Page 78 of Going Solo (The Brent Boys #2)

Chapter Forty-Four

T ap, tap . Our microphones were live. The last notes of the song played out.

“That’s ‘Not Pretty’ by Jocasta Rose—and Jocasta is my guest in the studio today for this final ever Pop Review . Jocasta, we’re nearly out of time, but before I let you go, what’s next for you?”

“Well, I’ll have a new album coming out in the summer—I can’t tell you much about that?—”

“Come on, babes, it’s my last show! Give us a little exclusive. Go on.”

“I couldn’t. I’ll get in trouble!”

“With who? Come on. Give us a treat.”

“Well, I will say my new album will have a couple of duets,” she said coyly.

I hammed up my excitement. We had forty seconds left until we hit the ad break. “Tell me who you’re singing with? Spill it! Loyal fans need to know.”

Jocasta flushed bright red. “So, I was touring the US recently, and I bumped into an old friend, and we decided to do some writing together. We locked ourselves in a hotel for a few days and listened to some great old music—you know, the Stones, Queen, even some Dolly Parton—and we chatted and wrote and made music, and, yeah, we came up with some beautiful stuff. I can’t wait to share it with the world.”

The counter on my screen showed I still had twenty seconds to fill. On the screen beside it, the chatline was refreshing so fast the words were an indecipherable blur. I had no idea what they said, but that didn’t stop me saying, “Judging by the chatline, I’d say your fans want to know who it is!”

Jocasta rolled her eyes, and through gritted teeth, she said, “It’s Cole Kennedy.”

Of course it was.

Fifteen seconds left.

“Jocasta, it’s wonderful to see you, as always. Thank you so much for being a part of our final show. And in the words of Sweden’s second-greatest export—after my dad, obviously—thank you for the music.”

“You’re so welcome, thank you so much for having me.”

Tap . Jocasta’s mic was off. “Coming up after the news, the last goodbye. Send your memories through to the chatline or give us a call. In the final hour of Pop Review , we throw open the airwaves to the most important part of the show—you.”

Tap . I fired off the ad break. Tap . My mic was off. The second the on-air light went dark, Jocasta said, “I’m so sorry! I was trying to avoid mentioning Cole, but?—”

The studio door opened, and Jocasta’s manager walked in. “Jay, we have to scoot.”

Jocasta stood. “I’m sorry. Are you OK?”

“I’m fine.”

Jocasta leaned over the desk and kissed me on both cheeks. “Sorry, I gotta run. But… he misses you, you know.”

And with that, she disappeared.

Nick’s voice came through my cans. “Tobes, have you checked your socials in the last fifteen?”

I caught his eye through the glass and shook my head. I pressed the button to speak to him. “Course not, babes, I was interviewing Jocasta.”

“Check your phone.”

I pulled my headphones down around my neck and grabbed my mobile. A message from Nick linked through to Instagram. A video started to play automatically. Cole Kennedy was shirtless, dressed only in his pants. My heart skipped at the sight of his muscular body. He was backstage somewhere, and in floods of tears. I pumped up the volume as loud as I could.

“I can’t do it,” he said. “Please, don’t make me do it.”

“Do it for the fans,” said Fiona’s voice. The footage cut to a crowded auditorium, fans stamping their feet and screaming “We want Cole!” The audio of Cole and Fiona’s conversation continued over the top.

“I can’t.”

“You can. Say it with me: Happiness is always available to me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You do. You know you do. You’ll feel better if you do.”

“I don’t want to feel better. I want to die.”

“You don’t want to die.”

The video cut back to Cole. “I’ve lost him forever this time.” Cole cried in a choking, mournful wail. I burst into tears. He was crying about me . This must have been filmed in Stockholm, right after we broke up. I felt intense, searing guilt—and so much regret. The video showed Cole hugging Fiona, his eyes puffy, his face a mess of stage make-up.

“What you’re missing is his love, and that’s OK,” Fiona said. “I know it’s not the same, but there are twenty thousand people out there who love you too. If you want to feel loved, then go out there and give them a show. Can you do that for me?”

Cole sobbed but slowly nodded. “OK.”

The camera cut to Cole sitting at his cello, bow in hand. A voice told him they were ready. Cole’s shoulders started bouncing up and down as more tears came, but he collected himself, took a deep breath, put his shoulders back, lifted his bow, and struck the first note of “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This).” A wall of screaming fans. Then it cut to Cole rising up through the centre of the stage, thrashing at his guitar, tears streaming down his face. A montage played out under the song, running through the highs and lows of Cole’s long year since going solo. Newspaper headlines flashed up, showing all Cole’s controversies, then footage of him pacing around a hotel room and smacking a newspaper against a table, then at the farm, with his family. The music switched to “The Flame,” and the video showed me interviewing Cole in the outside broadcast van, Cole meeting fans in the street, Cole and me backstage somewhere sitting opposite each other on a couch, laughing and looking longingly at each other. Where had they got that footage? It cut to a shot of Cole and me lying in the grass at Hetty Pegler’s Tump. Who’d filmed that? Mitch?

“Toby wasn’t ‘marriage material boy’ to me; he was simply… marriage material,” Cole’s voice-over said. “And I lost him because of the circus that book created.”

The video cut to us dancing around in the dairy together, singing and laughing and joking. Andy must have filmed that. Or maybe Tully. There was footage of us kissing, looking very much in love in the summer sunshine, completely oblivious to the camera. I should have been angry. I should have felt violated. But my heart ached. This felt like a love letter to our relationship, and I missed Cole so much it hurt.

The music transitioned to “Reborn,” and Cole was on a plane, graphics showing a cartoon jet landing in New Zealand and Istanbul, then footage of Cole hugging a couple of women I took to be his mother and grandmother.

“I’ve felt lost my whole life,” Cole said in the voice-over. “All my life I’ve been searching for something. My music is how I process it, make sense of it. My music is my gift to the world. But this is, now, a gift to me. I know who I am, finally. I know what I want. It’s time to take control of my narrative. It’s time to tell my story.”

As a fully orchestrated version of “Reborn” hit its soaring heights, Cole stood in the spotlight on a darkened stage, taking his applause, arms raised in the air, hands in fists of defiance, sweat dripping off him, his face a beaming smile. He looked triumphant, reborn. The video cut to a black screen, then the words A Fire Inside Me appeared, followed by The Real Cole Kennedy Story , then the WebFlix logo and “all episodes, April 16.”

The door to the studio burst open, and Tarneesha looked at me with eyes of fury.

“Will you put your bloody cans on, we’re on in fifteen seconds. The chatline and switchboard are in absolute meltdown.” She disappeared back out the door into the production booth. I scrambled to put my headphones on.

The promo finished playing out: “Taking. Pop. Seriously .”

Tap . My microphone was live. It took a second for the words to come, and when they came, I sounded shell-shocked.

“This is the last ever Pop Review , I’m Tobias Lyngstad, and thank you for being with me. Let’s take a quick look at the chatline before we get to the fresh new track from Swedish wunderkind Felix Sandman.”

The chatline was still spinning, so I hit the space bar to pause it. Always dangerous, going live without pre-reading the messages—but I was flying by the seat of my pants, and it was the best I could do.

“Marsha P says, ‘I’ve been listening to Pop Review since I was twelve and I’ve been team Colby since day one.’” I coughed. “OK. Thank you, Marsha. We’ve got a voice note here. Let’s hear from Medhat.” Tap. I hit play on the voice note.

“Oh my God, Toby, are you mad? You’re like, soooo cute together. For God’s sake, go out there and get your man. We’re all rooting for you!”

I looked at Tarneesha, who was meant to screen these notes before they went to air. She shrugged.

“Let’s hear a track,” I said, pressing the button to fire off the song. Tap . I switched my microphone off. I punched at the button that allowed me to speak directly to Tarneesha.

“What are you playing at?”

“It’s not me,” she protested. “It’s been non-stop since WebFlix dropped their promo. It’s all anyone wants to talk about.”

“It’s our last show, babes, can we talk about Pop Review please?”

“The listeners want to talk about you and Cole.”

“Absolutely not.”

But for the next three-quarters of an hour, every caller and every message to the chat line was about the same topic: People were suddenly invested in a Cole and Toby love story they had barely known was happening.

Tammy F: You’re so cute together! OMG! #teamcolby

Yara A: I can’t believe he wrote The Flame for you and you still let him go a second time! Are you mad, Toby? Go fix this, immediately!

Tim L: My boyfriend and I have a spare front row ticket to tonight’s show at Wembley. For the love of all that is holy, please come with us. You have to get back together with Cole.

Ravi D: Don’t listen to the haters! Love is love. You two belong together!

A message from Tarneesha flashed up on the screen: “Robbie from Leeds is on line one.” Tap . My microphone was on. I back-announced the song and hit the button that put line one live to air.

“Robbie from Leeds has called into the show,” I said. “Robbie, what has Pop Review meant to you?” I lifted the fader to hear Robbie speak.

“Well, I’m more of an old rock and roller, me,” he said, and I recognised the voice immediately.

“Is that… Robbie Johnswagger… of Buzzsaw fame?”

I looked at my team through the glass. Tarneesha shrugged again, but Nick couldn’t hide his smirk.

“The one and the same, young lad,” Robbie said. “Long time, no speak.”

In fact, I hadn’t spoken to Robbie since that fateful day by the pool on Make Me a Pop Star when I was swapped out for Taylor Knight.

“I wanted to wish you all the best for your final show and thank you for your contribution to the music industry,” he said. “It might not have been the role you thought you’d play, but I want you to know we all respect the way you talk about music. You bring real intellect to the conversation, and we’ll miss you doing what you do, because you’re bloody good at it.”

My throat felt like it was trying to swallow a snooker ball. “Thank you,” I squeaked out. “That means a lot, coming from a legend of the industry.”

“I do think you’ve been a bloody bellend about Cole, though, to be blunt.”

Sideswiped at a thousand miles an hour. My whiplash had whiplash.

“If he was good enough to be considered marriage material twelve years ago, he’s certainly good enough to be marriage material now. Helen Keller could see you two love each other and belong together, and she’s been dead for sixty years. Pull your bloody finger out.”

I couldn’t form words. I flailed about, trying to find something to say.

“You do love him, don’t you, Toby?” Robbie asked.

I nodded until my vocal cords caught up with my head.

“Yes, of course,” I said defensively. “I think I’ve probably loved him since the day we met.”

“There we go, doesn’t that feel better?”

It did.

“So, why aren’t you together? Everyone thinks you belong together. I do. His family does. He does. The listeners of Pop Review obviously do.”

I sighed. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Everyone has an opinion. It doesn’t matter that I will probably love him until the day I die. When the public has no idea about us, things are great, but the second they know we exist, they have opinions—sometimes they express those opinions by smashing windows, spraying nasty things on walls, and trying to burn down a salon. I can only take so much. One way or another, the opinions of other people have kept us apart for twelve years. And, I’m gonna say it like it is, you were a part of that.”

“Not me,” Robbie said.

“You were part of Make Me a Pop Star. ”

“And I have to hold my hands up to that and own it. That show has caused a lot of people a lot of pain, and I was a part of that. But it was also me who pulled Cole aside and told him to take care of what you two had. I thought he’d regret it if he lost it. I could see what was coming. I knew what the producers were doing. I should have done more to protect you both, and I’m sorry. I’ve only ever wanted what’s best for Cole. And aside from his music career, Cole has only ever wanted you. If anyone should know that, it’s me—because he and I have been through some shit together.”

Tears were streaming down my face. I looked through the glass to the production booth, where Tarneesha was also in tears and Nick was in whatever is Scottish for tears.

“Do you think I should call him?” I asked. Nick mouthed the words “thank you” and theatrically bowed. Neesh was nodding like a plastic dog on the dashboard of a Ford Fiesta.

Robbie laughed. “Call him? It’s a bit late for that.”

It was a punch to the gut.

“You need to show him. Do something to make sure Cole sees how you really feel about him.”

The chatline was whizzing so fast it risked melting the screen. I hit pause to stop it refreshing.

Bernard V: Rock and roll Santa delivering real talk.

“What should I do?”

“That’s up to you,” Robbie said. “Cole wrote you a love song. Go write him a love story. Give it a happily ever after. He’s a good kid. You boys deserve forever.”

* * *

The post-show plan had been to join the gang at Miss Timmy’s for a celebratory dinner in Soho, but as we waited for the lift with our little boxes of personal belongings, all I could think about was Robbie Johnswagger’s advice.

“You should go out the fire escape one last time,” Nick said.

I shook my head. “I’m unemployed now. I can’t afford John’s fees.”

“John’s gone,” Tarneesha said.

“What?” Nick and I said in unison.

“The council banned him from busking anywhere in the entire City of Westminster.”

“Brutal,” Nick said.

“When did that happen?” I asked.

“Like, two months ago.”

The lift chimed, and the doors opened. Nick and Tarneesha got in. I didn’t move.

“Are you coming?” Nick asked.

“I think I will take the fire escape,” I said. “For old times’ sake.”

Nick nodded. “We’ll hail a cab and meet you round the back.”

A few minutes later I burst out of the fire escape onto a wet Charing Cross Road, setting the alarm wailing and nearly slamming into a street mime dressed in a Breton striped shirt and white gloves.

“Sorry, mate!” I said, then did a double take. “John?”

John pointed an index finger to each corner of his mouth and smiled.

“I thought you weren’t allowed to busk anymore?”

John’s face transformed into a sorrowful frown, fists kneading the corners of his eyes as he pretended to cry.

“Is this because the council banned you from busking?”

John held an index finger aloft, smiled, and tapped his head, like he’d outwitted the bastards.

“Good for you, mate,” I said as the accessible taxi carrying Nick and Tarneesha pulled up beside us. I turned to climb in but was stopped by a tap on the shoulder. It was John, obviously. He mimed unzipping his mouth.

“You need to sort your life out, mate,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“Who in their right mind gives up a sweet piece of arse like Cole Kennedy? You need your head read!”

His gloved hand zipped his mouth back up—to cheers of applause from Tarneesha and Nick. The whole world genuinely did have an opinion about my business. But John was right.

“Look after yourself, babes,” I said, climbing into the taxi. As I took my seat, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found the number I needed and hit call.

“Fiona? I’ve been really, really stupid, and I need your help.”