Cheryl: My Story (29 page)

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.

I saw Sue, Ashley’s mam, who was still staying with us and was making a cup of tea in the kitchen.

‘These stupid girls,’ she said, rolling her eyes, and I knew there was no point in discussing it with her, because she would always believe her son and defend him to the hilt. That’s how she’d reacted last time, and I knew she’d be exactly the same again.

I was glad of the house being so big because even when people stayed with us, everybody had plenty of space to themselves. After that I kept out of Sue’s way as much as I could.

That night I got into bed, next to Ashley, and quietly soaked my pillow with tears while he slept beside me. I eventually cried myself to sleep, wondering how the hell this was ever going to be resolved if my husband couldn’t even hold a conversation with me.

The phone rang, at 5 o’clock in the morning.

‘I’m so sorry. There’s another story in the press today.’

‘About the same girl?’

‘No. Different story, different girl.’

‘OK. Thank you, Hillary.’

I decided not to read this one.

‘I’m going to work,’ I told Ashley later. ‘By the way, there’s another story today.’

‘I can’t handle this,’ he said.

I could see he was boiling with frustration and I knew that if I pressed him now he’d go absolutely berserk, so I just went to work.

‘
You
can’t handle it?’ I thought. ‘What about
me
?’