Cheryl: My Story

by Cole, Cheryl

  I knew Derek was amazing at the tango and it seemed meant to be that we worked together. It came about because Hillary knows Bruno Tonioli, one of the judges on Dancing with the Stars. Bruno used to choreograph Hillary’s old group Bananarama, and of course he knew Derek through Dancing with the Stars.

  ‘We’ve had a word about “Parachute” and Derek’s really excited to work with you,’ Hillary told me, after explaining the connection.

  ‘Wow, that’s amazing,’ I said.

  I knew Derek was a world champion of Latin and ballroom, and I was really excited to work with him too.

  Ashley thought it was really funny that I’d gone on about Derek for ages and suddenly he wasn’t just a dancer I admired from afar on the TV, he was in London, working on my routine.

  ‘You know what, you’re lucky,’ Ashley told me.

  ‘I know,’ I said, and I really felt it, on a personal as well as a career level.

  Our marriage troubles were behind us now, that’s how it felt. I would never be able to forget about the cheating and the allegations, but I could feel the dark days slipping deeper and deeper into our history, and I was looking forward all the time, not back. There was still a lot of speculation about us as a couple, especially if I didn’t wear my wedding ring, and so at the beginning of November I got Sundraj to put a picture on Twitter of me with the ring on my finger, along with the message: ‘3 Words: Diamonds are Forever’. It was just a cheeky, spur-of-the-moment thing, something I felt like doing to put a stop to all the rumours about the state of our marriage. It felt right to do it, because I really did think Ashley and I were back together for good.

  I hadn’t done any ballroom dancing since I was a child, but as soon as I started rehearsals with Derek, I felt super comfortable. He was so talented and enthusiastic it would have been impossible not to be inspired by him. I loved the Latin paso doble-type routine he devised for us and I got to wear a gorgeous flamenco-style dress. I felt like a proper ballroom dancer in his arms, and I thoroughly enjoyed the whole evening, from start to finish. It was a total buzz, and I could hardly believe how lucky I was to have the chance to do something so special.

  The night after the TV show was aired, it was the X Factor final. It was a crazy, crazy night and the whole atmosphere was much more chaotic than usual behind the scenes. I lit scented candles in my dressing room to try to calm myself down, but they didn’t help. It felt like there was actually nervous energy trickling out of the walls. In the corridors it was a hectic blur of production staff, cameras and contestants running around and flapping. I tried having a glass of wine and a cigarette, but they didn’t help either and my nerves were getting worse and worse.

  I desperately wanted Joe to win. He was such a genuinely nice lad, and we’d formed a real bond. The innuendos in the press that he fancied me or we were having some sort of fling were ridiculously far off the mark. Joe had already confided to me that he was gay, and he was howling laughing about those rumours. Ashley didn’t find it quite so funny; in fact he was disgusted. ‘It just proves what crap they write. You’re married, he’s gay. It’s sick.’ I wasn’t very amused either, but I shrugged it off. I had too much going on to let myself get wound up about something so stupid.

  When decision time finally came, I could hardly believe I was on that stage again, breathless with anticipation, just as I had been with Alexandra the year before. I was absolutely ecstatic when Joe’s name was called, and this time I didn’t have to scoop the winner up off the floor, because Joe picked me up and spun me around. I could almost hear the Geordie voices in the air. I knew people were holding ‘Joe’ parties to support him all over South Shields, and this felt like a victory for the whole of the North East. I honestly could not have felt more proud.

  After the show I got a message from Simon to say there was someone in his dressing room he wanted me to meet. I walked in and the scene was mental. There were women partying everywhere, and Simon was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

  ‘Cheryl! Say hello to Prince Harry,’ he said, wafting his arms towards the ground. I looked over, and to my astonishment Prince Harry was lying on the dressing room floor, with his top buttons undone, relaxing with a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His girlfriend Chelsy was there too.

  ‘Hi! How are you?’ Harry said, grinning at me.

  ‘I’m good, thanks,’ I smiled. He just looked like a typical young lad, chilling out at a party, and he didn’t even get up off the floor when we started to chat.

  I knew Harry had said something in the past about being a fan of mine, and we had a little laugh about that. Then we talked about whether the press knew he was coming to the show this weekend. Harry didn’t seem to care one way or the other. He told me that he and Chelsy had actually sat in the audience, and he said he probably didn’t get scrutinised as much as me.

  ‘I don’t know how you cope with it,’ he said, which was completely surreal coming from such a high-profile member of our royal family.

  I could hear Simon laughing loudly, and afterwards he congratulated me on Joe’s win.

  ‘I have to hand it to you, you are incredible,’ he said. ‘If I knew what made you so special, I would literally bottle it and sell it.’

  It was an enormous compliment, but as the words came out of Simon’s mouth I was already wondering how I was going to break it to him that I was going to be focusing on my solo career and babies next year.

  My album had been out for two months by now, and against the odds it was doing well. It debuted at number one and turned platinum in the November, which was way beyond my expectations. I was finally starting to believe in myself as a solo artist and I was picturing a future in which I had lots of children, and could slot studio time around my family life. That was my idea of a perfect world.

  ‘Parachute’ was to be the final single released off the album, and I shot the video with Derek in the middle of January 2010, at the historic Eltham Palace in south-east London. We worked for 19 hours, and just before the very last shot was taken the fire alarm went off and we had to evacuate the building. Derek never complained; in fact he helped keep everybody’s spirits up with all his energy and enthusiasm. It was contagious, and I remember saying to Ashley afterwards, ‘Derek is one of those people who makes the day more enjoyable,’ because that was the truth. Derek and I agreed to keep in touch afterwards, and I said I’d call him when I was next in LA, where he lives. At the time I had absolutely no idea how soon that would be and I could never, ever have guessed how important Derek’s friendship was about to become to me.

  13

  ‘Even if it kills me, I want to know it all’

  ‘Cheryl! How do you feel about what’s happening?’

  It was a journalist, shouting to me across the car park of a London hospital. It was 11 February 2010 and Ashley had had an operation on his ankle that morning. He’d been under general anaesthetic, and he was only allowed out once he’d managed to hold some food down.

  It had been a very long and stressful day and it was getting dark by this time. I was pushing Ashley to the car in a wheelchair, and now this journalist was heading towards us. I looked at the guy with disgust and just thought, ‘What an absolute disgrace.’

  Ashley was still sleepy, and he’d already had to put up with some nurses asking for his autograph in the recovery room, moments after he’d come round from the operation. He’d absolutely had enough by now. ‘Liberty taker!’ Ashley snarled.

  ‘Can’t you just leave him to have an operation?’ I said. I was gobsmacked that anyone could behave so insensitively.

  I helped Ashley out of the wheelchair and onto the back seat of the car, where he slumped down under a blanket. We were both fuming as we drove away, and at the end of the road there were loads of paparazzi who all took pictures of me in the front seat, with a face like thunder.

  I honestly thought they wanted a story about Ashley’s injury, and I felt super protective towards my husband. When we got home I helped
him into bed, propped his leg up so he was as comfortable as possible, and made him a drink.

  ‘You get some rest,’ I said. ‘Just let me know if there’s anything you need.’

  Ashley dozed off, and just before midnight I climbed into bed beside him. Minutes later the phone rang, and I answered it.

  ‘I’m so sorry to be the person that’s making this call …’

  It was Hillary, and my heart sank like a dead weight, making me feel instantly anxious.

  ‘There’s a story coming out in the morning. It’s another girl, saying Ashley’s cheated … and … she’s got pictures.’

  The penny immediately dropped about the journalist and the paparazzi at the hospital, and my heart sank even deeper, if that were possible.

  ‘I see. Wow. Thank you, Hillary. I’ll read it.’

  My whole body felt heavy and numb. Ashley was awake now, and I relayed the conversation to him, stony faced.

  ‘What the hell? When are they ever gonna leave me alone? I’ve just had an operation! This is beyond a joke.’

  He snapped his eyes shut and I felt absolutely sick to the pit of my stomach. This was just too familiar and too painful, and I knew straight away that I wasn’t going to get any more information out of Ashley. I’d been here before, except now it was worse, not only because he was recovering from an operation but because I knew from experience that the more he was pushed, the more angry and distant he would become.

  Pictures, Hillary had said. ‘She’s got pictures.’ How could they be made up? I had a sudden flash of anger and part of me wanted just to chin Ashley right there and then, like I’d done last time, but I forced myself to stop and think and stay as calm as I possibly could. ‘It could still be another made-up story,’ I told myself, though I was finding it very hard to believe.

  ‘You know what, we’ll just see in the morning,’ I said to Ashley through gritted teeth.

  He said nothing and eventually drifted off to sleep, while I lay in the bed beside him, wide-awake, the whole night long. I was dreading what I was going to see in the morning. Even if it was a pile of crap there’d be hell to pay with the media. I was performing at the BRIT Awards in a few days’ time, doing ‘Fight For This Love’. My God, the timing couldn’t be worse.

  I tortured myself thinking that the reason Sundraj hadn’t phoned me, rather than Hillary, was because the story must be true. He’d delivered the bad news the first time and probably couldn’t bear to do it again. He’d been by my side through so much, dating right back to the whole nightclub incident, and we’d become good friends over the years. Maybe he couldn’t handle having to tell his friend something so devastating again?

  I think I asked one of the drivers we used at the time to bring me the newspaper the next day. I couldn’t contemplate leaving the house. There were paparazzi camped outside and, just like the ones by the hospital, they must have known a lot more about the story than I did. Nobody could have guessed that I’d spent the night in the house with Ashley, yet I knew next to nothing. I didn’t go online because I just couldn’t face it, and anyhow I’d learned from the last time that the story on the internet isn’t always the same version as the one in the paper, especially when there are pictures involved. I wanted to see the whole thing in front of me, in black and white, to make no mistake about exactly what was being reported.

  I started to sob when I saw the newspaper. There, splashed all over the front page of The Sun, was my husband, being accused of cheating on me yet again. I could feel my heart aching and breaking as I read the story. Ashley had supposedly sent this girl ‘sex text’ messages. That was the first thing I read. Not sex, just text messages. That was a good start, I suppose. I was desperately hoping there was an explanation, or that the story might have been dragged up from years before we even met, but the girl was claiming this happened in June 2009 – the month we’d been on holiday together to the South of France – and there were several pictures.

  There was one image of Ashley’s face I’d never seen before, and there was one of him with his England shorts on. They were bunched up and kind of looked like a nappy. It was a horrendous picture, but what really caught my eye was Ashley’s bare torso. He’d had a new tattoo since the first allegations in 2008, and I could see it clearly on this picture. That was a bad, bad moment, because I knew for a fact the photo had been taken within the last 12 months, in the time when Ashley was meant to be on his best behaviour.

  I had tears dripping down my cheeks as I read that there was apparently a picture of him naked too, which was too X-rated to print. I think I blacked out, because I have no recollection of how I first confronted Ashley with all this. I just remember that his mother was in the house somewhere and so I didn’t want to go too crazy and upset her, and then I have a memory of Ashley hobbling round the bedroom on crutches, saying, ‘This is just a f***ing joke.’

  My head was sore and everything in my mind was blurred. It was almost as if it was nature’s way of protecting me, shutting off my brain because it was just so painful for me to be fully conscious. I don’t have strong memories of the first conversations we had immediately afterwards, either. I can just see Ashley telling me something like: ‘They’re from my old phone. I was taking them to see what my tattoo looked like. I gave the phone away and forgot to delete them. It was a stupid mistake.’

  I was asking him for details. I wanted dates, times and the why, when and how about everything. ‘Even if it kills me, I want to know it all,’ I said, but Ashley didn’t have the answers.

  ‘I’ve told you, this is just a f***ing joke. Why are they out to get me?’

  I couldn’t get any sense out of him whatsoever. It was just like the last time. He simply didn’t have a clue how to communicate, and talking to him was like banging my head against a brick wall.

  I had rehearsals and fittings all the next day for the BRITs, and so I somehow got myself together and went out to work, with the paparazzi chasing me everywhere I went, calling things out about Ashley. Even when I was locked inside my car there was no escape, and I had a pack of them in constant pursuit, running red lights to stay with me. I could see copies of The Sun everywhere I looked; thrown on lorry drivers’ dashboards as I drove down the motorway, or outside newsagents and petrol stations.

  I never considered pulling out of the BRITs, not for one minute. Just like when I’d had to do the ‘Can’t Speak French’ videoshoot after the last lot of allegations, there were too many other people involved, and I just wouldn’t cause that much disruption because of my personal life. I don’t know how I got through the day, but somehow I did, by focusing on the job in hand and talking to people only when I had to, about the set or the chorography.

  When I got back from work Ashley was still in the same place, lying in bed with his leg propped up, and I was stressed out and angry. It had been tough facing people all day, knowing they were all looking at me and thinking, ‘Poor Cheryl’. Then I’d had the paps nearly knocking people over to get pictures of me coming home.

  ‘Are you gonna talk to me now?’ I shouted at Ashley. ‘I need you to communicate with me. I need answers.’

  I was worn out and very emotional too, and Ashley’s reaction was not what I wanted to hear.

  ‘This is just never gonna stop,’ he snapped back. ‘They’re trying to break us up and they’re winning.’

  ‘You’ve said all that a million times,’ I cried. ‘I want detail. I want answers. I need to know the whole truth, not just some stupid excuse about you giving your old phone away. It doesn’t add up, Ashley. It’s just not good enough.’

  ‘How are you ever gonna believe me when they’ve already damaged our relationship?’

  ‘Will you stop saying the same stuff over and over again. Just tell me what happened!’

  ‘Everyone’s out to get me. This is so frustrating! They’re trying to end my marriage because I left Arsenal and they’re winning. You’re letting them win.’

  This was irritating beyond belief. He wasn’
t confronting the issue at all, and neither was he calling the girl a liar.

  ‘Is that girl telling the truth or not? Have you been texting her like that? Can’t you answer a simple question?’

  That was met with total silence and so I started asking Ashley if there was something wrong with me, desperately trying to provoke a response.

  ‘Is it my fault this has happened, again?’ I screamed, but all Ashley did was shake his head.

  ‘Did you make a mistake getting married to me? Is it something I did wrong? Is it my job that’s the problem? Was I not here enough?’

  ‘No, you’re amazing,’ he said finally.

  ‘Why then? Was I too easy going? Did you not want to be a free spirit, to make your own choices? That’s what I’ve always thought was best. Was I wrong? Did you want me to keep you under lock and key, and ask you where you were going and what you were doing every minute of the day?’

  Ashley said nothing at all.

  ‘Would it have been better if I was one of those wives who was forever saying “why didn’t you call me five minutes ago like you said?” Well, would it?’

  ‘No! You’re the perfect wife.’

  ‘Why then? Tell me why, Ashley.’

  I was crying now, and he couldn’t look me in the eye.

  ‘This is such a lot of bullshit. They’re trying to split us up and you’re letting them.’

  ‘You know what, Ashley, if you’re not prepared to have an adult, married conversation with me, I haven’t got time for you.’

  Looking back the shock factor was nothing like the first time round. I didn’t convulse or have panic attacks like I had two years earlier. I just don’t think my brain would allow my body to go back there. It was quite surreal, actually. I was still managing to eat, and I got myself organised for work the next day, walking in and out of the bedroom where Ashley lay to get my things, but just ignoring him. I was almost on auto-pilot, playing a calm version of myself even though inside I was screaming and raging and hurting like hell.