Page 27 of Going Solo

“Shu’up babes, I wanna hear this,” his wife, Delice, said.

Next, Felicity Quant asked Cole about Suffolk and their mutual haunts.

“Is old FQflirtingwith a teenage boy?” Dad said. I felt bile in the back of my throat.

Felicity asked Cole about his heritage, and he explained that he was adopted and didn’t know where his birth father was from.

“Oh, that’s well sad,” Delice said. “He should do one of them NDA tests and find his real family.”

“It’s DNA, you melt,” Erik said.

“All right, Albert Epstein. Do y’ mind, I’m trying to watch this.”

Cole walked offstage to a roar of applause from the crowd, and the camera cut to Dorinda slapping me on the back and wishing me luck. The living room erupted into squeals. Dad and Erik shouted “Come on” in the same way they did when they were flogging each other on the tennis court. The shaky first notes of “Firework” quivered their way past my vocal cords. I sounded like a cat trying to claw its way out of a set of bagpipes. I felt everyone in the room wince and knew they were already trying to work out what consolatory things to say. I sank into the sofa. But, on-screen, I warmed up—and soon I was belting out the chorus and dominating the stage. Mum’s hand gripped my knee, and I couldn’t tell whether the wet patch forming was her sweat or mine. The song ended, and the room erupted into cheers and cries of “well done” and “congratulations.” In the relief, I cried.

“Shush, it’s the judges’ comments,” Mum said. I closed my eyes, not wanting to watch as the inevitable played out. When Felicity Quant finally said yes, the room went wild. I opened my eyes to see myself crying on the screen. I bowed. I clasped my hands in front of my chest and minced offstage into the waiting arms of Mum and Dorinda Carter. Then they showed the moment where I spotted Cole and threw my arms around him. Cole looked… shocked. Which was not how I remembered that moment. They cut to an interview with us, filmed earlier that day. Dorinda asked Cole about us forging a friendship in the queue, about his song choice, and about the Hallelujah Curse. Then the microphone moved to me, and Dorinda asked why I’d helped Cole. And that’s when it happened. That’s the moment my life changed forever. That’s when I opened my stupid mouth and said, “Why wouldn’t I? He’s marriage material!”

Everyone in the living room cringed.

Worse, on the TV, Cole cringed.

The sound of a record scratch blasted from the television speaker. The footage rewound. The microphone reappeared under my chin. Dorinda asked her question again. I said, “Why wouldn’t I? He’s marriage material!” again. And the camera punched in on Cole’s reaction. They froze the frame on him, his eyes bulging. Closer.Closer.CLOSER.I watched in horror as, in slow motion, Cole unwound his arm from around my shoulder.

Finally, Dorinda went on with her interview. “What do you say to that, Cole?”

“Yeah, um, that’s… a bit intense,” he replied.

“Not keen on marriage?”

“Someday, sure,” Cole said. “When I meet the right person. And maybe when I’ve known them more than, like, four hours.”

Another record scratch. Rewind. The editors had enjoyed themselves.

“Maybe when I’ve known them more than, like, four hours!”

The camera focused on me, and the image on screen burst into flames, and my face melted away. The show cut to an ad break. My utter humiliation was complete. Hot tears scalded their way down my cheeks.

The room fell into silence.

“What were you thinking, mate?” Dad said.

Mum enveloped me in a hug. “Oh, Tobes.”

My sister chimed in triumphantly. “Oh my God, social media isnotbeing kind.”

“Already?” Mum said.

Elsa burst into laughter and held up her phone for everyone to see. “You’re already a meme! How are people so fast?”

I ran up the stairs to my bedroom, slammed the door behind me, and threw myself onto the bed—screaming into my pillow, drenching it with tears. My phone was pinging with text messages. I switched it off.

A few minutes later, there was a light tap on my door.

“Tobes?”

“Go away!”

I heard the door click open and close again, smelt the telltale cloud of J’adore, and felt Aunty Cheryl sit on the edge of the bed.

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