I bought my first house in Horbury, near Wakefield that autumn, which was so exciting. It cost about £380,000 and it was my dream home, with six bedrooms across three storeys. I got the whole top floor knocked into one big bedroom and turned two of the other rooms into an office and gym. I was thrilled with the house and, when I got the cutest long-haired Chihuahua called Marmite to keep me and Crumpet company, I had my perfect little family.
It felt so significant to have bought my first place by the time I’d reached 21 – like I was finally a proper, responsible grown-up. On the day of my birthday, we had a champagne breakfast at Mum’s and then about 10 friends and I took the train down to London, where Dave was throwing me a glitzy party at Embassy nightclub. We checked into St Martin’s Lane Hotel, all had a relaxing massage and then ate dinner in the hotel restaurant.
The party was great fun and I was glad that my sisters came down, while celebs like Calum Best and Brian Belo also dropped in to wish me a happy birthday.
The night after my party, we all got the train home, hungover and tired, and went back to mine to watch DVDs and cook a big roast.
It was a good time and I loved playing homemaker and finally seeing my post-Big Brother earnings come to good use by getting on the property ladder. But my resolve to stay single hit the buffers in February 2009 when I got a text right out of the blue from yet another footballer, this one called Matthew Bates.
‘Hi,’ the text said. ‘How are you?’
‘Who’s this?’ I wrote back.
‘I’m Matt Bates. I play with Seb Hines.’
Oh, for God’s sake. What were these blokes like?
‘What do you want?’ I texted back.
‘I was just wondering if I could take you out on a date.’
Unamused, I replied, ‘What do you think I am, the Middlesbrough-team bike? Don’t you feel a bit awkward?’
‘Seb said you were just friends.’
‘We are.’
‘So would you like to go for dinner some time?’
As our text exchange went on for a bit, I started to feel a bit curious, so agreed to meet him. He was a year older than me but, because I’d never even heard of him, I had to Google him to see what he even looked like. I wasn’t sure at first because he had a bit of a skinhead in some of the pictures I found but then I discovered that he’d shaved it all off for charity after his friend died, which I thought was really sweet. But on our first date, I think my first words were, ‘Thank God you’ve got hair!’
We went to a nice pub and had steak and mash, which is my favourite meal ever, and it was one of those rare first dates that was easy and natural. I wasn’t looking to meet anyone, so there was no expectation on my part but I found I really did like him and we laughed all evening. Amazingly for a footballer, he loved books and reading, which instantly appealed to me. Normally, I am quite awkward and geeky in these situations but there was none of that.
You might wonder if I had a thing for footballers but let me get this straight now: I definitely did not! They all just seemed to be very confident about asking girls out, which worked for me because I’m hopeless at making any first approach. Anyhow, if any footballer ever made a move on me these days, I’d be like, ‘Go screw yourself!’ I’ve got no time for them any more.
A few nights after my meal out with Matt, he came over to my house and I cooked spaghetti bolognese for us. Not the most original but it was the only thing I’d mastered then. The next morning, I was going on holiday to Mexico with Chantelle – who I was still good friends with – so I didn’t want a late night. After dinner, we watched a bit of TV on the sofa and, though we did kiss, Matt was very gentlemanly and left me to get to bed early, saying politely, ‘Thanks very much for having me.’
Next day, Chantelle and I flew to Cancun for a fortnight of sun and sea – but I kept thinking of Matt the whole time I was there. I also ran up a £1,000 phone bill because we were speaking constantly. Incidentally, I also got an interesting call from Danny a few days into the holiday. He’d been chasing me again over the previous few weeks, saying he really wanted to get serious this time. But I was so wary of being hurt that I’d been keeping him at arm’s length.
‘Don’t be with Matt,’ he said when he rang. ‘Be with me. We can make things work. I’m telling you now I’m going to commit to you a hundred per cent.’
‘Danny, it’s too late,’ I said.
But he wouldn’t give up. ‘Please rethink this before you come back from holiday. Seriously, that guy Matt is an arsehole.’ It was a bit confusing to hear all this but I just knew I couldn’t trust him. Danny was always going to be playing the field, whereas Matt had already told me he wanted to settle down.
It wasn’t the best holiday, especially as Chantelle had her own drama to deal with. She was seeing the footballer Jermain Defoe at the time and got a call from Dave informing her of an imminent ‘kiss ’n’ tell’ by some girl. We were sharing this gorgeous room overlooking the sea but, when she heard the news, she screamed down the phone at Dave and threw a glass against the wall, which smashed everywhere.
I was talking to Matt at the time and he could hear it all kicking off.
‘Why don’t you change your flights and come home early?’ he said. ‘I’m desperate to see you.’
‘Yeah, OK. I might do,’ I said.
The next day, Chantelle and I both flew back. We said our goodbyes at the airport after we landed and that was the last I saw of her for a very long time.
Back home, my relationship with Matt picked up steam and he booked us a weekend away at a gorgeous hotel, which cost at least £800 per night.
‘How can you afford all of this?’ I asked as he bought me loads of spa treatments and massages.
‘I borrowed some money off my mum,’ he said. ‘I wanted it to be special.’
What was surprising about Matt in those days is that he wasn’t some minted, millionaire footballer, flashing his cash around like there was no tomorrow. I was earning more than him with all my glamour shoots in the beginning, so it was sweet that he tried so hard to impress me. But early that summer, he signed a new contract at Middlesbrough and his salary rocketed. He went from being skint to super-rich overnight.
Another thing I liked about Matt was that he was bright. Everyone thinks footballers are stupid but he could hold a good conversation and was competent at having a debate – essential for someone like me who loves an argument! We’d sit around reading books, go for leisurely walks and cycle rides with Marmite and hit the gym together too. He was such a perfect boyfriend that he even took my parents and Zoe out for dinner just to get to know them better.
I couldn’t have asked more of him. I’d fallen madly and deeply in love and the early part of summer 2009 passed by in a blur of happiness, with sun-soaked trips to Ibiza, Dubai and Portgual. But perhaps I should have known that it was too good to be true.
One day after he’d been to training, we were in his car when he said, ‘I’m having a lads’ night tonight. Do you mind staying at yours?’
I’d been living at Matt’s house in Yarm, near Middlesbrough almost permanently over the past few weeks but this was no problem at all.
‘Yeah, that’s fine,’ I said and nodded. ‘Just make sure you behave!’
I was only joking of course – I trusted Matt implicitly. So I went back to mine and we didn’t speak at all that weekend, which was very unlike us. On the Monday morning, while he was at training, I drove up to his place to clear up – assuming it’d be a bomb site after his boys’ night. The kitchen was a real mess and, as I started to wash up some of the dirty plates and cups, I saw two wine glasses with lipstick smudges around the rim. My first thought was, ‘That’s weird; he never said he was having any girls round.’ But at that point I wasn’t too worried because, if I’d been having a party, I’d invite guy friends over as well as girls.
I carried on tidying up and that’s when my stomach did a huge somersault because lying behind the sofa was a girl’s lacy bra.
‘Oh God. Oh God,’ I thought, my mind racing. So that’s what had been going on. I felt so sick, not to mention gutted because this relationship had seemed like the real deal. Only a few nights earlier we’d been talking about our future and our dreams of getting married one day, having kids and opening a restaurant together.
I didn’t say anything when Matt got back from training – partly because I wanted to be sure before I accused him of doing the dirty on me. We had dinner with my friend Neil that evening and on the way back I saw Matt’s phone flash in the car. We had exactly the same Blackberry, so I picked it up, pretending I thought it was mine.
Scrolling through, I saw that he’d been Facebooking several different girls – all of them second-rate glamour models, who had written stuff like, ‘Hi, babe, what you up to?’
He’d replied back, saying things like, ‘Nice bum in that pic!’
As I looked in horror at all these tarts in their underwear, I fumed, ‘Who the fuck are these girls, Matt?’
‘Give me my phone!’ he shouted, trying to grab it back while he was driving.
‘Who are they?’ I yelled even louder.
We were right by a Holiday Inn and he pulled over at the side of the road, protesting his innocence.
‘It’s nothing!’
‘Tell me now!’
‘Calm down. Why are you being like this?’
Right then, a surge of anger so immense came over me that I couldn’t control it. Sitting in the passenger seat wearing a pair of high-heel spiked boots, I began kicking holes in his dashboard and glove box. I was seriously behaving like a total psycho – but even now, I feel livid remembering it.
‘Stop it!’ he screamed, trying to hold my legs down to stop me causing any more damage. ‘Let me explain!’
‘Take me home,’ I ordered him. ‘Drive me back right now. I don’t want to hear from you or see you again. You’re an absolute arsehole.’
As he pulled up outside my house, the tears were pouring down my face. ‘Don’t ever contact me again,’ I said. ‘I can’t believe I trusted you. Danny Simpson warned me but I thought you were different to other footballers. And now it turns out it’s you who is the total player.’
He said nothing and stared down at the steering wheel.
As I stormed out of the car, I said, ‘You told me you wanted to be in a long-term relationship. Why would you do that if you want to play around? At least be bloody honest about it.’
I went into the house, grabbed some of his stuff and started hurling it at his car. I even dented one of the doors by throwing shoes at it so hard.
Finally, he spoke: ‘Please, please let me in. I’m so sorry. I love you. Look, I’ll delete Facebook. It doesn’t matter to me.’
‘You mean you have to delete Facebook to resist the temptation of these slags? Can’t you just say no?’
I slammed the front door in his face and, though he kept ringing the bell and pleading for me to let him in, I refused. Eventually, he drove off, leaving me a sobbing wreck. I just could not believe this had happened. Looking for some comfort, I called my parents to tell them what had happened but, unbelievably, they sided with Matt.
‘Don’t throw this away over a couple of harmless messages, Chanelle,’ Dad said. ‘It sounds like you’re overreacting, as usual.’
Mum agreed. ‘Matt’s a lovely guy. You’d be mad to walk away over something so trivial.’
I could not believe what I was hearing. It felt like another betrayal.
The next morning, after a sleepless night, there was a knock at my front door. It was a florist delivering roses and champagne from Matt. How original! I was totally unmoved, as you’d expect, but this was only the start of it. Every day for the next fortnight, he arranged for a different present to be delivered to my house. He bought me cooking lessons with Marco Pierre White, a spa day for me and a friend, as well as Swarovski jewellery – and each day there would be a card with the gift, which simply said ‘Sorry’.
Speaking to Mum again, she said, ‘Don’t you think you can let it go now? He’s only a young lad and all these gifts show he’s trying to make it up to you.’
She just didn’t get it. ‘No, Mum, all these presents mean nothing because he earns a lot of money.’
‘Oh, Chanelle. It was only a few messages. Stop being such bloody hard work.’
We fell out badly then. As I’ve said before, I adore my parents unconditionally but, at times like this, they just wound me up so badly.
‘How can you side with him after what he’s done?’ I was shaking with anger. ‘Thanks a lot for the loyalty.’ I hung up, having told them I didn’t want to see or talk to them – and that was the last time we spoke for a while.
As stubborn and livid as I was, after those two weeks had passed I did start to feel that maybe I should hear Matt out. I’d been blanking his texts and ignoring all his calls until then but late one evening I phoned him, armed with a speech about how he had to prove he could be trusted if we were to have any future. But he must have answered his phone by accident because all I could hear was some girl talking in the background. That obviously stoked my fury again and, with my mind racing, I lay in bed unable to sleep. As I tossed and turned, something told me to go over to his place and find out for myself what was really going on. So like some crazy woman, I got dressed and drove up to Middlesbrough, about an hour away up the A1. It was about 1am by this point but Matt’s car was there and some of the lights were on, so I knew he was in. I rang the bell but nobody answered – then I saw what looked like a woman peering through one of the blinds.
‘Got you,’ I thought. ‘You’re obviously not letting me in for a reason.’
How was I going to be able to catch him out though? If I came back the next day, he’d only deny everything and whoever was with him would probably have left. I decided there was only one option: I was going to have to sit there in my car until morning.
Thankfully, it wasn’t a cold night, so that’s what I did, like some lunatic detective. I dozed for a bit but it was bloody uncomfortable and I was also on high alert in case the girl inside the house came out. I knew he’d be leaving for training at around 8am so, shortly before then, I called him. He picked up this time – but, because I hadn’t seen anyone leave overnight, I knew he wasn’t alone.
‘Who are you with?’ I said.
Baffled, he replied, ‘What do you mean? I’m on my own.’
‘No, Matt. You’re not. I saw someone looking out of the blinds last night.’
‘What the hell are you talking about? Have you been outside my house all that time?’
‘Yes, Matt. And now I know exactly what you’re up to.’
‘You’re being ridiculous. Will you just go away?’ he said.
‘I can’t believe you,’ I said. ‘I was considering taking you back and actually feeling bad for keeping you in the dark. But it turns out you’re still doing exactly the same thing as before. You must really think I’m stupid.’
He sighed. ‘Look, I don’t want to be with you any more, so leave me alone. Get away from my house and don’t come back.’
This was like a dagger through my heart. He’d been buying me presents and begging my forgiveness for two weeks and now he was saying this? It must have been because there was some girl there listening in but, still, those words struck me like a hammer blow.
He hung up on me and I burst into tears. I’d got this so wrong. He didn’t want me back at all. How could I have been such a fool? I was convinced he loved me and was desperate to be with me but really he hated my guts.
I drove home, barely able to see the road. And the harder I cried, the more irrational I became. I’d fallen out with my parents over Matt and now he’d turned his back on me too. I felt like nobody gave a toss about me at all. In fact, what was the point of me even being around? I’m afraid to say that, once that thought had entered my mind, it was like an old trigger point was reactivated from deep within me. It seemed quite simple – I actually didn’t want to
be alive any more. I made up my mind then and there: I was going to put an end to this miserable life, once and for all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
An Emotional Rollercoaster
It might sound like I talk about taking my own life lightly but it certainly didn’t feel like I was being flippant back then. Although I’m much tougher and more resilient these days, in my past I could not handle severe hurt or process such negative emotions. So when Matt snapped my heart in two like that, I just wanted everything to stop. I thought, ‘I can’t cope with that amount of pain again for years on end.’ I didn’t have the mental or emotional capacity for it.
After I got home from Matt’s early that August morning, I walked to the corner shop and bought two packets of paracetamol and then went to the Co-op down the road and bought another two packs.
The lady who served me said, ‘Have you got any ID?’
‘I’m sorry, are you joking?’
‘You’ve got to be over sixteen to buy paracetamol.’
It shows how rough I looked – I had no make-up on and hadn’t even been to bed that night because I’d been waiting outside Matt’s all night.
Suddenly, I recognised the woman on the other till. It was the mum of a girl called Amy who I’d been to school with. I said, ‘You know me, don’t you? I’m the same age as your Amy.’
She said, ‘Yeah, that’s fine love. But are you OK?
‘Oh, yeah, I’ve just got really bad hay fever. It’s giving me a bad headache, so I’m going to take some tablets,’ I lied through my teeth.
When I got home, I opened a bottle of wine and started slugging it back with the pills. In a daze, I’m not certain how many tablets I swallowed but it was certainly a big handful.
Before I fell unconscious, I sent a text to Zoe, which just said, ‘I love you so much and I’m really sorry.’ I didn’t bother getting in touch with anyone else; I was in that frame of mind where I thought no one would care if I died anyway.
Chanelle Hayes - Baring My Heart Page 15