Page 42 of Going Solo

“Don’t you even want to wish him well, Toby?” a photographer barked. And when I didn’t reply, “That’s not very nice. Fame’s clearly changed you.”

Having endured years of this, I knew he was trying to provoke a reaction, so I swallowed a reply. I doggedly tried to force my way through them, but they were blocking my path—another tactic meant to piss me off and lead to great pictures.

“Any advice for Felicity Quant about how to recover after getting dumped by Cole Kennedy?” a reporter asked.

Still, I said nothing, muscling through them.

“You’re meant to be the country’s top authority on pop music,” another reporter said. “Don’t you have anything to say about the biggest pop star in the world leaving the biggest boy band in the world?”

Denzil paused the footage. He looked down at me. I looked up at him.

“The board has come to the view that this situation is unsustainable, bruv,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“This is the biggest story in pop music right now, and you know the biggest pop star in the world. Intimately. It’s our unique selling point, our competitive advantage, and you refuse to talk about him?”

“Yes,” I said. “That was the deal. That’s what the board signed up for.”

“Well, I was hoping, under the circumstances, you might reconsider.”

I laughed. “Why on earth would I do that?”

Denzil’s hopeful smile fell from his face.

“Between you and me, bruv?” Shit. This sounded serious. “The station is in real trouble. The whole network is on the brink of going under. Both PureFM and TalkUK. The board is talking about cutting their losses and selling us off.”

This conversation was well above my pay grade, but I couldn’t see what it had to do with forcing me to hang out with an arsehole like Cole Kennedy—and I said so.

“Who do you think is going to buy us if we get sold, Tobes? Some cashed-up sheikh? Some neocon nightmare from the States? Some asset-stripping hedge fund?”

The idea made me feel ill.

“Whoever it is, Tobes, we’ll all be out on our ears. Anyone who buys this place is going to slash costs, sack staff, and change the format completely. You think they give a shit about the R & B music that gives me life? You think they care about niche programming likePop Review?”

“Niche? I’m the country’s most popular pop music chat show!”

“Toby, you’re the country’sonlypop music chat show. Every other station just plays the bloody music without yammering on about it. This is existential, little bro. Between streaming and podcasts, our entire business model is as fucked as… as fucked as…”

“My Aunty Cheryl?”

“Precisely, bruv.”

“What has this got to do with breaking your word on Cole Kennedy?”

“Cole’s money is a godsend. With that kind of swag, I can go to the board and say, ‘Look, we’re profitable, don’t sell us.’ That million quid keeps us in business, it keeps us on air. We can’t look a gift horse in the mouth. All you have to do is follow Cole up and down the country in an outside broadcast van for a few weeks. You’ll have to interview him a couple of times, there’ll be a few publicity photos, but that’s it. The rest of the time you’ll be talking to fans, doing what you do best—making great radio. If you do every show and fulfil the terms of the contract, we get paid, everyone keeps their jobs.”

I growled in frustration. I hated Denzil for doing this to me.

“Please, Toby?” He smiled that sexy, toothy grin that no doubt got him laid a lot. His eyes sparkled. He bounced one pec muscle. Then the other. Then he bounced them back and forth. He was like a bird on a nature documentary, hopping from foot to foot in front of a ladybird, trying to hypnotise me with his moves. I was glad we were back to the usual queerbaiting, but I would not be so easily blinded.

“Do you have any idea how miserable my life would be if I did this? It’s literally why there is a clause in my contract.”

“If there was any other way, Tobes. But we’re on our knees here. Cole Kennedy has bought our arses, and every last one of us must bend over for him. He’s got the cash, he gets to smash.”

I flicked through the paperwork, feeling powerless, defeated. It was either do this and save the station, or refuse, and we all lost our jobs. I couldn’t do that to Nick and Tarneesha. I reached the last page of the contract and stared at the signatures scrawled across it. Above Denzil’s totally baller signature was the name of Cole Kennedy’s lawyer: Fiona Kennedy, LIB.

Despite myself, I smiled.

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