Pasha shared the photo from his account after adding a < and a 3 that morphed into a cartoon loveheart. “I’ve got several thousand followers.” He’d been building a fan base since his first audition. “The photo just hit their timelines.” He didn’t look up. “I can pretend this was a joke later,” he said quietly, “if that’s what you want. I’ll say we were only kidding, Ed. Just… just give it five minutes before you make up your mind.”
Maybe Ed wasn’t listening at all. He touched the screen of his phone rather than acknowledge Pasha had spoken, tracing the curve of the baby’s head on his screen lock instead of replying.
Pasha told himself he’d try one last time before giving up for good. “I’ve got nothing to lose, Ed. Not a single thing, apart from begging to get back my cubicle in a call center I can’t stand the sight of. I’ll say or do anything for this one shot at changing my life. I watched the episode with all our bios. You said you were single, but maybe you didn’t mean that. Perhaps you’ve got a girl at home this will affect if you play along too. Maybe you’ve got a kid.” He shrugged, then met Ed’s gaze, which was stormy again.
“Ask yourself what would affect them more. You getting further in the contest because fans want to believe a fake love story that we hint at—” Pasha’s gaze dropped to Ed’s phone where he saw his grip had tightened. “—or both of us getting sent home before we even get a fair chance.”
Still Ed said nothing.
Pasha made his final offer. “If I win, I’ll give you the cash prize.”
He’d still have a two-year recording contract, and long term that had to be worth a whole lot more. “It’s just over a month. We can get to the final. We really can. Together.”
Finally Ed spoke, his voice low and gritty. “I’m not interested in the prize. I just want my friend’s song to win.”
Pasha huffed out a breath, about to call him on such an obvious lie—of course Ed was in it for the money—when he noticed something that stopped him in his tracks. “Fuck me.” He dragged a finger down the screen of his phone so that its content refreshed. “Tell me you understand what this means.”
The number of times the photo had been shared had doubled in only minutes.
“Every single one of those shares links us to possible voters. And this is only on one social media platform. If a fraction of fans share the photo in other places as well…. It’s—” He struggled to think of clearer ways to describe the potential theyhad if they worked the fake relationship angle just right. “—it’s….”
“Exponential?”
Pasha nodded. The numbers increased again and again, as did the hashtags the fans attached to the photo. Some abbreviated their names and merged them together. “It’s not cheating,” he insisted. “We won’t be doing any different than the boy band every time they flirt with Anya. It’s giving the fans what they want, that’s all.”
He nudged Ed with his shoulder. “Is love ever a bad thing, even if it’s only in their imaginations?” He lowered his voice. “I get that it might be weird for you. The whole gay angle isn’t my?—”
Ed unlocked his phone one more time and spoke over Pasha. His voice was gritty. “You better add me as a friend.” He spelled out his name when Pasha mistyped. “No, it’s Britten with twot’s.” Then Ed typed in the hashtag the fans had already started using that conjoined their Trueman and Britten surnames. He glanced at Pasha before typing another hashtag alongside it.
#TrueBrit followed by #TrueLove.
London blurred outside the window of the tour bus, and the Internet exploded.
4
ED
When the tour bus finally pulled up outside the house the studio rented, Ed was first to alight. Six weeks ago, he’d been impressed by the swanky townhouse frontage flanked by potted bay trees. It sure beat a shared tent overseas or the cramped stable block in Cornwall where all his worldly goods were still in boxes. Today he ignored the building’s smart exterior. He took the stairs inside two at a time and headed straight for his bedroom, alone. Its door shut with a firmclickand he leaned against it, eyes closed, as muffled sounds gradually filtered around its edges. Other contestants chatted outside in the hallway, discussing what to wear for dinner that night. Far from coming up here to change his clothes, Ed had escaped to regroup. It was impossible to think clearly when Pasha sounded so persuasive. He’d been one step ahead the whole day.
Fuck one step. Pasha could give military strategists a run for their money.
First, he’d said that maybe they could stay in the contest for another week if they worked together. While on the bus, he’d virtually promised they could go all the way to the end. Ed pulledout his phone and checked how often Charlie’s photo had been shared.
Jesus.
In the time it had taken to travel the final few miles—miles Pasha had sat through in blessed silence for once, scanning the side streets they passed as if committing the route to memory—the figure had tripled. As Ed watched, the tally rose even higher.
What had Pasha asked while they’d been on the bus?
Was there anyone else who might be affected if fans “shipped” a romance between them?
He dialed without thinking, his head and shoulders hitting the door with a soft thump when his mum answered.
“Hello, darling.” She sounded like home. Every single phone call, from basic training all the way through to his last deployment, had started the same way. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Hi.” Now he had her on the phone, what to say next escaped him. The last time he’d called her lost for words had been a whole year earlier. She clearly remembered.
“Edward, what’s wrong?”