Page 110 of Going Solo

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,reallystupid, and I need your help.”

Stars align for Kennedy’s final gig at Wembley

After two nights with the roof on, it appears Cole Kennedy’s third and final Wembley Stadium show tonight will take place under the stars.

The Flame Tour has been a global sell-out, and Kennedy has packed capacity crowds of 90,000 into all three Wembley shows, having previously sold out three London gigs at the Millennium Dome.

Though the show was billed as an “open-air spectacular,” crowds at Friday and Saturday nights’ shows missed out on some of the planned full pyrotechnics displays because rain meant the stadium’s roof was closed. While many artists prefer to keep the roof open and risk the rain, Kennedy is performing with a full live orchestra—and when a hundred members of the London Philharmonic tell you they don’t want to get their instruments wet, even a superstar like Kennedy has to listen.

It’s understood the filmmakers of the much-anticipated Cole Kennedy documentaryA Fire Inside Mewill be recording some closing sequences for the programme at tonight’s show, so if you’re one of the lucky fans who’ll be there, make a lot of noise!

ChapterForty-Five

Wembley 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.

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