Page 97 of Going Solo

“You OK, pal?”

I wasn’t. My whole life felt like it was unravelling. Since that moment in the car park under the hotel in Manchester, this had been inevitable. If you keep pulling at the thread that’s keeping everything together, what do you expect? I held my phone up to the glass, showing Nick theBulletinarticle and the carousel of images of me making out with a shirtless Cole, in the glorious morning sunshine, not three hours earlier. Nick’s voice came through the studio speaker. “Well, that was a bit careless, you walloper. How’d you let them get that?”

“Helpful, thanks,” I said, pressing the button to speak to the booth. “It’s meant to be a private forest behind Cole’s house, but someone must have let them in. Apparently, there’s no honour among the mega rich.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “What’s this country coming to when you can’t even trust hedge fund managers, commercial barristers, and the chinless fuckers who hide their intergenerational wealth from His Majesty’s Revenue and Customs inside dodgy family trusts not to sell you out to the paparazzi?”

“Is this really the time for a lecture on this country’s gross inequality, Nick?”

But he had a point. Someone had let the photographers in—and I realised the chance of Felicity knowing someone who lived in Cole’s enclave was, let’s be real, incredibly high. With the first instalment ofDirty Little Secretin that morning’sBulletin, interest in Cole was fever-pitched. We’d been reckless. Stupid. And we were paying the price.

Tarneesha hit the button to speak to me. “Track’s ending, Tobes. Fifteen seconds.”

We limped through the show, neglecting the phones and filling the airtime with music and pre-recorded interviews. The chatline screen spun like a dentist’s drill the whole four hours. When the on-air light finally plunged into darkness for the last time at the end of the show, Tarneesha made a dash for the exit, claiming she had to help her mum with a church thing. Nick’s voice came through my headphones.

“Miss Timmy’s?”

I shook my head. “Can’t risk it.”

“Of course you can, you dafty. We’ve refined our escape plan now. You’re not going home with a face like a slapped arse. Come on, you’re coming out with the boys.”

I wavered. I was lugging a suitcase of dirty clothes around with me. Who knew what the press would make of that?Cole turfs Toby out into the street!OrToby dumps cocaine Cole!But to be honest, a drink and a laugh was exactly the distraction I needed. The risk, though…

My phone pinged.

Tarneesha:Bedlam out the front. At least a dozen photogs. xx

I pressed the button to speak to Nick. “Haven’t got any cash on you, have you babes?”

“What for?”

“In case I need to bribe John again.”

Twenty minutes later, I burst through the station’s back door onto Charing Cross Road—the fire alarm wailing into life—dashed past our resident busker, and flung my suitcase in the back of the waiting accessible taxi.

I lobbed a crumpled twenty into John’s open guitar case. “That’s to keep shtum, OK? Maybe spend it on the Bob Dylan songbook? Expand your repertoire with a second song.”

John looked at the note, then back to me. “The price has gone up for keeping shtum.”

“Jesus.” I’d done this to myself. Why did I have to be a smart-arse? I flicked my gaze up to the street corner to check for paps and frantically fished another crumpled twenty out of my pocket. “That’s all I’ve got, OK? Do me a solid, will you?”

John pointed up Charing Cross Road. “There’s a cashpoint up by?—”

But my time had run out. I leapt into the idling cab, where Nick was already waiting for me. As the taxi drove off, a disorganised gaggle of photographers came screaming around the corner of the building. I ducked my head down as the cab rumbled past them and off up the street.

* * *

I pushed against the door for Miss Timmy’s and let Nick enter first. As I stepped in behind him, dragging my suitcase, the whole venue went quiet. At the far end of the restaurant, Sandy Crotch appeared from behind two green velvet curtains and made a beeline towards us.

“That’d be right,” she called out across the room, loud enough for everyone to hear. “When I want a bit of hush to sing Barbra Streisand, I can’t shut you fuckers up. But the minute someone a bit famous walks through the door, suddenly I can’t get a peep out of you. You’re sat there like stunned mullets, drooling into your foreskins like my grandad in his final week at the hospice.”

“Married him yet, Toby?” someone called out.

Sandy clapped her hands together, pointed at the lad, and stared him down. “One more word out of you, Jeremy Arkwright, and you’ll be drinking that salad through a fucking straw down Saint Thomas’ A&E. Are we clear?”

The colour drained from Jeremy Arkwright’s face faster than a British water company can drain sewage into a river.

“This is a safe space for everyone in our community,” Sandy told the room. “Unless you fuck me off. In which case you’ll learn precisely how unsafe this community space can become, because these fists have seen more action than Jeremy Arkwright’s internet-famous arsehole. And I’m fast. I could be pounding you before you even realise I’ve moved. So, don’t try me.”

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