March 17,1994
If someone had told Nate a while ago that he'd be juggling singing classes, shooting ads, and reading the Financial Times with a bowl of Coco Pops, he might've laughed. Or choked on his cereal.
But that's exactly what his life had become.
A few months had passed since his first awkward singing lesson, and while he hadn't exactly become the next Michael Jackson, he no longer flinched at the sound of his own voice. His range had improved, his breath control was better, and—most importantly—he didn't sound like a deflating balloon when he tried to hit high notes.
He was still just one of the kids in Miss Talia's weekend class, but he didn't mind. He'd learned to love the process. Progress came slowly, but it came. And unlike the others, who sometimes wandered off mentally halfway through practice, Nate's adult mind kept him focused. He listened. He watched. He absorbed. He practiced at home with a level of discipline none of the other kids quite understood. They thought he was just "super into it."
And he was. But he was also playing the long game.
By early January, Nate had landed his third commercial—a local toy shop ad with a talking robot and a jingle so catchy it haunted him in his sleep. The filming was fun, albeit a bit chaotic. One of the robot's arms fell off mid-scene, and the production team decided to just roll with it.
Then came the fourth ad in February—a campaign for a children's clothing store. He wore a ridiculously sparkly backpack and had to say the line "Style and smiles for miles!" with a cheesy wink at the camera.
Nate had never felt more ridiculous.
But it paid well.
Not as much as the Cadbury gig, but enough to impress Richard, who was now semi-officially Nate's "portfolio manager." The man had made a spreadsheet, color-coded tabs and all.
"You're not touching any of this till you're eighteen," Richard said one evening, tapping the savings column. "Unless you want to buy Tesco shares at ten."
"Maybe," Nate replied, grinning. "If they start giving out free biscuits with each one."
Claire just rolled her eyes as she folded laundry in the background. "He's turning into a tiny banker."
But she was secretly proud. Her son wasn't just earning money—he was learning how to manage it. They sat down together once a month to review the account, and while Nate didn't understand everything yet, he knew how to track his dividends, and he followed the market like a hawk. Well... a small hawk with a booster seat.
BP had done well, Tesco was a slow grower, and Richard had added a couple of mutual funds "for safety."
"I want to try a tech stock next," Nate said at one point, flipping through the financial section like a proper little investor.
Richard peered over his cup of tea. "What do you know about tech?"
"Not much. But one of my classmates said his uncle's computer runs on Windows, and now he's rich."
"Sound logic," Richard muttered.
They didn't go big, but a few pounds found their way into a modest UK tech ETF. Nate tracked it every week like it was a fantasy football team.
Not everything was stock portfolios and ad shoots, of course. He still had school, where he remained mostly under the radar—save for the occasional, "Hey, aren't you that chocolate boy?" or "Can you say the cereal monkey line again?"
He endured the attention with practiced ease.
Even Jack, his best mate, had mellowed out. They played footie on weekends and traded snacks at lunch like nothing had changed. Occasionally, Nate would hum a tune during breaks, earning raised brows from classmates. But no one teased him for it anymore. It was just "Nate being Nate."
Miss Talia noted his improvement during one session in May.
"You've got better control now," she said, smiling. "Not everyone keeps practicing like you do."
He beamed at the compliment, even though she said the same thing to three other kids that day. It still felt good.
He didn't get solos. He wasn't the "star voice." But he was improving. And quietly, steadily, he knew—someday, he'd get there.
Nate even began writing lyrics in his notebook—silly songs, mostly, or rewrites of popular jingles with his own twist. Claire had caught him once singing something about "pocket money stocks and marshmallow socks" and just shook her head with a laugh.
"You're a strange little man," she told him.
"Gotta build the brand," he replied.
Summer Sun and a Surprise Call
It was a warm summer afternoon, just after school let out for break. Rusty lay sprawled in a patch of sunlight on the floor while Nate sat at the table, pen in hand, pretending to work on a crossword but mostly sketching a pretend ad storyboard in the margins.
Claire was out shopping, Richard was working from home, and the house was unusually quiet—until the phone rang.
Nate heard Richard answer in the hallway, muffled at first. But when his dad poked his head into the kitchen with a raised eyebrow, Nate perked up.
"It's for you," Richard said. "Simon Greene."
Nate's eyes lit up. He scrambled out of his chair, nearly knocking over his water bottle.
He took the phone like it was a golden ticket. "Hi, Mr. Greene!"
"Still calling me that, huh?" came the familiar, friendly voice. "You're practically a veteran now, Nate."
Nate grinned. "Does this mean I get my own trailer?"
Simon laughed. "Not quite. But I've got something new. Bigger than cereal. Bigger than chocolate."
Nate's eyes widened. "How big are we talking?"
"Well, it's not Hollywood big," Simon admitted, "but it's a regional campaign. Travel involved. A series of ads instead of just one."
Nate's heart skipped. A series?
"I'll send the details to your parents. You've got time this summer?"
"Loads," Nate said. "I was planning to build a Lego city, but this sounds better."
"I thought so," Simon chuckled. "We'll be in touch."
As Nate hung up, he stood there for a moment, letting it sink in.
A series of ads. Travel. A real step up.
And he was ready for it.