Page 7 of Going Solo

“No, we met in the queue this morning.”

“Firm friends already?”

“Exactly,” Cole said. “Forged in the fire.”

My legs were tingling. I could feel my pulse in my ears. Cole was being Mr Personality on camera, and my face was frozen like a Tesco pizza.

“Toby’s the whole reason I got a chance to audition tonight,” Cole continued.

“How so?” Dorinda asked.

“I’m embarrassed to say, I came here today intending to sing ‘Hallelujah.’”

Dorinda grimaced in mock horror. “You never heard of the Hallelujah Curse?”

“Afraid not. But Toby here did me a solid and set me straight.”

“Toby, you could have let him sing ‘Hallelujah’ and seen off the competition! Why did you help him?”

The microphone was suddenly under my chin. Panic gripped me. I could have said anything in that moment. I could have said the truth—that it was the obvious thing to do, that of course I wouldn’t let someone ruin their shot at achieving their dreams. But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I blurted the words, “Why wouldn’t I? He’s marriage material!”

Dorinda’s face morphed into a broad grin, and that famous laugh exploded from her mouth, filling the room. I felt Cole’s arm unwind from around my back, the warmth of him retreating.

“What do you say to that, Cole?”

Cole’s eyebrows were raised, his forehead frowning. “Yeah, um, that’s… a bit intense,” he spluttered.

“Not keen on marriage?”

“Someday, sure,” he said, one hand rubbing his face. “When I meet the right person. And maybe when I’ve known them more than, like, four hours.”

In those five seconds, I died a million tiny deaths. Without even thinking, I’d said something stupid. On camera. Understandably, Cole had mugged me off. I was going to look like an absolute melt on national television.

ChapterFour

Afew hours later, I stood in the wings of the stage at Colchester’s Mercury Theatre, watching Cole sing “You Got It.” The judges lapped it up. Cole played guitar along with the backing track and rocked around the stage in his leather jacket like he owned the place. He was effortlessly cool and sexy, with a voice so full of flavour it was like popping one of each colour Starburst in your mouth at the same time. A few steps in front of me, Dorinda Carter hammed up her reactions for the camera.

“That voice!” she mouthed, fanning herself.

The song ended, and the audience erupted into applause. On the monitor I could see them on their feet. The judges swivelled in their chairs to look at the crowd. Robbie Johnswagger—an old-school rocker from the 1980s—slowly got to his feet, joining the standing ovation. The crowd went wild. Cole slapped his hand to his heart in thanks. A moment later Johanna Thorsdóttir—an Icelandic songstress who had a string of hits in the early 2000s after a spectacular Eurovision appearance—also stood. That left Felicity Quant—the multimillionaire music-industry mogul andMake Me a Pop Starexecutive producer—sitting down. The audience wasn’t having it. They began stamping their feet, making the theatre vibrate. Felicity played it cool, looking around at them, looking down at her notes, looking at her fingernails. The crowd’s outrage was deafening. Finally, Felicity leaned forward in her seat and stood. The audience lost its collective shit. Literally.

Cole held his hands up as if in prayer, humbly accepting the applause. When the noise finally died down and everyone had taken their seats, it was time to film the judges’ comments.

“From one old rocker to another,” Robbie Johnswagger said in his broad Leeds accent, “thank you for bringing this performance to this stage. It gladdens my heart to see the younger generation paying respect to a legend like Roy Orbison and doing such credit to his artistry in this way. You’re an incredible performer already, and I can’t wait to see what you can achieve on this stage.”

Robbie hit his button, and a big green tick lit up over his head. The crowd erupted. Felicity Quant put up her hand, the accepted symbol on the show for “That’s enough, shut up, you plebs, the adults are speaking.”

“I agree with Robbie,” Johanna Thorsdóttir began, “it was an incredible performance. You have a beautiful tone. But your voice is in the lower register, and we’re trying to find a pop star here, not?—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Robbie leapt in, “you think baritones can’t be pop stars? What about Elvis, Hendrix, Tom Jones, Neil Diamond?—”

“Got anyone this century?” Johanna hit back.

Everyone in the audienceooooed in unison.

“I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.” Robbie looked exasperated. “Chris Martin. Will that do you? The front man of the biggest band in the world.”

The audience booed and laughed and cheered. Felicity’s hand went up. They shushed. This was amazing telly. There was no way someone of Johanna Thorsdóttir’s experience thought a baritone couldn’t have a fantastic pop career. They were creating tension to milk Cole’s moment onstage.

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