Page 49 of Going Solo

At the stage door of the arena, I showed my pass to the security guy, who muttered into his walkie-talkie. The door eventually swung open to reveal Fiona Kennedy—still rocking her fabulous curves in a navy blue pantsuit, her hair tied back in a loose bun, still dyed the honey blond Aunty Cheryl had given her all those years ago.

“Toby! It’s so bloody good to see you.” She threw her arms around me and clutched me to her like a long-lost friend. “We’re so glad you’re here. Thank you for coming.”

As we walked down a corridor underneath the arena, I could hear Cole and the band playing one of his new songs.

“Cole’s still in tech rehearsal,” Fiona said. “Would you like to come and watch?”

Obviously, I was tempted, but my legs were already so wobbly with adrenaline that I was walking like a toddler in roller skates, and to be honest, I didn’t want Cole’s first words to me in ten years to be “So what did you think?” because I’d be compelled to say something positive in return. When, in truth, I wanted to say something like “You broke my heart and ruined my life and I hate you with the kind of visceral hatred English football fans reserve for the England football team.”

“I think I’ll wait somewhere quiet, if you don’t mind?”

We walked along a hallway lined with posters of famous acts that had performed in the venue. Taylor Swift. Beyoncé. Katy Perry. Fiona opened a door and deposited me in a green room.

“Can I get you anything while you wait?”

The rehearsals were so loud Cole’s voice reverberated through my chest. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“He won’t be long. I know he’s dying to see you.” Fiona put a business card down on the table by the door. “My number’s there if you need anything, but I’ll come back with an ETA on Cole as soon as I can.” She paused, holding the door open, looking back at me. She tapped her fingernails against the door and smiled. “It’s so bloody good to see you.”

As the door clicked shut behind her and I slumped onto a ratty couch, I couldn’t help but wonder, given how badly things had ended between me and the Kennedys, why I was getting such VIP treatment.

* * *

After an hour, the green room door finally opened. I leapt to my feet, ready to see Cole. It was Fiona, popping back with an armful of snacks and a couple of bottles of water to keep me amused.

“He shouldn’t be much longer. They’ve had a problem with the lighting rig.”

Another hour passed before the door handle moved and the door opened. I jumped up again, prepared to finally face my famous ex. It was Fiona again, full of apologies.

“It’s quite stuffy in here. Are you sure you don’t want to come watch? Cole’s got the encore to run through, then he’ll be free.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

To be honest, I was bored, annoyed, and deflated, and I’d had enough of my makeshift prison. When Fiona disappeared again, I slipped out the door and tiptoed my way around the building until I found an entrance into the back of the auditorium. I opened the door. The change in air pressure and the cool of air conditioning hit me. I slunk down into a seat towards the rear of the dress circle, where the house lights were unlikely to catch me if they went up. The auditorium was dark, blue and purple lighting drenching the stage. A piano appeared to float in lingering mist from a smoke machine. In the centre of the stage, Cole Kennedy, dressed in a vest and jeans. He was maybe fifty metres in front of me, but I could feel the magnetic pull of him. He looked… godly. Sweaty. Tired. Sexy. I hated him, but I couldn’t look away.

A dismembered voice came through a speaker. “OK, we’re set. Whenever you’re ready, Cole.”

Cole grabbed the microphone, still in the stand, with both hands and looked out into the empty venue. It felt like he was looking directly at me.

“Do you want to hear ‘Genevieve’ the way I wrote it?” Cole asked.

One of his crew shouted “Yes”—a poor substitute for the screams of the Kenneddicts that question would get the following night. Cole counted the band in, and music filled the auditorium.

“Waking up to your sad brown eyes,” Cole sang. It was a more upbeat, more rock version of a song that was famous the world over. “Making time for long goodbyes. Oh, Genevieve, oh, Genevieve… Stop… Stop!”

The music stopped.

“This feels wrong. I feel naked. Can I get my guitar, please?”

A crew member grabbed the instrument and handed it to Cole.

“Let’s go again. On four.” He counted his band in again, this time playing along with them.

“Oh, Genevieve, you know I have to leave. Oh, Genevieve, I wish I could stay. But life don’t work that way. Oh, Genevieve, oh, Genevieve.”

“That’s much better!” Cole said when they hit the bridge of the song. “This feels right.”

He was brilliant. A real showman. Everything a pop star should be. A professional. And in that moment, I hated him even more. I hated that he was living his dream, sharing his music with the world, being a famous pop star. I hated what he’d done to me, the cruel way he’d dropped me. I hated the way “marriage material” had haunted my entire adult life. I was furious that he’d engineered it so I had to be here, in the last place I would ever want to be—at one of his concerts, about to face him one-to-one. By the time the song finished, I’d worked myself up into a state, and I was ready for an encore of my own. If Cole was expecting a happy reunion, he was in for a shock. I was going to give him a rinsing. As Cole and his band hugged and congratulated each other, I sneaked out of the auditorium and crept back to the green room.

---