Page 41 of Going Solo

“The pop star has also announced a worldwide tour, the Flame Tour, kicking off with a string of small UK shows in summer before heading to Europe, the US, and Asia, then coming home to close the tour with three big shows at Wembley Stadium in spring. Tickets go on sale on Monday.

“Kennedy has also signed a deal with WebFlix, giving the streaming service exclusive behind-the-scenes access to the tour, for a new documentary about the pop star set for release next year.”

The chatline was refreshing so fast I thought the screen might melt. Yet anotherPop Reviewhad been derailed. Why did Cole always announce things while I was on air? It’s like it was deliberate. I looked at my screen. Tarneesha had already dropped “Reborn” into the running order. As soon as I hit that button, straight after the news, I’d be playing Cole’s new song. I wanted to scream.

* * *

Three days later I was at work pre-recording some promos for the next weekend’sPop Reviewwhen I was summoned by my boss. I made the grim trek along the threadbare carpet of the radio station’s only corridor and knocked on Denzil’s door. He was sitting behind his desk, reclined in a cheap Argos office chair that was definitely too rickety to hold his weight, with his feet up on the filing cabinet. The room smelt of Creed Aventus and Lucozade. His face was buried in a stapled bundle of A4 paper. Which surprised me, because who prints things anymore?

“You wanted to see me, babes?”

“Tobes, just the man!” Denzil swung his feet under his desk. “Come in, sit down.”

I plonked myself on the chair opposite him. Denzil put the paper on the desk and took his glasses off. That always unnerved me. Without his Coke-bottle glasses, Denzil was a dead ringer for Stormzy, and it wasn’t natural for your boss to make your knickers wet like that. He was well aware of the effect he had. There was a pause, heavy with the weight of expectation, and for a moment I thought he was going to sack me.

“Cole Kennedy,” Denzil said.

My mouth went dry. This was worse than sacking. “What about him?”

“You’re going on tour with him.”

I stood bolt upright. It was a reflex action from the adrenaline hitting the bloodstream faster than the hit of poppers that got Aunty Cheryl kicked out of a Soho pub for making out with a hatstand.

“I most certainly am not.”

Denzil threw the pile of papers over to me. They landed in a jumble against my stomach. “He’s paying a lot of money to make sure you do.”

“What are you talking about?” I found the staple and flicked the papers over.

“I’m talking about one million quid, baby!” Denzil shook his hand in a gesture I imagined was South London for making coin. “British. Pound. Sterling. Bruv.”

“What?”

“It’s all there in black and white.” He pointed to the papers. “Cole Kennedy is paying us one million pounds forPop Reviewto broadcast live from every night of the UK leg of his first solo tour.”

I flicked through the paperwork, eyes scanning the words with growing horror. Itwasall there in black and white. Nightmare. This was Denzil’s worst idea since he turned up to a Soho pub with a bottle of poppers.

“I can’t have this,” I said.

“You can. I’ve done it.”

“No, you literally can’t do this to me. It’s in my contract. A contract you signed when I joined PureFM. I do not have to interview Cole Kennedy or any member of the Go Tos. If you want things in black and white, go look atmycontract.”

Denzil waved a hand at the chair behind me. “Sit down.”

I sat. Heavily. The seat was hard, and it jarred right up the bit where only the best spray tans reach, but I managed not to wince.

“Do you like your job?” Denzil said.

“If you’re threatening to fire me?—”

He held his palms up towards me. “Whoa, calm down, Cardi B.” He stood, his chino’ed groin now at my head height. He was so incredibly, dreamily tall. He walked around me to close the door, then perched himself on the edge of the desk, his knees inches from me, his crotch close enough to use as a microphone. He picked up the remote control from his desk and pointed it at the small TV in the corner.

“I’d like you to watch something,” he said, pressing play. On the screen was a scene I instantly recognised—me, leaving the PureFM studios, through a clamouring scrum of reporters, photographers, and cameramen. It was filmed three months ago, on the day Cole Kennedy announced he was going solo.

“Any thoughts on your ex leaving the Go Tos?” a reporter shouted, microphone in my face.

I said nothing.

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