over Colchester.”

“No!” I said, a little too forcefully. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m happy to do it. I’ve got the WebFlix camera crew here filming the show and tonight’s meet-and-greet, so I can’t bail on that, but I’m happy to come if you need me.”

“Cole, I can’t do this.” It spilt out of me, and the overwhelming feeling was relief.

“What?”

“I’m sorry. I should have said so the other day, but you looked so sad and I couldn’t, but… I can’t do this.”

“Nooo, no, no, no. Please don’t do this?—”

“I’m a normal person, Cole. I want a normal life. I don’t want fame. Not on this scale. I don’t want to date a pop star. This circus, it’s not for me.”

“Toby, what are you saying? Don’t be sill?—”

“This isn’t only about me. This is about my family. The people and places I care about.”

“Are you at home? I’ll be right there. It’ll take me like two or three hours. Don’t move.”

“Don’t you dare!” I said. “Your fans have paid to see a show. My cousins are in that audience, and they’ll be devastated if you cancel. So will thousands of other people. So will your insurance company. And Fiona would kill us both. Please, do your job. Do the show.”

“Do the show.” Cole laughed. It was hollow. He sounded completely deflated. I felt terrible, but I had done the right thing. All I had to do now was stick to my guns.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You deserve so much better. You deserve someone who can handle being seen in public with you. You deserve that person who can ride the waves and show the world they’re proud of you. I’m sorry that person isn’t me.”

“But… I love you,” Cole said.

“I know. I love you too.”

And I hung up the phone.

I reached up to the benchtop, pulled down the stack of warm, freshly folded towels onto the floor, curled myself up in them, and burst into tears.