Page 106 of Going Solo

“Sneaky bastard!” Tarneesha offered her fist, and Nick bumped it. “And the BBC was happy to wait two months?”

“Neesh, I’m a gay man in a wheelchair with a Sikh husband. The BBC would have given me David Attenborough’s pelt to wear as a raincoat if I’d asked for it.”

“You’re the best in the business,” I said. “They’re lucky to have you. And they know it.”

It was Tarneesha who got our meeting back on track.

“So, to be clear, despite this show’s deep involvement in the Flame Tour and Cole Kennedy being the biggest pop star in the world, we’renotincluding him inPop Review’s final ever show?”

“Correct,” I said.

I unlocked my phone, and the tinny sound of Cole singing “The Flame” filled the room.

“OK. Good decision,” she said.

“Super healthy,” Nick added.

I turned up the volume and felt my heart vibrate to the sounds of Cole’s voice singing our song, backed by a full orchestra. My whole body ached to hold him, though I knew I never would again.

ChapterForty-Four

Tap, tap. Our microphones were live. The last notes of the song played out.

“That’s ‘Not Pretty’ by Jocasta Rose—and Jocasta is my guest in the studio today for this final everPop Review. Jocasta, we’re nearly out of time, but before I let you go, what’s next for you?”

“Well, I’ll have a new album coming out in the summer—I can’t tell you much about that?—”

“Come on, babes, it’s my last show! Give us a little exclusive. Go on.”

“I couldn’t. I’ll get in trouble!”

“With who? Come on. Give us a treat.”

“Well, I will say my new album will have a couple of duets,” she said coyly.

I hammed up my excitement. We had forty seconds left until we hit the ad break. “Tell me who you’re singing with? Spill it! Loyal fans need to know.”

Jocasta flushed bright red. “So, I was touring the US recently, and I bumped into an old friend, and we decided to do some writing together. We locked ourselves in a hotel for a few days and listened to some great old music—you know, the Stones, Queen, even some Dolly Parton—and we chatted and wrote and made music, and, yeah, we came up with some beautiful stuff. I can’t wait to share it with the world.”

The counter on my screen showed I still had twenty seconds to fill. On the screen beside it, the chatline was refreshing so fast the words were an indecipherable blur. I had no idea what they said, but that didn’t stop me saying, “Judging by the chatline, I’d say your fans want to know who it is!”

Jocasta rolled her eyes, and through gritted teeth, she said, “It’s Cole Kennedy.”

Of course it was.

Fifteen seconds left.

“Jocasta, it’s wonderful to see you, as always. Thank you so much for being a part of our final show. And in the words of Sweden’s second-greatest export—after my dad, obviously—thank you for the music.”

“You’re so welcome, thank you so much for having me.”

Tap. Jocasta’s mic was off. “Coming up after the news, the last goodbye. Send your memories through to the chatline or give us a call. In the final hour ofPop Review, we throw open the airwaves to the most important part of the show—you.”

Tap. I fired off the ad break.Tap. My mic was off. The second the on-air light went dark, Jocasta said, “I’m so sorry! I was trying to avoid mentioning Cole, but?—”

The studio door opened, and Jocasta’s manager walked in. “Jay, we have to scoot.”

Jocasta stood. “I’m sorry. Are you OK?”

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