Page 9 of Going Solo (The Brent Boys #2)

Chapter Six

O n the Tuesday afternoon after the audition, as my summer vacation got off to an early start, I was helping out at the salon. I was sat at the reception counter, bored out of my mind, amusing myself by watching to see what a little kid in the street did with the enormous booger he’d just picked out of his nose, when my phone pinged.

Cole: Hey, can I run my song choices for London by you?

Heat flushed through my body, and I jumped up to open the salon door and let the breeze in. The little kid looked up at me, spooked by the sudden movement. The booger was gone, the offending finger now firmly gripped in his mother’s hand. Parenthood was not for me. Cole and I had swapped numbers after the auditions, but I hadn’t expected to hear from him. I mean, I’d hoped I’d hear from him. I’d visualised it, prayed to Madonna about it, and sent two pairs of underpants to the laundry basket trying to manifest his presence in my bedroom at night. But I hadn’t expected it to work. Spending last summer sitting by the pool in Benidorm reading The Secret had really paid off. My hands were shaking so much, I could barely type.

Toby: Course babes!

“Shut the door, Toby!” Aunty Cheryl called across the salon. “I’ve spent twenty minutes gluing tiny gel penises onto Gemma’s nails for her hen do, and you’re letting dust in.”

Aunty Cheryl was nursing a three-day hangover. Along with half the other mature-aged single women in Essex, she’d spent the weekend scouring the pubs of Colchester, unsuccessfully trying to land a shag with Robbie Johnswagger—something that apparently had been on her bucket list for some time.

“Sorry, girls!”

“You’re right, babes,” Gemma called back.

As I shut the door, my phone pinged again.

Cole: Did you just call me “babes”?

Uh-oh, had I screwed this up already? I sank back into the reception chair and crafted a cautious reply.

Toby: I’m from Essex, everyone calls everyone babes. Soz do u not like it?

Cole: No, it’s cool. I liked it ;) Don’t think anyone has ever called me babes before.

Toby: Tell me ur not from Essex without telling me ur not from Essex!

Cole: Guilty as charged.

Cole said he needed my help deciding between two songs for our first London TV audition. One was by Patti Smith, who I’d sort of heard of but never listened to, and another by a band called Nirvana, who I’d heard of but only because you see the word written across T-shirts worn by the kind of guys who look and smell like a debilitating water allergy has devastated their personal hygiene routine.

Toby: Let me bring them up on Spotify. brB.

“I’m changing up the music for a minute,” I called across the salon. No one replied. Patti Smith’s “Because the Night” filled the air.

“What’s this shit, bubby?” Mum said, after a minute. “Are you trying to put me out of business?”

I explained what I was doing and—when Mum had finally finished telling the entire salon how lovely Cole was—took a straw poll of the room. Patti Smith was a unanimous no. I lined up Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” This time, the salon went wild.

“Tune!” Gemma shouted. Mum and Aunty Cheryl were singing along. Mum danced around the salon with scissors in her hand. She was an occupational health and safety nightmare, but if you tried telling her she was an accident waiting to happen, she’d stab you with them on purpose instead. I thought the Nirvana singer sounded like his voice was battling its way through a throat full of barnacles, but everyone else seemed to love it.

Toby: Totes scientific poll of salon says 2 go w Nirvana babes. I think it’s a winner.

Cole: Really?

Toby: Defs. 1. U get to play ur guitar n impress the hell out of everyone. 2. It fits ur rock vibe. The audience will go mad. 3. It’ll stand out from all the poxy ballads. 4. Ur guaranteed pts from Johnswagger, who’ll b as rigid as the Southend Pier.

Toby: And so will most of the audience, tbf .

Toby: Including me babes.

My fingers had typed and sent the final message before my brain gave consent. I had no idea how to flirt. The adrenaline dam in my body burst like it had been bombed by the Luftwaffe. What had I been thinking? My phone pinged immediately. I nearly jumped out of my skin. No words, just a devil emoji. Internally, I was screaming. My phone went off twice more.

Cole: Dad’s getting the cows in. G2G get the dairy ready.

Cole: x

I stared at that little x for the rest of the afternoon, willing it to jump out of the screen and stick its tongue down my throat. What did it mean? Whatever it was, there was only one correct response.

Toby: x.

* * *

That evening, my phone pinged again.

Cole: I never asked what you’re planning to sing. That was rude.

It was half past ten and I was lying on my bed in my jimmy jams, next to Gaston, watching Madonna: Truth or Dare and working my way through a packet of Wotsits with the diligence of a convert to the Church of Our Lady of Coronary Heart Disease.

Toby: Surefire banger!!! Robyn’s Dancing on My Own.

When my phone went off again, it wasn’t a text. It was a photo of a shirtless, damp Cole, towel tied loosely around his waist, foggy bathroom mirror behind him, and one hand raised, with his fingers giving the “rock on” horns. His tongue was sticking out. Underneath the picture was a one-word caption.

Cole: Tune!

A Wotsit fell from my mouth and onto the bed sheet. Gaston leapt on it. I stared at Cole’s stunning, lean body. The tight musculature, the brown-pink nipples, the light rash of hair on his chest, and the treasure trail of short curls that disappeared under the towel. What was happening? What had I done to deserve this? How the hell was I meant to reply? Should I tell him he was beautiful? That his body was perfection? No one had ever sent me a flirty message before, let alone a picture. Wait, this was flirting, wasn’t it? How I replied seemed super important. It had to let him know I was interested.

Toby: Ur up late. Don’t u have 2 b up early 2 milk cows or something?

What can I say? I panicked.

Cole: Not tomorrow.

Three little dots danced on my screen. I licked the Wotsit dust from my lips.

Cole: Hey, um, sorry for the unsolicited pic. That wasn’t cool. My bad.

I was such an idiot. Now he thought I wasn’t into him when, in reality, I’d have hacked his phone for that kind of content. I hit pause on Madonna, threw the bed sheet off, and put an unimpressed Gaston out into the hallway. This conversation needed my full attention. I had to get better at this.

Toby: Don’t be silly babes .

How did I fix this? Should I send Cole a picture? I didn’t have a body like his. There was no way I was taking my top off. A cute face pic? A quick look in the mirror revealed Wotsit dust everywhere and a giant spot on my left cheek. I was beginning to spiral.

Cole: Are you sure? My sister is always going on about how consent is important. I got carried away. I’m sorry.

This was spinning out of my control. Now not only did Cole think I wasn’t into him, he was worried he might be a sex pest. My heart was thumping in my chest like an angry Karen demanding to speak to the manager. I had to get this back on track.

Toby: I absolutely consent. Ur well fit babes.

Cole: Thanks, Mr! So are you. ;)

So. Are. You? I threw the phone down on the bed and jumped up and down on the spot, silently screaming. It was more than I could take. My hands started to shake, and as my brain was now completely unable to function, it let my insecurities write back.

Toby: I’m really not babes.

My phone pinged.

Cole: Sorry, do I have the wrong number? This is Toby, right?

The message was followed by a photo of Cole scratching his head—his hair still wet and unbrushed from the shower, his shoulders bare—with a confused look on his face. He was so gorgeous. This was it. This was my cue to send Cole a photo in reply. If I didn’t, I was convinced he wouldn’t send me another one, and I wanted to see where this ended up—because I was sixteen and never been kissed and no boy had ever been interested in me before. He was interested in me, right?

I ripped my top off, looked in the bedroom mirror, and pulled it straight back on. Flesh was not the solution. I spotted a tub of mud mask on my chest of drawers. Thirty seconds later I had a face like I’d sneezed into a chocolate fountain, but my gigantic zit was hidden. I sucked my tummy in, tensed my non-existent muscles, framed myself up with my mirror in the background so it caught the round of my butt, and snapped the pic. Send . Ten seconds later my phone vibrated.

Cole: Are those Strawberry Shortcake pyjama bottoms?

Balls.

* * *

I thought I’d massively blown it. Over the next few days, the messages I got from Cole were less flirty. At least, I thought so. My phone would ping and my stomach would drop out my butt and I’d check my phone to see Cole had sent me a funny meme or a cat video. There were no more shirtless photos. I’d reply with an emoji or a short message, but there wasn’t much back and forth or banter. Then, on the Saturday night, I was sitting on my bed watching old Sonny & Cher Show clips on YouTube when a video call came through. It was Cole. I hadn’t jumped out of my skin like that since Aunty Cheryl quit experimenting with black market chemical peel treatments.

“There he is,” Cole said, a broad grin lighting up his face. He was lying back on what I guessed was his bed, shirtless, propped up against the bedhead with pillows.

“Hi,” I said. “This is a surprise.”

“A good one, I hope?”

“Of course.” I’m sure I blushed because my face felt exactly like it did about thirty seconds after Aunty Cheryl applied the black market chemical peel.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?”

“Literally, I’m watching Dolly Parton and Cher on YouTube. From, like, the seventies.”

Cole didn’t even bat an eyelid.

“Icons,” he said. “Dolly’s an amazing songwriter. Have you ever listened to ‘Jolene’?”

“Duh, does the pope shit in the woods?”

“Like, it’s unmistakably a country song but, I’m telling you, if you isolated the bass and the drums?—”

I couldn’t even wait for Cole to finish. “It’s a funk beat! I know!”

“It could absolutely be a funk song,” Cole said. “I’d like to try that someday.”

Before I knew it, three hours had flown by. Cole and I spent the whole time chatting about music, dissecting songs we liked, trashing the ones we didn’t, defending our favourites where the other disagreed. I’d never met anyone I could talk to about music like this before—someone who understood music and loved it the way I did, even if our tastes were different. I was already imagining our perfect life together as fabulous, famous pop stars and gay icons.

There was a knock on Cole’s bedroom door, and he startled. I heard the door open.

“Lights out, kiddo,” a man’s voice said. “You’re on for milking in the morning. Get some sleep.”

“Ten more minutes, Dad. Please?”

“Now! Whoever she is, you can talk to her tomorrow. Sleep.”

Pardon?

Cole was plunged into darkness, his face lit only by his phone screen. I guessed his dad had turned off the big light. I heard the click of his bedroom door close.

“Are you not out?” I said. “Or are you… straight?” This particular horror had never even occurred to me until this moment.

“I’m not out to my dad yet,” Cole confessed. “Not yet. Mum and Fiona know. And Tully. I only came out to them a few months ago. I’m… still finding my way, you know? Mum wanted me to be sure before I told him.”

“Sure about what?”

“Sure I’m gay.”

“You’re not sure?”

“I might be bi, maybe? I don’t know.” Cole grimaced. “Does… it make a difference?”

“To what?”

“To you.”

“Why would it make a difference to me?”

“Dunno. I’m new to all this. I’m not sure how it all works.”

“Me neither, babes, and I’ve been out since I was thirteen.”

Cole’s eyes widened. “That’s amazing. And your family were cool with it?”

I nodded. “Mum reckoned she’d known for years. Said she’d had her suspicions when aged five I asked if she would help me blow wave my Barbie’s hair. But it was demanding an ABBA-themed ninth birthday party that finally clinched it. She said no child was that Swedish, and I’m only half Swedish. Dad was cool with it. Barely looked up from his golf putter. Aunty Cheryl was thrilled and immediately started listing off the gay bars she wanted to sneak me into.”

Cole laughed. “I’m in awe.”

“Of Aunty Cheryl?”

“Of you. Your confidence. You are who you are. I love that about you. I wish I could?—”

There was a loud bang on Cole’s bedroom door, followed by the boom of his dad’s voice. “Sleep!”

“I have to go,” Cole mouthed silently. “Talk tomorrow?” I nodded, and we quietly said goodnight.

* * *

We spoke again the next night, and the night after that, until it had become our routine. We’d text during the day, while I was working at the salon. Then, after dinner, I’d bound upstairs to my room, check my hair, apply a little lip gloss, and wait for Cole to call. We’d chat for hours, until it was time for sleep, learning each other’s innermost thoughts and secrets, all the while wishing we lived close enough to hang out in person. I was feeling more and more confident that this was a thing . The instant crush I’d had was developing into something much deeper. We told each other everything. One evening, as I was telling all my business, I confessed to Cole how desperately I wanted to be famous.

“When you’re famous, you can leverage it,” I said. “There’s always a way to make money, always a product to endorse, always a guest list to get your name on, you know? We have some celeb clients at the salon. Do you know Priti from Dress for Successex ? She says if you treat your fame like a business, you’ll never be poor.”

“Is that what this is about for you?” Cole asked.

“Of course, babes. Isn’t it why we’re all there? Don’t you want to be famous?”

Cole didn’t answer right away. “I just want to make good music, you know?”

“But you’re already making good music. What you want is for a bigger audience to hear it.”

“True, I guess.”

“Exactly, babes, it’s a platform. The show is how we get from where we are today to where we want to be tomorrow.”

There was another thoughtful silence from the other end of the phone. Cole was a deep thinker. I waited for him to speak.

“Right now, I want to be where you are,” he said, and all my limbs tingled. “I want to see you. For real. Not on camera.”

“The London auditions are still two weeks away.”

“I don’t want to wait two weeks,” he said.

I’d forgotten to breathe by this point. If a paramedic had checked my vital signs, they’d have pronounced me dead at the scene and would’ve been calling my next of kin. “I can’t wait two weeks either.”

“So, I had an idea,” Cole said. “Mum and Fiona have appointments booked at your salon this Saturday.”

“Do they?” Who’d put that in the diary? Mum must have taken the booking from Orla directly.

“Mum’s taking Fiona in to get her hair coloured for her birthday. It’s a girls’ day out. I was thinking… I could come down with them.”

“For a girls’ day out?”

“Keep up, babes . While they’re having a girls’ day out, maybe we could… hang out. You know. In person.”

My squeal of delight was so high-pitched, it rerouted migratory birds and interfered with aircraft landing at Stansted Airport. Saturday was only four days away. I was going to need a top-up spray tan in the morning.

* * *

The next night our conversation got deep and meaningful. When it was too late to talk without Cole getting in trouble, we switched to text messages.

Toby: What’s ur biggest secret?

Cole: You know I’m only out to a few people.

Toby: Not that. There must b sumthing else. U tell me urs & i’ll tell u mine!

Three dots appeared in the chat, then disappeared again.

Toby: I’m serious. Cum on, u can trust me. i trust u!

The three dots returned, bouncing up and down on the screen. It took a while for Cole’s reply to come through. I could imagine him lying back in his bed, shirt off, tongue poking deep into his cheek.

Cole: People think I’m this super confident guy but in reality I feel like a lost little boy .

That took me by surprise.

Cole: I’ve always been the kid of slightly the wrong colour. Now I’m the wrong sexuality, too. I can’t shake the feeling I’m living in the wrong country, maybe growing up in the wrong religion, and certainly in the wrong culture. I’m forever grateful for the life Mum and Dad have given me but I can’t escape the thought I don’t belong here. That I might have another family out there. I don’t know who I am. And they might not even know I exist.

I swallowed, unsure how to reply. I had been expecting him to say “sometimes I take a piss in the garden” or “I like to jerk off in the barn.”

Toby: Thats so sad, babes. Im sorry. So u no, n this is me bein honest with u, I think ur amazing as u r.

Cole: Thanks Mr. I just feel like I need to know more about where I come from. A few years ago I asked mum about my birth parents but she didn’t know much. Apparently, the agency they fostered me through didn’t have any information about my father at all. It seemed to upset her so I never asked again. So, here I am. A lost little Cole.

Toby: Wld u ever try 2 find ur birth parents?

Cole: Nah. It’d kill mum and dad. I don’t want them to think they’re not enough. I’d hate that. They’re the best.

I started to type something reassuring, but Cole messaged again, clearly ready to change the subject.

Cole: Anyway, what’s YOUR big secret?

Toby: Was gonna say I piss in the garden sumtimes but i’ll have 2 cum up w sumthing else now.

Cole: Everyone does that. Come on. You can do better.

I could. I had no shortage of shortcomings to share.

Toby: Just gonna say it as is. I hate the way i look. Face is 2 chubby. Skin is see-thru. Teeth are crooked. Hate everything abt the reflection in the mirror. When i walk up the street, i worry ppl r laughing at me. Any ‘confidence’ you see is a lie.

It took a minute before three little dots began to ripple across my screen.

Cole: You’re beautiful exactly as you are.

Cole: And your face is NOT chubby.

Cole: And your arse is deliciously round and I can’t stop thinking about it. That’s probably what people are noticing when you walk up the street.

I cringed. I’d spent so long wanting a boy to see me the way Cole said he saw me. But in a couple of days Cole would be standing in front of the real me, in person, instead of staring at an image of me on a screen. And for all we’d been friendly and flirty and even occasionally quite a bit sexty on the phone, there was no guarantee that chemistry would translate when we were stood in front of each other. Our online banter was comfortable, familiar. In person was a new ball game altogether. What if he saw me and realised I was disgusting?

Cole: And I KNOW you don’t believe me, Toby, but when I see you on Saturday, I’ll prove it to you. I won’t leave a single doubt in your pretty little head. :P xxx

Cole: PS. I have a surprise for you when I see you!