Page 2 of Going Solo

Colchester was absolutely heaving. There hadn’t been a free car-parking space anywhere. By the time Mum and I had circled the town centre for forty minutes trying to find a spot, stopped to let Gaston (our bichon frise) have a comfort stop against the wheel of a Range Rover, and dashed the half mile back into town, we were well late for the auditions.

“I don’t understand why we couldn’t park around the back of the salon,” I moaned as we trotted along the footpath.

“Because a rough sleeper’s set up his tent in my spot and I ain’t moving him on so you can get your face on the telly, Tobias Lyngstad,” Mum said.

The day was a scorcher. Not exactly Alicante, but hot for England in July—and way too hot to be running up the high street. I was regretting falling out of an exercise habit during school exams, and I was certainly regretting wearing spray-on super skinny jeans. My thighs were on fire from the chafing, and a bead of sweat was racing down my back towards my bum crack with the single-minded determination of a teenage boy on a mission to lose his virginity. (Which, given at this time I was literally a teenage boy on a mission to lose his virginity, was something I understood, one hundred per cent. To be honest with you, I’d have settled for a light fingering from one of the school’s rugby sevens in the back of their mum’s old Hyundai. Despite my best efforts, I hadn’t even got as close as that. I was too awkward, too queer, and tooToby.) As we dashed past Costa Coffee, I caught sight of my reflection in the window. I was a mess.

“What do I look like? I spent three hours doing my hair and make-up, and it’s already ruined.”

“Stop moaning, Tobes,” Mum said, “I’ve got half the salon in me bag. We can fix it.”

By the time we finally found the queue for the auditions, the line snaked all the way out of the shopping centre and around the churchyard. Half of Essex had shown up, scrambling for their chance at fame. (The other half of Essex was already famous and probably avoiding town in case the stench of middle-class ambition triggered their PTSD.)

A woman in a plaid shirt and a fit lad in a black leather jacket and with a guitar slung over his shoulder joined the end of the queue. Mum and I slipped in behind them.

“Is this the line forMake Me a Pop Star?” Mum asked breathlessly. The woman turned to face us, her shoulder-length brown hair catching the breeze.

“I sure hope so,” she said in a thick Irish accent. She flicked a thumb towards the church. “If I get to the front and discover I’ve queued for some bastard’s funeral, I’ll be fuming.”

Mum laughed so hard she snorted. She slapped her hand over her mouth in embarrassment. The woman giggled. Gaston, upset at being left out, popped his fluffy little head out of Mum’s Hermès Birkin handbag and barked. And that’s when it happened. The lad in the leather jacket turned around. I remember it in slow motion, like he was in a hair care commercial. For the first time, I saw those sultry chestnut eyes and their soulful intensity. The lad was well fit: Dark olive skin. A strong Roman nose. Thick eyebrows. A voluminous swoopy mop of raven hair. A strand of rock star fringe that fell across his face, like he was Elvis or James Dean or pre-creepy Johnny Depp. I was mesmerised. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and upright and exuded the kind of confidence the advertising industry would have us believe can only be achieved by the right deodorant or an incontinence pad. He wasn’t just fit; he was, as we say in Essex,reem.

“And who is this?” the fittie said, crouching and offering the back of his hand to Gaston. His voice was deep and smooth and velvety. His accent wasn’t Irish, though. He sounded Suffolk born and bred. That surprised me, as I’d assumed the Irish woman was his mum.

“This is Gaston,” Mum said. The dog sniffed for a moment, then, rather regally, granted the boy in the leather jacket an audience.

“Hey, Gaston, I’m Cole,” he said. “And this is my mum, Orla.”

That answered that. Cole and Orla patted Gaston while Mum introduced us both, not passing up an opportunity to clarify she wastheChloe of Chloe’s Hair and Beauty on the high street.

Cole’s eyes drifted in my direction, taking in my super skinny jeans and sending me into a micro-panic that the sweat was showing through the fabric of my T-shirt. I shifted my weight so my thighs were side-on, which was angle enough to hide any lower-back sweat while letting him clock the goods round the back. I was sixteen and horny and I’d never been kissed, so if he wanted to look, I’d go full peacock. I was one flirty wink away from flipping my top up behind my head and shimmying my tail feathers. As he stood up straight, Cole’s eyes locked on to mine. One corner of his mouth turned up slightly, and my heart fluttered. Within months that smirk would grace everything from magazine covers and T-shirts to billboards and bed linen. But in that moment, that unconsciously sexy half smile wasn’t for the cameras, it wasn’t for millions of screaming fans, it was for me—awkward, queer, uncomfortable-in-his-skin Toby Lyngstad. It stirred something in my loins that neither my brain nor my jeans had the capacity to handle.

“Lovely to meet you, Toby,” Cole said. The sound of my name rolling off his tongue vibrated through my groin, and I nearly pissed my knickers right there on the footpath outside the Trinity Church. A charge of heat surged through my body as Cole’s hand slipped around mine. The tips of his fingers were hard—calloused, I guessed, from hours of guitar practice—but his hand was soft and his grip firm. The way he looked me up and down was well intimate. It was like he was undressing me. Sweat burst from my palm. It couldn’t have been more obvious I was into him if I’d slipped him a fistful of lube and a note with my opening hours.

“You too,” I said. The words squeaked out of me like my voice was still breaking. I coughed to clear my throat. Cole smirked again and let go of my hand. I was still lost in the deep mahogany pools of his eyes and noticed how they sparkled with flecks of amber.

Mum nudged me with her elbow. “Orla asked you a question, Tobes.”

I felt like I was emerging from a general anaesthetic. How long had I been under?

“Huh?”

“Orla asked what song you’re singing for your audition,” Mum said, voice slightly impatient.

“‘Firework,’” I said, suddenly superembarrassed by my song choice. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the song. But with his leather jacket and his guitar, I was willing to bet Cole’s song choice would be something much cooler than Katy Perry.

“Toby lovesMake Me a Pop Star,” Mum said. “He’s never missed an episode. We’ve been up to London every year to be in the audience for the live shows. He knows everything there is to know about the show. I told him he should start a YouTube channel or a podcast or something. He’s so smart, he’s like the Stephen Fry of pop stars.”

“Mum!” I felt sweat prickling on my face, my hands, my back. My pores were opening like fire hydrants.

“Cole’s doing ‘Hallelujah,’” Orla said, and I was sucking air through my teeth before I could stop myself. Cole frowned. “The Jeff Buckley song,” she added.

“Leonard Cohen, actually,” Cole said. His eyes seemed to question me, as if this bit of information might allay my fears.

“It’ll always be Jeff Buckley to our generation, ain’t that right?” Mum said, nudging Orla with her elbow.

“What’s wrong with the song?” Cole asked, serious.

“Everything,” I said. “If you go in there and sing Leonard Cohen, Felicity Quant is going to stop you before you’re two bars in, and she’s going to ask you to sing something else.”

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