Page 80 of Going Solo (The Brent Boys #2)
Chapter Forty-Five
W embley Stadium was buzzing. It did not get bigger than this—the largest venue in music in the UK. Live Aid 1985 was held here (well, sort of—in the old stadium). Adele, Taylor Swift, the Spice Girls, George Michael, and Take That had all played here. Now, the stadium was hosting the biggest pop star Britain had produced in a generation: Cole Kennedy. Ninety thousand Kenneddicts screamed their appreciation. Cole had ramped up the showmanship for his farewell gig. Not only a live orchestra sitting onstage, but a full choir—at least forty voices. The costumes were more lavish, the pyrotechnics more spectacular, the energy beyond anything I’d ever seen at a live gig. The crowd looked blissed out, high on the level of artistry Cole was delivering. And I was sitting in my seat, shitting my knickers like clinical dysentery was the colour of the season. In the seat next to me, Aunty Cheryl opened her leather jacket to reveal a smuggled hip flask.
“Dutch courage?”
I shook my head. She shrugged, opened it, and downed a swig.
Nick leaned over. “You OK, pal?”
I nodded. But I wasn’t OK. Not really. We were deep in the mellow part of the second half of the show. Cole was singing his moody, spooky rendition of Metallica’s “Nothing Else Matters.” It was nearly time. My hands were so wet with sweat I had to keep wiping them on my jeans. “The Flame” came next on the set list, but Fiona had warned me of a change-up for the final show—a two-minute gospel spectacular version of Metallica’s big hit. The choir kicked in, and the sound soared. The crowd erupted, unable to believe the musicality they were hearing—the experimentation, the raw talent it took to create this wall of sound in a football stadium, the audacity required to take Metallica to church like this. This performance was iconic. When it ended, ninety thousand people burst into rapturous applause. Cole stood centre stage, leather-booted feet together, arms outstretched, pirate sleeves billowing, face looking up to the stars, soaking in the love. He turned to blow kisses to the choir, to the orchestra, to his band. The WebFlix camera crews captured it all. When the crowd finally hushed, Cole stood at the microphone.
“This is a song about hope.” He stamped his foot, and flames burst from the stage and spiralled up into the sky.
A voice came through my headset. “Whenever you’re ready, Toby.”
Cole started to sing “The Flame.”
“ You lit a fire inside me that burned like the sun. You lit the way forward. You were the one. ”
I stood, took a couple of deep breaths, and nodded to Nick, who twisted the knob on the battery pack in my back pocket. The stadium was alive with music—the orchestra, the choir, Cole’s rich, resonant voice. When he reached the chorus, I started singing the harmony.
Cole put a hand to his earpiece, confusion flashing over his face. It was enough that I knew he was hearing me, that the sound tech was feeding my audio through to him.
“ It burns and it burns and it burns ,” Cole sang. But he was distracted. He looked around madly. A spotlight landed on me from high above, like a spacecraft beaming me up. Through the bright white haze of the light, I saw Cole look up.
“Toby?”
The crowd exploded. I held my arm out towards Cole, reaching for him.
Cole pointed. He laughed. He fell to his knees. “Toby!”
The strings of the orchestra and the angelic voices of the choir soared, and Cole Kennedy burst into tears. I dashed out of my row, down the stairs, and out of the gate into the standing-room-only area—the spotlight following my every move. The Kenneddicts parted for me as I ran across the field. They were screaming my name, wishing me good luck, slapping me on the back. Cole got to his feet and started singing the second verse. He couldn’t take his eyes off me, nor I off him. His arms were outstretched towards me, tears streaming down his face as he sang. The choir took over the harmonies, and I ran faster. Behind the crush barriers, the massive imposing edifice of Mitch guarded the stage. I barely had time to notice Mitch’s cheeks were wet before he picked me up like a rag doll and deposited me on the stage. When the chorus hit, I was centre stage at Wembley Stadium, standing in front of the man of my dreams, the man I had loved since I was sixteen years old, singing to him, singing with him, singing a love song he’d written for me. And an orchestra and a choir and ninety thousand Kenneddicts joined in.
As we sang, I understood, as I’d never truly understood before, why this was a song about hope. I was so full of hope. Cole squeezed my hands as we sang. The choir and the orchestra built an earth-shaking crescendo. The sound was visceral, it felt like my body had become the music, and as the final notes played out, as our shoulders shook with grief and relief and love, Cole threw his arms around me, and the fireworks exploded around us. A stadium full of Kenneddicts went absolutely nuts. Cole buried his face in my neck, kissing me. I breathed in the familiar smell of him, the cinnamon and the citrus and the sweat. I tasted the saltiness of him on my lips and gripped him tight in my arms. It was a promise that I would never let him go again.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I love you. I love you so much. I’ve always loved you.”
“I know, baby,” Cole said. “I know. And I love you too.”
Then Cole’s lips found mine and we kissed, and the stadium erupted into chaos. Flames burst out of the stage and soared into the night sky above. And when it had all died down, I stood onstage in Cole Kennedy’s arms, and from the orchestra, a piano started to tinkle the opening bars of the Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun.”