Kyle strode out in front of the expectant judges. The background hum of the Wembley crowd gave him shudders and his head began to fill with doubts about himself. Was it the wrong song? Had he chosen the wrong key? It was too late for thoughts like this, but they came regardless. Soon his mind was a bustling crowd of doubt and introspection. He could see himself standing there, with the hot lights beaming down on him. It was like an out-of-body experience and for a moment, he felt like he had no control over his arms and legs. They were cold. Limp. All four appendages hung there, inanimate.

Suddenly, Simon’s voice echoed throughout the arena: “OK Kyle…is this your moment?”

A brief panic coursed through Kyle’s veins, electrocuting his limbs back into life. Something within him, outside of his own control, raised the microphone to his mouth.

“Yes Simon, yes I believe it will be, yes.”

Kyle was glad that some words had come out of his mouth, but he certainly didn’t feel responsible for any of them. Was he trembling? He glanced down at his microphone hand, unable to move his head but straining with his eyes. No, he wasn’t, it just felt like he was – inside.

“And what are you going to sing for us Kyle?”

Nick Grimshaw was talking to him. What? The song. What was it called? His mind raced independently from his tongue, which was buying him some time with a barely audible mumble. What was it called? Why were they asking him? They had it all written down, didn’t they? Someone scheduled all of this – someone had to inform the sound and light guys, didn’t they? Why was he being entrusted with such important information? He’d know it once the music played – he just needed the cue. The opening note, no more!

“Kyle? What’s the song called?”

Cheryl had asked him now. His mumble grew louder, like it was building up to something, but Kyle didn’t know what.

“The…. song… hurrrr…”

Cheryl glanced across at Simon. Then at Nick. Rita hadn’t moved or said a word since Kyle had walked out. Her eyes were locked on him intently, brow furrowed – as if she was trying to solve a sudoku without a pen.

“I’m Kyle… I’m from… I’m 19 years old.”

Damn. That wasn’t what they asked. But maybe it bought some time.

“Yes erm… The song, Kyle. What song are you singing?”

No time. Nowhere to go. Kyle was rooted to the spot. Should I say I don’t know, he wondered? No – they’d seize on that! It’d be as good as giving up – bye bye recording contract, bye bye X-Factor tour, bye bye-

“Kyle, sweetheart, can you hear us?”

Cheryl. Her voice was soft, concerned. Think of the singer, the artist, he thought. Who would you have chosen? Fuck, can’t even remember a name – anyone! Except Jonathan Ross, and he’s not a singer! Is he? Has he sung in something before? Like a special, something at Christmas? No! Why was he thinking of Jonathan Ross? It made no sense! The song! What was it?

Rita had moved, tilting her head to say something to Nick, who nodded and cranked his head to look for an assistant or something. What was he singing? Why weren’t they helping him? Not even a clue? A prompt? What was the song?

Music! Something was playing through the speakers! It sounded… like music. But what? Kyle didn’t recognise it. Had he missed a cue? It seemed to be going by quite fast. He looked at the judges for some sort of sign, but it was no use – they were leaning behind one another and talking. What were they saying? They were looking at him too. A few people in headphones were buzzing around the desks. Oh God! The music!

Out of nowhere, an arm linked Kyle’s left. The music had stopped. His legs, which had rooted to the spot, slowly sprung to life as the linking arm led him towards the side of the stage. A hand reached across and stroked his shoulder as he walked towards Olly Murs, who was looking intently into his eyes.

It would be a full 45 minutes before Kyle noticed that he had pissed all down himself. But he remembered the song the instant he sat down:

“I Wanna Dance With Somebody…”

Olly Murs placed a hand on Kyle’s shoulder – “Yeah, it’s alright mate… Do you have anyone we can call?”

“Whitney Houston…”

Back on the stage the judges were conferring.

“I just don’t think he’s ready.” Cheryl opined.

Simon smiled, and had a quiet think about whether he could get it all cleared for the final edit.