Page 59 of Going Solo

“There’ll be no press, no photographers, no waitstaff sneaking pics on their iPhones?”

Cole smiled. “Promise. It’s all totally on the down-low.”

“Fine,” I said. Cole fist pumped the air. “Do I need to dress up?”

“Come as yourself. You’re perfect as you are.” He wrapped me up in a farewell hug that smelt of cinnamon and leather. “It’s been so good to see you. We’ll pick you up at seven forty-five.”

With a trademark smile, a cheesy double finger point, and a theatrical swivel on his heel, Cole was gone.

ChapterTwenty-Three

The SUV pulled into the car park for the Gartnavel General Hospital.

“If you’re going to make me watch some old creep in a white lab coat dissect a body or something, I will absolutely do my nut,” I said.

“Shhh. I told you, you’ll love it.”

Mitch popped the door and held it open. “Perimeter is secure, Mr Kennedy. No scrum.”

“Scrum?” I asked.

“There’s no press,” Cole explained. “See, told you.”

Five minutes later we were walking around the gynaecological oncology ward, still without a photographer or reporter in sight, just a lot of patients and nurses with smiles wider than their faces. A member of the hospital administration staff was introducing Cole to the patients—some who’d come in for surgery the night before, others who were recovering from earlier surgery, and some who’d come in for chemotherapy. Fiona and I hung discreetly back.

“Does he do this often?” I asked.

“Everywhere we go,” Fiona said. “Without fail.”

Cole was posing for a selfie with a woman who was rigged up for her treatment. She must have been about my age. Mid, maybe late, twenties. No older. She had no eyebrows and had a bandana wound around her head. She was wearing what looked like a homemade crocheted cardigan in extremely cheerful rainbow colours. She looked so sick andsotired but thrilled to be meeting Cole Kennedy.

“Isn’t it painful?” I asked. “To be reminded all the time?”

“It makes him feel close to Mum,” Fiona said.

“That’s so sad.”

“He was on tour most of the time Mum was ill. He didn’t get to be there for it. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven himself.”

I stepped further into the room, closer to Cole and the woman, hoping to catch a bit of their conversation. Cole’s arm was around her shoulder. At first, I thought they were taking more selfies. Then I realised a child’s voice was coming out of the phone. They were on a video call.

“Do you know who this is?” the woman said. There was an indecipherable noise from the child. “Genevieve, this is Cole Kennedy. He’s come to visit Mummy in the hospital.”

The little girl began singing “Oh, Genevieve, oh, Genevieve.”

“That’s right!” the woman said. “Cole is the man who wrote your special song!” The woman had tears in her eyes. So did Cole. My heart nearly broke.

“Would you like to sing your special song with me, Genevieve?” Cole asked, his face wide-eyed and goofy, in that way adults ham it up for children.

Cole started singing. “Oh, Genevieve, you know I have to leave…”

Cole’s beautiful baritone echoed through the hospital a capella, drawing nurses and patients like moths to a flame. A good-looking lad—the woman’s husband, I guessed—took out his phone and recorded the moment. His eyes were wet, and his hand was trembling. A nurse took the phone from him, volunteering to film. The woman, singing along with her idol, serenading her daughter through the phone, reached for her husband’s hand. He grabbed it and held it like it might be the last time. Still, they sang—through smiles and tears.

“Will you wait for me, Genevieve, with your sad brown eyes? Will you forgive me, Genevieve, for all these goodbyes? Oh, Genevieve, oh, Genevieve, I wish I could stay. But life don’t work out that way. Oh, Genevieve.”

I’d heard that song a thousand times. I had never realised it wassosad. How had Cole written a song like that? What had he been going through? By the time the song was done, there must have been about twenty people hanging around. Everyone was crying.

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