Page 43 of Going Solo

“Oop, I see a smile,” Denzil said. “I knew you wouldn’t let everyone down.”

“But—”

“We’re sending out an embargoed press release tomorrow. You need to announce it and do your whole show about it on Saturday. You’re a champion, Tobes.”

Once again, I had lost control of my own narrative. Once again, Cole Kennedy was to blame. I was trapped.

“I want Nick as my producer.” If I was doing this, I was at least having my best friend by my side.

“The outside broadcast van isn’t modified for a wheelchair user to drive it, wouldn’t Tarneesha be a bett?—”

“Neesh can do the studio panelling back here. It’s Nick or there’s no deal.”

ChapterSeventeen

Tap. I hit the button to fire off the ads leading up to the four o’clock news. I was off-air, and exhausted. I slumped back into my chair, leaned on the desk, and put my head in my hands. The news thatPop Reviewwas “going on the road” with Cole Kennedy was irretrievably out in the world. “The genius was out of the brothel,” as Aunty Cheryl liked to say about ex-Uncle Mike. Cole’s team had supplied some specially recorded audio of Cole saying how excited he was about the whole thing, which, mercifully, meant I didn’t have to interview him. Yet. The second we were on air, the studio phone lit up faster than a group of sixth-formers with a packet of newly nicked fags. I knew it would. Tarneesha had done a good job of weeding out any caller who even smelt like they might mention “marriage material,” let alone indulge in the ludicrous fantasy that Cole Kennedy and I might become a thing.Pop Review’s fans weren’t as obsessed as the diehard Kenneddicts, but they did seem to care about me. As the ads played out towards the news at the top of the hour, I heard Nick’s voice in my headphones.

“You OK, pal?”

I lifted my head. He was smiling hopefully at me from the news booth. I gave him a thumbs up.

“If you’re not doing anything, I’m meeting Dav and some of his pals for a drink at Miss Timmy’s after this. Do you wanna come?”

I glanced at the clock on my screen. Thirty seconds before the news theme.

“Who’s going to be there?”

“You know Sunny and Ludo.”

“Sure.”

“And I think maybe Petey Boy and Jumaane. I’m not sure. Depends whether GayHoller is in fruit today.”

“What about the big Greek guy?”

“No, Stav’s on his big Greek gap year. Come on, it’ll be fun. Sandy Crotch is performing.”

I weighed up my options. Taking the train home to Essex was now too risky. Someone might recognise me. My plan had been to take a taxi, but I’d only have spent the drive obsessively doomscrolling social media.

“Sure, I’m in,” I said. The news theme started playing, and the red light went on in the newsroom, showering Nick in ruby hues. He gave me a thumbs up. His soft Aberdonian accent informed the Great British public they were listening to Nick Ross in the PureFM newsroom.

Ten minutes later, gagging for a restorative bevvie and looking forward to some top drag banter, Nick and I took the elevator down to reception. When the doors opened, all hell broke loose.

“Oh, holy shit!” Nick said.

Beyond the glass walls of the building were dozens of reporters, photographers, and camera operators. They were shouting my name, waving their arms and notepads, cameras clicking away madly, blocking my exit to Leicester Square. I turned my back to them while Nick frantically pressed the button to close the lift doors.

“What do we do?” My heart was racing. I felt a panic attack coming on and tried to slow my breathing. This felt like Cole’s coming out all over again. I was going to have to go into total lockdown. It was everything I knew would happen when Denzil insisted on this idiotic plan. The lift doors finally closed, and the elevator started going back up. It was only buying us time. Eventually, Ihadto go through that door.

“You’re going to have to make a run for it,” Nick said.

“On foot? Are you mad?”

“Some of us would love to be on foot, Tobias.”

The elevator pinged, and the doors opened on the third floor.

“It’s a joke, Toby. You can laugh.” We stepped out into the radio station lobby.

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