Going Solo

by Zoe Sugg

  Elliot leans forward and gives me a huge hug. I squeeze him back tightly. He slides off the bed and leaves me to gather up the last of my things into my suitcase. The only thing I can’t fit in (it’s only a small weekend case) is what I wore on the night of the wedding, so I pack that into a plastic garment bag and bring it down over my arm.

  “Are you coming with us then, Penny?” Mum asks as I stand in the doorway of the kitchen.

  “If that’s OK?”

  “Of course!” She kisses me on my forehead. Dad takes my suitcase to load it into the car.

  “Do you mind if we stop by Callum’s parents’ house on the way? I need to have a chat with him.”

  “No problem at all. Are you all packed up? We want to get on the road soon.”

  “All done!” I confirm.

  I help Mum and Dad load up the rest of the car and say goodbye to Alex and Elliot. I feel bad for not saying goodbye to Sadie Lee and Bella, but I know there’ll be another opportunity to see them before they go back to New York.

  On the short drive to Callum’s I bite my nails down to the quick, trying to decide what I’m going to say. I know I need to apologize for running off, but do I have to apologize for not feeling the same way as him?

  We’re there before I know it, pulling off into the big driveway and parking our tiny rental car between the flashy Range Rovers. Mum and Dad say they’ll wait in the car, and I’m glad to have the excuse of our imminent flight not to have to stay too long.

  My steps crunch on the driveway as I walk up to the front door. I ring the bell and rock back on my heels, jamming my hands into the front pockets of my jeans.

  It’s Callum who answers, and I let out a nervous breath. “Hi,” I say quickly.

  “Oh, hi,” replies Callum, leaning up against the side of the door. I notice he doesn’t invite me in, but I’m OK with that.

  “So, I just wanted to apologize for last night. That was really . . . rubbish of me,” I blurt out.

  Callum softens then, his arms uncrossing. “Come round the back—if we go inside we’ll just get bothered by my brothers.” He steps out and leads me round to the back of the house where, beyond the garden, there’s a view over fields sloping down to the coastline we had walked along before. I join him as he leans over an aging wooden gate, watching the sheep nibble the grass.

  “So . . . are you OK?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I was taken by surprise and I didn’t react well in the moment.”

  “Well, that’s understandable. That guy did just show up out of nowhere.” Callum’s fingers curl into fists, but he relaxes them just as quickly. “So, are you and him a thing now?”

  “No, not exactly . . . I don’t know.”

  He turns round so that he’s leaning with his back against the gate.

  “Does that mean I can still take you on another date?” He looks at me, his eyes sparkling.

  This is the moment I’ve been dreading, but I know it will be better to get it over with quickly, just like it’s best to rip off a plaster. “I need some time to get my head straight. Can we just be friends?”

  Callum looks away, then down to the ground. “I guess I’ll settle for what I can get,” he says. “But you’ll still give me your tips on portrait photography, right?” He catches my eye again, smiling.

  “Anytime.” I smile back. The sense of relief is overwhelming, and I’m grateful to him for making this so easy.

  “Do you want to go for another walk? I can show you this cool little waterfall nearby . . .”

  “Oh—I can’t. I’d better get back to the car as we have a plane to catch.”

  His face falls, and by the way he shoves off abruptly from the gate I can tell he’s annoyed again. But, I tell myself, I suppose I would be too. Even though I’m trying not to give him any hope, I feel like I’m still leading him on.

  “No problem,” he says, and we head back towards the car.

  He waves as we drive away, then Mum turns round in her seat. “Did everything go OK?”

  “Yeah, fine,” I say, leaning my head against the window. With Callum, there was no big scene, no games—he just wanted to see me again. And with Noah . . . ? Oh! I just don’t know how to feel.

  My mind is a tangle I can’t even begin to unpick.

  I need to get away from it all. To focus on what makes me happy, not on the boy-drama in my life.

  But I have an idea. And I’m going to need Posey’s help to pull it off.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  To: Penny Porter

  From: Melissa.Iwobi@NouveauStudios.com

  Penny, these are just G.R.E.A.T. I think you really have an opportunity to grow this idea. Keep working on it! I know you’ll get there.

  Mel xx

  P.S. I showed FPN a couple of these and he nodded, which you KNOW means he thinks you’re on the right track!

  I close the email, feeling a grin spread over my face. Melissa’s message has given me a boost of confidence that I’ve sorely needed—and just the motivation to put my plan into action.

  I filled my parents in on the plan during the flight back, and my mind was so distracted by how I was going to pull it off that I barely gave my anxiety a look-in. Posey—fresh from her second wobble-free rehearsal—was all set to meet me that very afternoon. I’ve asked her to come with me to the National Gallery, where I have an idea for my photography series that I want to try out.

  “Can you tell me anything about your project?” Posey asks.

  “It’s all a bit top secret for now,” I say. “But I’ll tell you in time. Just be on the lookout for any kids on their phones.”

  “OK, will do.”

  We cross Trafalgar Square, which is packed to capacity with tourists lounging on the steps or on the plinths of the huge lion statues at the four corners. You can tell the tourists by the obscenely large cameras they have round their necks, and I wonder how many of them know how to use their impressive (and expensive) bits of kit. Maybe if my dreams of being a professional photographer don’t work out I could run courses—or teach. Then I think of all the times I’ve been out with my big camera. Maybe people mistake me for a tourist too.

  As we walk up the steps to the National Gallery, Posey says, “I still can’t believe you’ve come all the way down here. Aren’t you supposed to be in Scotland somewhere?”

  “Near Inverness. But don’t worry—the wedding is over and I was supposed to be coming back anyway. Plus, I just had to get away from there.” I bite my lip. “Noah came back.”

  “He did?”

  “Yeah, but I couldn’t face him, not properly.”

  “Oh.” She sees how red in the face I go, and doesn’t push me. “How about over there?” she says, as we walk into the first gallery. She’s pointing towards a group of teenagers who look as if they’re on a school trip from somewhere. As we approach, I can hear some of them speaking French. They’re all on their phones, sitting in front of a gigantic sixteenth-century painting of a battle.

  “That’s perfect,” I say.

  Next to me, an older lady glares at the students and tuts to her friend. I swear I hear her mutter something about “that generation” before she wanders off into the next room.

  She means our generation, the generation who are always on their phones.

  Except, as Posey and I walk round to the other side of the group, I glance down at some of the students’ screens and realize they’re using an app for the National Gallery. They’re all completely absorbed in reading about the painting they’re sitting in front of.

  Hmm, yes, “that generation.” The generation who are always on their phones . . . using them to communicate, to game, to connect, and yes, to learn too.

  One of the students catches my eye and I smile back. I normally hate talking to strangers, but I know if I want to be a great photographer I’m going to have to conquer my nerves. “Hey, do you speak English?” I ask.

  “Yes, I do,” the girl says in absolutely perfect English.


  “Um, do you mind if I take a photo of your group? I’m doing a school project and it would be amazing if you could be involved.”

  Unexpectedly, the girl lights up. “Oh, sure! Écoutez donc, les mecs!” she calls, turning to her friends. “Elle veut prendre un photo de nous . . .”

  They all start to arrange themselves into various formal poses and I have to laugh. “No, uh, just as you were, if that’s OK?”

  They shrug, then resume reading up about the painting, quickly losing interest in the weird girl with the camera. I snap a few photos of them, then say “Merci  ” to the girl, and Posey and I move on.

  “Did you get what you need?” Posey asks.

  I nod. “I think so.”

  “Still not going to tell me what you’re up to?” she asks with a sly smile.

  I wink and put my finger to my lips. “I promise you’ll be one of the first to know.”

  She laughs. “I’d better be! Actually,” she continues, “I’m really thirsty. Fancy a drink or something?”

  “Sure! But we should go somewhere to celebrate how well you’re doing with the rehearsals now. Where do you fancy?”

  Posey grins. “I know this sounds really silly, but . . . how about McDonald’s?”

  I can’t help laughing.

  So, in what may be Guinness-World-Record-breaking speed, we dash back across Trafalgar Square and up the Strand to the nearest bustling restaurant. We both order milkshakes and we sit on the red plastic stools kicking out our legs like we’re ten years old again.

  “Have you told Leah about your successful rehearsals?” I ask. “She’d love to know.”

  Posey shakes her head. “Not yet. I kind of don’t want to jinx it.”

  I tilt my head. “OK. Well, once you’ve had your successful opening-night performance, you can tell her yourself!”

  My phone rings and when I see who’s calling, I almost cry out in delighted surprise.

  “What is it?” Posey asks.

  “Just, speak of the devil . . .” I turn the screen round and let Posey read for herself: the caller ID shows “Leah Brown.”

  “Wow, weird!” says Posey.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything right now,” I say, and slide the bar on my phone to answer the call. “Leah?”

  “Hey, P.” Her voice sounds tired and dejected.

  “Is everything all right?” I ask. “Are you OK?” But I already know something is really wrong.

  “My label is going nuts. I have to call anyone who’s been in my studio recently.”

  “Why? Oh my god, what’s happened?”

  There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “It’s my album. My first single’s been leaked and it’s all over the Internet.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Posey’s face is drained of colour, our shakes abandoned, a pool of vanilla-flavoured goo in the bottom of each cup. Straight after getting off the phone with Leah, I call Megan and ask her to come and meet us here.

  “I just can’t believe it,” Posey repeats for the hundredth time. “Who would do that?”

  I shake my head. “I have no idea.” As we wait for Megan, I search on my phone for “Leah Brown leaked song.” The search loads with hundreds of results from different gossip websites. It seems that the leak didn’t happen via download sites; it’s rather that someone has emailed a low-quality copy of an audio track to a journalist. I expect if it was any other artist, the poor quality of the recording would put people off. But the leaked song is something so different for Leah, so new and raw, and she is such a huge star, that the Internet has gone crazy. I scroll down post after post linking to the pirate copy. It’s already got out of hand—there’s no way Leah’s team could put the lid back on the leak now, however much money or influence they brought to the problem.

  The only good thing is that all the comments about the track are positive. People are loving it—and they want the full version. I listen to a snippet of it, but don’t recognize it as one of the ones she played for us, and I feel the tightness that’s been building in my chest suddenly release. It can’t have been one of us.

  “I hope she doesn’t think I would do anything like that,” says Posey.

  I grab her hand. “Of course not. None of us would.”

  “Hey, guys!”

  I look up to see Megan waving as she comes towards us, glowing as a result of her brisk walk. Thankfully she seems to have reactivated her “niceness” gene since the other day because she gives both Posey and me a big hug.

  “What’s up?” she asks. “What’s so urgent that I had to rush over here?”

  “I had a call from Leah Brown,” I begin. Then I take a deep breath, my eyes searching Megan’s face. “Someone’s leaked a song from her unreleased album and it’s all over the Internet.”

  Megan hops onto a stool, her hand over her mouth. “No way? Is it bad?”

  “Well, it’s everywhere. She needed to contact us all to make sure we’re not involved.”

  “Of course not! She said we couldn’t record.”

  “I know. It’s just a precaution that the studio had to take, getting in touch with anyone who’s been in there over the past week or so.”

  Megan relaxes, her shoulders dropping, but Posey’s eyes well up with tears. “Hey, don’t cry,” Megan says softly.

  “I hate that Leah thinks we might have done this. She probably already has so much to deal with and she was so nice to us,” says Posey.

  “But sometimes leaks can be a good thing, right? No publicity is bad publicity and all that . . .” replies Megan.

  I frown. “I can safely say that’s not true.”

  “OK, but, hey . . . she wouldn’t be the first singer to have had leaks!”

  “But how does that make this leak any less serious?”

  “I’m not saying it’s not serious. I’m just saying she’ll be OK.”

  Posey and I share a look, then I nod. Megan’s right. One leaked song isn’t going to ruin Leah’s career. But I’ve seen firsthand the effort that she puts into all her songs, and I know that this is the first time she’s written anything so personal. Plus, like Noah, she’s a perfectionist—she wouldn’t want anything to go public until she was ready.

  My phone rings and we all look to the screen. It’s Leah again. I swipe immediately, then gesture to the girls to keep quiet, so I can hear her better. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Penny. More news—not good, I’m afraid.”

  “What is it?” My heart leaps into my throat.

  “They isolated the track so that it’s really clear and I remember exactly when I was singing it. It was during our session in London. It can’t have been any other time.”

  “But . . . how is that possible? I’ve never heard the song before, I promise you. It’s not one of the ones you sang for us.”

  Posey’s face goes white, and Megan swallows hard.

  As for me, my pulse is racing.

  “I did sing it that day—maybe it was when you were upstairs setting up for the photoshoot? Anyway, point is, it has to have been one of your friends.”

  “Seriously?” My voice is shaking as I talk to her. “Oh, Leah, I am so, so sorry.”

  “Look, I have to go. I have to . . . figure out what my next steps are. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “OK,” I say, but she’s already hung up. I stare with disbelief at the phone in my hand. I look up at Posey and at Megan. They both look guilty. They both look innocent. “I . . . she . . .” I can’t even find the words.

  “What is it, Penny?” Megan prompts.

  “Leah recognizes when she sang that version of the song. It was during her session with us.”

  “But I haven’t even heard it before!” says Megan. I remember now. She’d come upstairs and gone to the bathroom when I was setting up for the photographs. That leaves only one person it could have been.

  But it can’t be.

  We both turn to Posey.

  “I . . . I didn’t do anything,”
she says, her voice coming out in a stutter.

  “But you were the only one there,” says Megan. “It has to have been you. How could Penny or I record it if we weren’t even in the room?” Her voice is hard, and I can see tears spring up in Posey’s eyes.

  But I can’t feel any sympathy for her. All I feel is . . . empty. And then I feel something else too. I feel betrayed.

  “Penny, you have to know that I would never . . .”

  “No wonder you didn’t want to tell Leah how you’ve been getting on,” I snap, almost shaking with anger. “What did you think you could gain by selling her song to some website?”

  Posey’s face goes from white as a sheet to red as a beetroot, and tears stream down her cheeks. “I . . .” But she never finishes the sentence. Instead, she snatches her bag from under the table, jumps off her stool, and runs out of the restaurant.

  I just shake my head in disbelief.

  “Wow,” says Megan, breaking the silence.

  “I can’t believe Posey would do something like that!”

  “I know. It’s hard to believe,” says Megan, “but then—I guess we barely know her. You only met her a few weeks ago—”

  “That’s true, I suppose.”

  “And she’s always been really quiet at school, despite getting the lead.” She shrugs. “Madame Laplage is a great school, but it’s really cutthroat, and, at the end of the day, she wants to be a star some day. Getting ahead of the competition, a foot in the door—it’s worth a lot to a Madame Laplage student.”

  I shake my head. “She’d have way more to gain by being Leah’s friend than by betraying her trust. I can’t believe someone can be that stupid!” I say, exasperated. Even so, the doubts lurking in the bottom of my stomach grow. Megan’s hit on an uncomfortable truth: even though I thought I had the kind of connection with Posey that makes us true friends, I really don’t know much about her at all.

  I text Leah:

  Turns out it was Posey. She was the only one in the room while you were singing

  Leah texts back:

  Wow! She seemed so nice. I’m sorting out with my lawyers what we’re going to do. I’ll keep you posted