Page 4 of Going Solo

The silence had gone on for too long.

“Isn’t it warm in that?” I pointed at his leather jacket, hoping he’d agree and take it off. He was only wearing a tiny vest underneath. The scooped neckline showed the valley of lean muscle that divided his chest, with its olive skin and light smattering of clipped dark hair. It was almost too much to bear, but obviously, I wanted to see more.

“It’s my look,” Cole said. “For the audition.”

I nodded, disappointed. “Fashion is pain, right? To be honest, these skinny jeans chafe around my thighs something shocking, but it’s the classic look, innit?”

“So, you’re planning to keep them on, then?” Cole winked, and my heart burst out of my chest and punched him in the face. “Fair enough. It’s a good look on you.”

I felt my cheeks flush. “Shu’up! Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, flicking his gaze to the ground. I couldn’t believe it. As if a lad as fit as Cole was flirting with me? Mum always said the blond hair and blue eyes of my Swedish heritage would make me irresistible to the right lad one day, but to be fair, I thought that day was years away. I had acne. I was carrying around so much teenage puppy fat that if you harvested it and rendered it down to make candles, you could light up Colchester town centre for Christmas. Silence hung between us for a minute. Cole’s foot moved back and forth across the pavement. I let my eyes trace the line of his jeans, up his calves and thighs, across his torso. Our eyes met, and we giggled and looked away. Had we both been checking the other out? Cole flicked his hair back, refreshing the swoosh.

“So, what happened?” Cole asked, his head tilted to reveal a sexy vein in his neck.

“Huh?”

“To Jamie Struff. You never told me.”

“Oh! He panicked, sang Cheryl Cole’s ‘Promise This,’ and was never heard of again.”

Cole frowned. “How come you remember his name, then?”

“Because the poor lad became an internet meme! People have been openly laughing about him for two years. His face is shorthand for making a terrible panicked decision.”

“That’s… awful.”

“I know. It weren’t right.”

Cole let his guitar case slip from his shoulder and swung it around to rest the base gently on the ground.

“You think I should change my song?”

“Definitely.”

“Maybe I could sing one of my own compositions?”

Of course Cole wrote music. He oozed proto–Bob Dylan.

“Whatever you do, do not sing one of your own songs.” Cole looked surprised. “Not only will the audience think you’re full of yourself, but you’re robbing them of familiarity, which is important because that’s how they connect with you. And the judges will think you believe you’re better than the last sixty years of pop music. Which, given they’re all music-industry legends, they’re likely to take personally.”

Cole was visibly starting to panic. A bead of sweat dripped from his neck and ran down his chest. I wanted to collect it in a bottle to stick up my bum later.

“What should I sing?”

“Pick something upbeat that shows off your vocal range.”

Cole tapped two fingers against his forehead, as if he were scrolling through a mental list.

“What about Queen? ‘Somebody to Love,’ maybe?”

“It gets done every year, babes.”

“‘Feeling Good’ by Nina Simone?”

I shook my head. “Tommy Baldock did it three years ago and went on to win.”

“Vocal range…” Cole was muttering to himself now. I’d sent him into a tailspin, and I would have felt bad but my advice was solid. One hundred per cent.

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