Page 26 of Going Solo

ChapterEleven

That weekend, theMake Me a Pop Startheme burst from the speakers of the huge ninety-inch TV on our living room wall. It was the Colchester audition episode, and my heart was pounding with excitement, fear, and dread. My face would be on the TV for the next month, as the pre-recorded audition and group stage episodes went out. I should have been on cloud nine. I wasn’t.

The house was overflowing with relatives, family friends, and assorted hangers-on. I’d been crying most of the day, hiding in my room. Aunty Cheryl had arrived late, wearing a silk neck scarf to hide her hickeys and pulling one of those shopping baskets you see old ladies dragging around the supermarket, stocked with gin. She looked like a Ryanair hostess who’d nicked the passengers’ duty-free. Mum plonked herself down beside me on the couch, sending bubbles swirling over the top of her champagne flute.

“Have a sniff, Tobes.” She offered me her glass. “Go on, bubby. You’ve earned it. You’re famous!”

As I knocked back a large gulp of Mum’s fizz, Dorinda Carter’s beaming face appeared on the screen.

“Here we go!” Dad said.

A dozen kids were running around our back garden, screaming, ignoring the main event. The trampoline was seeing its first use in years. It was holding together better than I was, but either of us could have randomly flung a child over the fence at any moment. Dad barked at my sister.

“Elsa, shut the patio doors.”

Elsa groaned. “Why do I have to do it?”

“You’re the closest.”

She got up with a huff.

The noise outside muffled as the latch clicked into place. The house stank of barbecued sausage fat and J’adore by Dior. Dad turned the TV volume up a couple of notches. A roar went up around the room as my face appeared on the screen in a crowd shot.

“There he is!” Mum shouted in my ear. “There’s my boy.” Random hands slapped my shoulders, my legs, the top of my head.

On the TV, Dorinda Carter walked through the crowd of audition hopefuls, asking people who they were and where they came from. Cole and I appeared on-screen again. The house erupted into screams of delight. Mum hushed everyone in time to hear Cole and me say our names and where we were from. The package moved on to a couple of girls who’d obviously been asked to do the same.

“I’m super proud of you, bubby,” Mum said.

“You remember that I didn’t get through, right?”

“You get through in this episode, bubby. Anyway, you did your best. I can’t ask for more than that. There’s always next year. Did Cole message to wish you luck?”

I shook my head. Despite Cole’s promise, it had been three days since I’d been kicked off the show, and I hadn’t heard from him once. It was the longest we hadn’t spoken since the night we started texting.

“He’s probably busy with the show, bubby.”

“Did you hear from Orla?” I asked. Mum had invited the Kennedys down to our watch party.

“They couldn’t make it. It turns out milking cows twice a day really interferes with your social life—even on the weekends.”

“Did she say anything about Cole?”

Mum frowned. “Sorry, love.”

Forty-five minutes later, Cole appeared on-screen again, strumming the opening chords to “You Got It.”

“Cheryl, this is Orla’s boy,” Mum said. “You remember. He came into the salon.”

Aunty Cheryl looked up from her phone. “Tall bloke. Boy band–issue swoopy fringe. Carries broken hearts around in his pocket. That the one?”

My phone pinged.

Aunty Cheryl:Stay strong. I love you. xxx

We watched as the song ended and the argument between Johanna Thorsdóttir and Robbie Johnswagger played out. Erik, Dad’s workmate and weekend sporting buddy, couldn’t believe his ears.

“They can’t be serious. The kid was incredible.”

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