Page 31 of Going Solo

“When I spoke to them,” Orla continued, “I told them they had to call you and tell you that because I wasn’t going to. They should have called you by now.”

“No one’s called me.”

“I’m sorry, Toby. Look, when this is all over, we’ll have you up to the farm and you can stay for the weekend, longer if you like, as long as it doesn’t interfere with school, and you boys can hang out. We’d love to have you. It’ll only be a few months.”

“It won’t be a few months,” I said. And I knew it was true. “Cole is going to win this thing. You realise that, don’t you? By Christmas he’s going to be a big celebrity, and I’m never going to see him again.”

More silence.

“Listen, I’m going to text you his new number so you can message him,” Orla said. “Please, for the love of God, be careful with it. This opportunity means the world to Cole, and he’d never forgive either of us if he lost it because of something we did.”

I started to cry. I was thrilled I was going to be able to speak to Cole, but I also could not be the reason Cole got kicked offMake Me a Pop Star—not when it was clearly going to change his life and help him share his music with the world. I took a deep breath.

“No,” I said. “It’s OK. Tell him I miss him, and that I’m rooting for him, and that… and that… you know. He knows. I just… miss him.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I hung up the phone and crumpled onto the salon front counter for all the world to see. Ugly tears streamed down my face, staining my clothes. My phone pinged.

Orla:In case you change your mind x

She’d sent me Cole’s new number. I felt like I was choking. I needed air. I scrambled around the counter and out the salon door. My hands on my knees, bent over in the street, I cried and cried and cried until I thought I’d be sick. I cried because it was all so unfair. I cried because I hated myself. I cried because my situation was hopeless. I cried because Orla had given me the means to blow everything up. I cried because I knew I couldn’t do it. I had enough sense to realise I could never,wouldnever, call that number. Cole’s future wasn’t mine to risk. If the situations had been reversed and he’d put my place in the competition at risk, I’d have been fuming. What I didn’t have enough brains to realise was that if you’re going to cry like your life is ending, do not do it in a public place. Not if your face is going viral all over the internet.

“Marriage material” boy’s manic meltdown over TV heartbreak

An eagle-eyedBulletin reader snapped these exclusive pictures of 16-year-old Toby Lyngstad having a full-on breakdown in the Colchester high street, days after “Make Me a Pop Star” aired the awkward moment he called Suffolk’s Cole Kennedy “marriage material.”

Lyngstad was apparently inconsolable as his mother Chloe, 39, tried to get him back inside the shop. Lyngstad collapsed to the ground, repeatedly hitting a fist into the pavement, shouting “This is bulls**t, this is bulls**t.” Another woman then emerged from the salon with a glass of what appeared to be rosé in her hand and tried to help. Lyngstad was heard to shout, “F*** off, Aunty Cheryl.”

ChapterThirteen

The editing of the group stage ofMake Me a Pop Starwas as brutal as the auditions. You know how in a nature documentary, when the killer whales are stalking the seal and it’s clear the poor bastard is done for, the whales play with him for a bit, flinging him into the air and catching him again, but then before the actual kill the editors cut away to some adorable lion cubs or something? There was none of that mercy for me. They showed the capture, the torture, and the kill in high-definition Technicolor CinemaScope and Dolby Digital surround sound. At every turn, I was shown pining after Cole like a lovesick puppy, and he was shown blanking me. In that final moment by the swimming pool, when Felicity Quant plucked Taylor from the reserves and sent me off into obscurity, the audience saw me looking longingly over at Cole with my bottom lip quivering, and Cole looking directly forwards with all the emotion of an Easter Island statue. It was total and utter humiliation. The next morning, someone had sprayed the wordsSAD FAGacross the front of the salon. We filed a police report. Aunty Cheryl cleaned it off herself. The next day it was back. The council’s CCTV showed two teenage girls were responsible. It was the first warning of how obsessed and how evil Cole’s fandom would become. No one was ever caught or charged. Mum put up new security cameras around the salon and the house. I deleted all my social media accounts. I dreaded the show going to air. Each week, the memes and the jokes and the calls from the newspapers and the “funny” FM radio breakfast hosts got worse. My only consolation was the occasional titbit from Orla, via Mum, saying Cole was doing well.

If I’d thought my summer holidays had been a nightmare, returning to college was an unimaginable horror show. A first-year I’d never even seen before pointed and shouted down the corridor, “Hey, Toby, am I marriage material?” Everyone laughed. When I ignored him, he shouted, “What’s the matter, am I not good enough for you?” Then his chinless mate chimed in with “I’d marry you, Toby… if you weren’t so pathetic.” A couple of girls walked into my media studies class side by side, humming the bridal march and pretending to carry bouquets. Then, while waiting for Mr Bourgault to turn up for our music tech class, Tamillah Fayet, who I’d always got along with, yelled across the room, “Hey, Toby, is it true even your dildo has now turned you down?” Everyone was in fits. This room had always been my safe space in the school.

“I hear you like your sex like Cole Kennedy likes his knock-backs,” Tamillah continued, “rough and public.”

The whole class descended into uncontrollable laughter. My fight or flight response was speeding down the runway in sensible shoes, shouting,Cabin crew, please arm doors and cross-check.I started to shake uncontrollably. My chest tightened. I couldn’t breathe. The fear was total. I grabbed my bag and dashed out of the room. I ran, gasping for air, until I was well clear of the school, then slowed to a walk, sat in a bus stop about a mile from home, and cried until the district qualified for flood relief. Two, maybe three, buses went past. The next bus that rolled in had an ad forMake Me a Pop Staron the side. Cole Kennedy’s dark, chiselled face stared back at me from a group photo with Chase and the boys. It stretched the whole length of the bus.

“You getting on, bruv?” the driver asked.

I shook my head. “Thanks. I’ll walk.”

The driver shrugged, the door closed, and the bus drove off. Another image of the boys was on the back of the bus, with theMake Me a Pop Starglitter ball logo and “7.30pm every Saturday and Sunday.” As Cole’s face disappeared into the distance, it felt like Cole himself was getting further and further away from me. If it hadn’t been for the relentless taunting and misery I was enduring, the whole thing could have been a dream. I felt empty, lonely, shattered. Cole was slipping away from me, and I wanted him back. I couldn’t lose him. I had to fight for him—fight like that poor bloody seal—or die trying.

I got out my phone and dialled the number Orla had given me.

“Hello?” It was one word, but it was unmistakably Cole’s smooth, sexy voice.

I couldn’t speak. Every word I needed to say got caught in my throat, unable to reach my tongue.

“It’s Toby.”

“Oh my God!” Cole changed his voice to a whisper. “It’s so good to hear from you. I’ve missed yousomuch.”

Tears burst from my eyes. If my face stayed wet any longer, my eyelashes would turn into peat.

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