Page 66 of Going Solo

“To ruin my life?”

Cole’s eyes glowed with sincerity. “To heal.”

ChapterTwenty-Five

Cole’s security team decided it was too risky for Cole to drive into central Manchester in the van, so we pulled into a motorway lay-by outside the city to “make the exchange.” To my surprise, I was kind of sad to see the back of him. Once we’d settled into singing along to the radio, “our road trip” was quite good fun.

By the time I got to the Manchester Arena and met Nick, we had less than two hours to set up the van before we were on air. Thankfully, Tarneesha had done a lot of the heavy lifting from London, but Nick and I had to plug in cables, do mic checks, and test the line to the station. Obviously, we were busy gossiping instead.

“We were in the air less than half an hour, Tobes,” Nick said, his voice coming through my headphones. “It takes me longer than that to get out of Covent Garden Tube station most days. You should have seen the wee bitty snacks they put on. Did you know Cole’s got a Michelin-star chef on that plane?”

“I know.”

“The one off the telly,” Nick clarified. “The silver fox.”

“Marcel Dupont. Did he make mac and cheese by any chance?”

“Sushi, sashimi, a whole charcuterie board with prosciutto, chorizo?—”

“Beats paying fifteen quid for a pack of Pringles on easyJet.”

“And oysters!”

“Does he ever cookanything, or just wait until the animals have been dead long enough to serve?”

Nick opened the van door and ducked his head out to test the exterior mic we used to pick up atmosphere, like cheering crowds and the sound of fainting Kenneddicts smacking their heads on the pavement. Nick’s voice came through my headphones slightly quieter than before.

“Have you ever had oysters, Tobes?” Nick said. I watched the needle bounce on the screen and lifted the level a smidge. Nick pulled himself back inside the van. “It’s like having a mouthful of super-thick, salty spunk. But like, if spunk was chewy.”

“I’ve had them, and I’ll stick to Pringles, thanks.”

Nick shrugged. “How was the drive down with the people’s prince of pop?”

“Like being trapped in a small cage with a relentless Labrador.”

“But are you getting on? Have you done enough to be civil when you interview him in Cardiff next week?”

A burst of heat radiated out from my stomach, and I felt my face redden. I hid behind my microphone, but it was too late. Nick had already seen my guilty blush.

“I know that face, Tobias Lyngstad,” he said. Sweat burst from my palms. Nick was practically vibrating with excitement. “The last time I saw that look on your face, you were coming home drunk from the BRIT Awards with Krishnan Varma-Rajan’s TV make-up on your trousers.”

“Stop right there,” I said, holding up both hands. “Nothing happened with Cole. Nothing is going to happen with Cole.”

Nick scoffed. “I can see it in your face. You’ve gone from hating Cole Kennedy to picking at his knicker elastic in less than twenty-four hours. Bloody hell, this is the biggest thaw since the last ice age, Toby. Any minute now a woolly mammoth is going to stride into a barbershop and ask for a short back and sides.”

“Nothing happened!” I protested, standing up with a jolt and sending my chair crashing into the wall behind me. “All right?”

“Maybe it didn’t, but you’re catching old feelings. It’s in your face.”

“He sang ‘Genevieve’ to a four-year-old girl called Genevieve whose mother’s dying of cancer,” I said, the words falling out of me in a rush. “You try staying angry at someone after you’ve seen them do that.”

Nick eyeballed me. “What. Happened. In. That. Van?” He jabbed a finger into the desk on each word.

“We talked!”

“Good. Talking is good. What did he have to say for himself?”

I slumped back into my chair, rested my head in my hand, and looked at my best friend through the studio glass.

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