by Cole, Cheryl
‘Wow!’ I thought, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
I was in LA for 10 days, and my emotions were all over the place the whole time. Derek was brilliant. In the short time I’d known him I’d been bowled over by the spontaneous, free-spirited way he lives his life. ‘I’m just snowboarding in Utah,’ he’d said one time I called. Another time it was: ‘I’m partying in Miami. Mary J. Blige is here – do you want to talk to her? She’s really cool and I’m going to teach her how to tango …’
Now he was taking me out for coffee or to the cinema, trying to keep my spirits up, and one night he asked me out to dinner.
‘We can’t go for dinner, they’ll say we’re dating,’ I said.
‘What are you talking about?’ he laughed. ‘It’s just dinner.’
Even though Derek has family in the UK and had lived in England for 10 years as a child, he is from Utah and there are some parts of British life he just doesn’t get. The tabloid press is, or should I say was, one of them.
He is very famous in America because of Dancing with the Stars, but he was only used to receiving happy, positive publicity because that’s largely what the public wants over there. Derek simply didn’t understand why anyone would want to photograph me walking into a restaurant to have a quiet dinner with a friend, especially when my life was in such a mess.
‘It’s just not news,’ he said. ‘Honestly, I don’t get it.’
‘Trust me, it would be. It’s not worth it.’
In the end Derek decided to just turn up at my hotel, bringing with him his friend’s Yorkshire terrier, as he knew I was missing Buster and Coco like mad.
‘I’ve brought you some doggy love,’ he said.
I’d been crying but I started smiling, and I thought it was really sweet and thoughtful of him. Derek was like a breath of fresh air. He had no preconceived ideas of me. I wasn’t a famous person to him; I’d just come into his life through a video, that was all. He told me about himself, and the fact he was brought up as a Mormon, and I felt I could trust him and talk to him about anything, because he just was so dignified and well mannered and easy to be with. I was used to being surrounded by girls, but I was now starting to get very mistrustful of women, which is probably another reason I confided in Derek.
‘I’m questioning the sisterhood,’ I told him. ‘I’m a girls’ girl, always have been. I would never sleep with someone’s husband knowing they were a married man. I don’t understand those girls, those hangers on who sleep with someone just because of what they do or how famous they are, or how much money they have. What about the sisterhood?’
Derek let me ramble on, and he moved the conversation on to lighter, brighter things whenever I got too tearful and distressed.
I hadn’t wanted to talk to Nicola and Kimberley, or anybody else I was close to, because I felt they’d already been there for me once in this situation, and it was embarrassing to be in it again.
Derek was a new ear, and he was the perfect person to speak to. It was like he was a little angel, sent to help me through this testing time. I looked at him and honestly half expected to see a halo around his head.
It was the early hours of the morning when he left, and sure enough he got photographed leaving the hotel, with a funny smirk on his face and carrying the dog in his arms. The stories that accompanied the picture insinuated that Derek and I were having some sort of relationship.
‘Like what are you doing?’ his friends said, and Derek couldn’t believe the photo was absolutely everywhere, all over the internet and the British press.
‘My God, I’ve never looked so gay in my life! What they thought I was trying to do with you in that hotel room with the dog and the funny smirk I have no idea!’
The suggestion we’d met on a video just weeks earlier and were now having a ‘relationship’ as he watched my marriage crumble was a joke. From Derek’s point of view I’d turned from a perfectly normal singer he was doing the tango with one minute, into a crazy drunk woman who was weeping and wailing and shouting and screaming the next. It’s not exactly relationship-building stuff, is it?
I called Ashley from LAX Airport before I boarded my return flight to Heathrow.
‘I’m divorcing you. I want you out by the time I get home.’
He was clearly dumbstruck, so I carried on talking.
‘I literally want you to be out of that house, with your stuff, and I don’t care if you’ve got to hobble. Get out before I get home. It’s over.’
‘Right. OK,’ he stuttered. ‘I won’t be here. I’ll be out when you get back.’
Hearing those words brought me no peace of mind whatsoever. I was willing him to fight. Even now I wanted him to say, ‘No, you’re my wife and when you get home we’re gonna talk about this,’ but he didn’t.
‘What a wimp,’ I thought.
I got Sundraj to put out a statement that said: ‘Cheryl Cole is separating from her husband Ashley Cole. Cheryl asks the media to respect her privacy during this difficult time.’
I thought that making an announcement would at least stop the speculation and might take some pressure off, but I knew that landing at Heathrow was still going to be horrendous. Before I got off the plane I put on big sunglasses and took a deep breath. I just wanted to get to my car and get home as quickly as possible.
The amount of paparazzi and TV film crews was absolutely unbelievable. There were scores and scores of photographers and cameramen, all pushing and shoving and shouting to get a shot of me. I felt tiny and vulnerable, and it was a total shock to my system. I was going through hell, and I was being treated like some kind of performing animal. It was inhumane. I felt like one of those caged bears who’s prodded with a stick to make it dance. How could other human beings treat me like this and think it was acceptable?
Mam was at the house when I got back, and she told me Ashley had left just a few hours before I arrived.
‘I gave him a hug before he went,’ she said.
‘What did you do that for?’ I asked angrily, because I didn’t think he deserved a hug, especially from my mother.
‘I can’t bear to see anyone in that much pain.’
I texted Ashley and thanked him for going, and giving me my space. He’d taken a few bags but his stuff was still all around the house, and I could smell him everywhere. I couldn’t face looking at our wedding pictures, and I turned them all to face the walls.
‘Mam, by any chance do you have the stories?’ I asked.
I was jetlagged and felt dizzy, but I knew it was time to read them.
‘Yes. I knew you’d ask for them. I have them all.’
Mam brought them out, put them in a pile in front of me and left me alone.
As I started to read, I felt numb inside. I was freezing up, protecting myself, to try to deal with the pain. I read each and every story, one after the other. There were four different women, all making different allegations. I knew about the first girl, the sex-text one, and now I was turning the pages in horror, reading that all the other three were saying they had sex with Ashley.
I was subconsciously looking for something that wasn’t true. I read a text message that didn’t seem real. ‘Would Ashley really write that?’ I thought.
One claim went back six years and I just thought: ‘Why would you come out with that now?’ This girl was saying she was with Ashley the night we were first photographed together at the Funky Buddha nightclub, but I knew I had been with him then. I didn’t believe her and I was looking and looking, hoping I could find flaws in every story, wishing that somehow Ashley was right, that this was some kind of media vendetta against him that had got dangerously out of hand.
I didn’t get my wish, of course. Another girl said they drank rosé wine in a hotel bedroom together, and that Ashley smoked. He does like rosé wine, and at first I told myself she could have seen him drinking it in the bar rather than sharing a bottle with him in the bedroom, as she claimed. The smoking, though? He’s a footballer and this wasn’t som
ething he did in public. Hardly anybody knew he smoked.
There were other little details in the stories nobody could have known, nobody should have known, except me. Holding hands in the bed. That hit a nerve, a big one. That was my husband that someone else was talking about. The description ‘like relationship sex’ was so painful to read I blocked it out totally; I just couldn’t deal with it. The fact that he’d been cheating on me when he was away with Chelsea also made my blood run cold. I’d always thought I didn’t have to worry when Ashley was at work, because the club wouldn’t tolerate that kind of behaviour, but I had a sudden, horrible realisation that if I ever did get back with him, I would end up being one of those horrible, paranoid wives I never wanted to be. I’d already banned him from socialising with certain friends, but I couldn’t stop him going to work, could I? I’d be worrying myself sick the whole time.
When I’d finished reading I stared at the papers in disgust and disbelief. It was as if I’d been physically attacked by them, because I felt winded, like the pages and the words had punched me in the stomach. I pushed them away, feeling sick at the smell of the newsprint, and then I actually vomited.
I didn’t believe everything I’d read, but I’d seen enough to know that the trust had completely gone out of our marriage, and I was doing the right thing divorcing Ashley. It was almost like payback time. He had hurt me so very badly, and divorce was the only way of getting back at him, of showing him how much damage he had actually done.
I sat alone for ages, thinking to myself, ‘I have no idea who my husband is any more. I don’t recognise him. The man I’ve just read about isn’t the man I married.’
Seeing the papers had given me another, very unexpected shock too. I’d been so caught up in my own problems that the whole scandal about Wayne Bridge’s fiancée, Vanessa, having an affair with John Terry had literally passed me by. It had clearly come out in the press just before the stories about Ashley. Thinking about being on the beach with Wayne and Vanessa and their child the summer before just added to the pain and confusion I was feeling. It was like the world had gone mad, and I couldn’t understand what made people cheat and cause so much chaos and upset.
I spent the next few days moping round the house and crying. Ashley was trying to phone me all the time but I didn’t answer. I had no idea where he was staying and I didn’t want to know. If he was in the papers again I didn’t have a clue, because I’d made a decision not to read any of them ever again.
So many things were going through my head. One minute I’d be panicking, thinking, ‘If I believe the stories are true then I married a stranger, and how can I ever cope with that?’ The next minute I’d think, ‘How can anybody hurt someone who loves them so much?’ It was agony.
When I hit a really low point one night I phoned Ashley and begged him to talk to me, to give me an explanation.
‘You know you said I did nothing wrong, well I don’t believe you,’ I sobbed. ‘There must have been something. You have to tell me. It’s driving me mad.’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Ashley, I don’t think you get where I’m coming from. You can’t just keep saying nothing. It’s not fair. Tell me what I did wrong and at least I can deal with my flaws.’
‘It’s not you. There’s nothing like that.’
‘But there is. Can’t you see that by saying nothing, or saying it has nothing to do with me, it’s like saying you’re guilty of the whole lot. Is that the case, Ashley?’
‘I don’t believe this …’
It was like talking to a brick wall all over again. I would have preferred him to say: ‘You know what, Cheryl, I slept with them all and I loved it.’ That would have been less of a torture than not knowing the truth.
When I put the phone down I started sobbing hysterically, like a little child does, crying so hard I was gasping for air and wanting to be sick. The house felt huge. It has six big bedrooms and it’s spacious at the best of times, but now I felt like a tiny, teeny person who might get lost inside it. I tried to get ready for bed but I got angry seeing our bedroom and thinking how Ashley had wrecked our life together.
‘How could you?’ I screamed, kicking a pair of his shoes. ‘Why did you do it, Ashley? What did I do to deserve this?’
If anyone had heard me they’d have thought I’d finally cracked up, because I was ranting and raving and talking to myself. When my head hit the pillow I started screaming and crying into it. I’d got some sleeping pills off the doctor, and they were a lifesaver. I actually felt good just for 10 minutes before I fell asleep, but in the morning I had to face the whole nightmare all over again. It started the minute I woke up, and the horrible realisation that Ashley had gone and this was my reality hit me all over again.
I started smoking 20 cigarettes a day when I normally only have one or two, and I was drinking too, just to try and relax and knock the sharp corners off my feelings. I was well aware I could fall into a dark depression again. If I’d gone that way after having my heart broken as a teenager I knew it was a strong possibility I could go back there now. In hindsight, the pain I felt at 16, after splitting up with Dave, was absolutely nothing compared to what I was suffering now. It wasn’t even one-thousandth of the agony I was going through, yet at the time I’d thought I could never feel any lower.
For days I didn’t want to see anybody, even my close friends and family, and I could feel myself retreating into my shell. I was protecting myself, I guess. I didn’t trust anyone or anything around me, because I didn’t even know who I was any more.
I had to get back to work, though. I had studio time booked for my second album, and Will had asked me to be the supporting act on some of the European dates for the Black Eyed Peas’ spring tour.
I’d been frightened of doing it at first but Will had more or less repeated what he’d said to me about me recording solo records. ‘I know you can do it. Trust me. You will be amazing. It’s the next step for you. You are going to be a huge solo star.’
We had rehearsals coming up, which I knew was a good thing as moping around the house was doing me no good at all. The tour excited me, and I imagined I could focus completely on my work instead of my pain. It was a way of escaping, I hoped.
I remember going into the Metropolis recording studios in London to work on the album and thinking, ‘This is the one thing I’ve got left. I’m not going to stay at home and wallow in all those horrible feelings and thoughts when I could be doing what I love and making music.’
I’d smile at the security guard on the way in and go through the motions of acting normal, but inside I was dying, and I mean dying. Every day I was getting worse. I thought I was actually going to fall apart it was that bad, and being chased around London by photographers certainly didn’t help. I began to really loathe and despise the paps, more than ever before. I couldn’t understand how one human could do that to another. I’d felt like a hunted animal for a long time, but now I was so badly wounded the chase felt more inhumane than ever.
Derek was in constant touch, calling and texting. I’d tell him how I was feeling sometimes, but I didn’t want to be a burden. He was still like my little angel though, giving positive advice and cheering me up by telling me he looked forward to seeing me when I went to LA, as I had some recording time booked out there too.
‘Can you make it to the tour?’ I asked him hopefully, as soon as I knew the dates for the Peas. ‘You could dance with me on “Parachute”.’
‘I’ll be there for the last week,’ Derek said. ‘How does that sound?’
I was delighted. The tour was going all round Europe and I was really looking forward to it, for lots of reasons. The main one was that it would be like going back to the early days with Girls Aloud, as I’d be performing to different territories, to people who didn’t know me and would have no preconceptions. It would be pure performing and not too much pressure, as I was only the support act. It would be great to work with Will again too, an
d whenever I felt like I was cracking up I’d try and visualise being on the tour, dancing with Derek, being inspired by Will, and being happy because I still had my music, and nobody could take that away.
About a week after Ashley had left he came round to the house one night to collect some of his stuff. I’d answered his calls a few times by now, and every time he’d told me he didn’t want our marriage to end. He sounded torn apart, completely. I felt sorry for him, because despite what he’d done he was still a human being, a person I’d loved more deeply than I’d ever loved anyone before, and he was suffering.
As soon as he came into the house I gave him a cuddle. He squeezed me and clung to me like a little boy. There was no screaming and shouting and I asked him nothing, because I knew it was pointless. Actually, it reminded me of the last time I had seen Andrew in prison, when I reached the conclusion that if he wasn’t going to help himself there was nothing more I could do.
It was exactly the same with Ashley. He knew I was there, willing to talk. He knew that divorcing him was not what I wanted, not really. But I couldn’t do any more. It was just like with my brother. In order to move forward Ashley had to take responsibility, but he didn’t seem capable of doing that. He didn’t stay long and was so tongue-tied we barely spoke, and when he left I fell on the bed and howled into my pillow.
I felt like I’d taken a big step, but it wasn’t a pleasant one. Seeing Ashley had drawn a line under the pointless rows, but it was also a step closer to the end. Ashley hadn’t said sorry for what he had done, or accepted responsibility, not once, not ever. In one way I felt empowered by what had happened, like the victim who finally stands up to the bully one day, goes crazy and shouts ‘STOP’. For me, it felt like the mental abuse, the going over and over the same things again and again in my brain, had finally stopped. There’s only so much a human can take, and I had reached the limit and was not going to keep asking for more.
When I woke up the next day I felt bereft. There is no better way of describing it. My marriage had died, and I was properly grieving for it. It is like a death, but the only thing is you’re still alive, living after the death of something that was such a big part of both of you. I could still see Ashley and talk to him, and I knew he was grieving too, and that a part of him had also died. It was just the worst feeling in the world.