Page 102 of Going Solo

“Let me know, yeah?”

“Of course.” But something inside me had curdled. Being a dirty little secret had suited me fine. Cole’s plan would turn us into public property. What was a nice thing for him would be a nightmare for me—and I felt like I had very little control over any of it. But what choice did I have? I spotted the pile of papers on the bonnet of the SUV where Fiona had left them and, in a fit of self-destructiveness, decided to do something symbolic of my helplessness. I picked up the pen and signed them.

Cole’s TV love confession: Toby is my flame!

It’s official! Britain’s bad boy prince of pop has been banging DJ Toby Lyngstad all over the U.K. for the past month.

In an interview that quickly went viral on social media, Cole Kennedy confessed his love for DJ Toby Lyngstad on a Swedish television chat show last night, and admitted he wrote “The Flame” while pining over Lyngstad during their years apart.

Asked by TV host Nils Nilsson about being caught kissing the “Pop Review” presenter, Kennedy was effusive about his love for “marriage material boy.”

“Toby is the best thing that’s happened to me in years, and I’m so happy we’ve found each other again,” he said. “We have an incredible connection. He knew me before the rest of the world did. He knows the real me. Not many people do.”

Lyngstad is of Swedish heritage, and Nilsson asked the singer if his boyfriend had taught him anything about Swedish culture.

“Not much, but I’ve tasted his meatballs,” Kennedy replied…

ChapterForty-Two

The internet had exploded. I could almost about forgive Cole for the meatballs comment. He meant it innocently enough, even though a naked mole rat trapped in a Pringles tube at the back of the pantry could have seen the jokes coming. What I couldn’t forgive him for was baring his soul about our relationship. Why had he done it? He hadn’t listened to a thing I’d said. I’d spent a week in hiding, waiting for things to cool down, and he went and threw gas on the fire. By Thursday night I was well annoyed and determined to get my life back. Before I could even consider flying to Stockholm for Cole’s gig, I needed some time in my happy place, surrounded by the people I loved and trusted. I called Mum and arranged to head into the salon in the morning for a trim, an eyebrow threading, and a facial. But when Friday morning came, I was woken by a text.

Mum:Please don’t worry bubby, but it’s best you don’t come into the salon this morning. Probably a good idea to stay off your socials and the news sites, too. Have a safe trip and give all our love to your grandparents if you get to see them. Xxx

As far as messages designed to not invoke panic go, that was right up there with “I don’t mean to alarm you, Captain Smith, but Ithinkthat was an iceberg.” And, like theTitanic, I had a terrible sinking feeling. I tried to call Mum immediately, but she didn’t answer. So, I did the thing she had expressly told me not to do and checked social media. That’s when I saw it: a photo of Chloe’s Hair and Beauty in the Colchester high street—or what was left of it. Someone had smashed the windows, trashed the inside, and tried to burn it down. Spray-painted across the wall in big red letters were the wordsUR 2 UGLY 4 COLE!!!

My heart broke. I burst into tears. This wasn’t simple wanton vandalism, this was a deliberate desecration. It was a hate crime, and it was directed at me, but it was my family who were paying the price. Shock took hold of my body. I began to shake. I grabbed Nick’s keys, got straight in the car, and—after ten frustrating minutes pissing about trying to work out the hand controls—drove towards Essex.

* * *

An ambulance was driving away as I pulled up to the salon. There was glass everywhere. The press had long since beaten me there and were waiting—the whirring and snapping of digital cameras announcing my arrival. Mum flung open the salon door and ushered me in.

“I told you not to come, bubby.”

“The ambulance. Is everyone OK?”

“The photographers were getting a bit up in your Aunty Cheryl’s face, so she took a swing at one of them.”

“Oh my God.”

“With a bottle of rosé.”

“Wait, she had wine?”

“Only she missed him, went tits up, and landed flat on her arse on all that broken glass.”

“Is she OK?”

“She was flirting with the paramedic, so I think she’ll be fine. But they’ll be pulling bits of window out of her bum for weeks, I reckon. That’s the thing about a G-string, it don’t offer you much protection in an emergency situation.”

I looked around the salon. They’d tried to set fire to the reception desk, burning piles of paperwork and foam from the chair, melting the computer screen, and scorching up the wall. The graffiti was three feet high in blood red. It was over the mirrors—which were all smashed—the brickwork, the art. Products and glass were strewn all over the floor. All four of the sinks were smashed. The curtains to the back room had been yanked down and lay trampled on the floor.

“I’m so sorry, Mum,” I said, choking on my tears.

Mum had built this business up from nothing. She didn’t deserve this. This salon had paid for my school fees, it had trained me in my first profession, it had given me countless hours of joy and friendship. This salon was more than somewhere to get your hair or nails done: It was a home from home, a sanctuary of respite and relaxation and rejuvenation for hundreds of people in our community. It was my happy place, and someone had violated it. I stood there, surrounded by the shattered remains of the salon, unable to shake one clear, resounding thought: This had happened because of my relationship with Cole Kennedy. All the horrendous things that had happened to me since I was sixteen had happened because of Cole Kennedy. My family was suffering because of Cole Kennedy. I was miserablebecauseof Cole Kennedy.

Absolutely miserable.

And I could not see how my life would get better as long as Cole Kennedy was in it. This chaos—this circus—came with him.

---