fic: This Mess We're In (rps: Cheryl / Kimberley)
Title: This Mess We're In
Series: Spiralling (Part Seven)
Author: noclueontheloo
Fandom: Girls Aloud, Cheryl Cole/Kimberley Walsh (RPS)
Word Count: 6156
Summary: She wasn’t used to feeling this exposed, this vulnerable, and suddenly she wondered how Cheryl could do it, had a new respect for the way she put herself in the firing line on a daily basis.
Now
She’d been so totally blindside by it - their faces splashed across the cover with some appropriately banal headline, their beaming smiles never quite reaching their eyes - that she hadn’t paid attention to the percolator’s wayward angle, hissed and swore loudly as the coffee dripped onto her skin.
The blow was as precise and devastating as a swift punch to the gut. For seconds she remained bent forward, huddled over in pain as her naked arms slid against the cool marble of her kitchen counter.
It was inevitable, she knew, but it still hurt beyond measure. And all at once that dark abyss that she fought so hard to keep at bay was back to consume her whole. The only way to temper it, that wandering, rudderless feeling of eternal loneliness, of missed opportunity, of an unending sea of emptiness that she was drifting into, being swallowed up by every hour of every day, the only way she knew how to deal with it all when simple actions and everyday living was at the mercy of all these damn feelings and emotions that somehow she just could not control in the way other people seemed able to, was to embrace the pain and the sharp bitterness, transform it into anger. Turn it outward before it destroyed her.
* * * * *
6 weeks earlier
The room felt stiflingly hot as the ceiling high windows magnified the sun’s heat, intensifying each golden ray with pinpoint accuracy onto her already burning skin.
She was tense and distracted and could feel another one of her recurring migraines coming on, the pressure bubbling away under her scalp, building to an insistent throb.
She listened abstractedly as Hilary relayed the contents of her diary back at her with all the enthusiasm of an operator reciting the phone book.
It was the off-season, work was largely uneventful. Life too. Life without her.
She grimaced, scrunched up her eyes involuntarily, inwardly berated herself for letting her mind drift again, when she should at least try and give the other woman the courtesy of paying attention.
It was difficult though, focusing on work commitments, mustering the enthusiasm for promotions and appearances and the possibility of a career away from her four best supporters. She wanted them back. All of them. When they had parted ways for a year’s respite, she’d imagined spa treatments and poolside holidays, late mornings and even later nights.
But the holiday spirit had worn off after a couple of weeks. It was then that she realised she’d have to deal with herself. She’d never had that before, that time to take stock, to examine and analyse and just breathe out in the open without any constraints. Any real glaringly huge deadlines looming just around the corner.
She’d planned this, worked towards this for so long, the glittering career, the chance to sing, both for the love and for the achievement - that she could turn her passion into a means of support. She had.
But the annual routine that propelled her onwards had been swept from under her. The beat that had pounded out the last six years of her life, relentlessly forcing her through months of recording, promoting, filming, rehearsing, touring, resting and then repeating it all over and over again had just died instantaneously - and she had quickly learnt that she hated the silence.
“OK?” Hilary had said, jolting her back into the sweaty confines of their glass enclosure.
Kimberley exhaled against the tension knotting against her temples, eyes at last focusing as if she’d been interrupted from a long and restless sleep.
“Huh?”
“OK on Monday,” Hilary looked up from the diary, evidently waiting for Kimberley to offer her customary precise acknowledgement. Kimberley could usually recite her appointments verbatim back at Hilary. Her behaviour today was seemingly uncharacteristic, but, she reasoned, everyone has their off days. Kimberley was certainly the most contained and, dare she say it, responsible of the group.
Sometimes that meant she had to labour under the mantle of next-in-command, unofficially assuming leadership in management’s absence. The girls would look to her for guidance and reassurance first. It couldn’t have been easy, in fact Hilary knew it wasn’t, when she was really just the same as them, inexperienced but hungry and, above all, hopeful.
They’d exceeded everyone’s expectations, the five young girls with good but undisciplined voices, pretty but not stunning looks, brash and sometimes uncontrollable personalities. They’d caught the public’s imagination, aided by the most masterful pop-production of the minute and had outwardly thrived under the increasing attention.
Life was good, reasoned Hilary. The request for a year off seemed to be advantageous on all sides - the girls were of an age where they needed that extra time for their personal lives, they’d all found suitably low-profile partners (well, all but one, she corrected herself) and settled into a life away from the London club scene. There were younger acts emerging now and the label needed an opportunity to breathe life into their up and coming talent without the shadow of Girls Aloud looming over their latest signings.
Some respite would be beneficial, it was agreed, the girls would have the freedom to flex their star draw away from pop music and come back fresh and ready for the recording studio.
There had been a quiet stipulation agreed upon that if anyone had plans for babies, it was to be carried out in the first half of the year or not at all. Technically this would have been ludicrously illegal for any record company to impose in writing. But the girls were sharp, and their management were tactful and somehow the insinuation was both made and acknowledged without a single direct referral ever being uttered.
The hiatus was going well, Hilary had thought, enjoying for once the peace of having just one constant caller as opposed to five. Cheryl had made sure she was kept as busy as ever, but while she’d braced herself for Colemania in the wake of the first solo release, it was the marriage split that had really tested everyone’s nerve.
Still, they’d just about weathered that storm, she reasoned, quietly satisfied at how they’d emerged with Cheryl’s name intact and a growing fanbase across Europe.
“OK on Monday,” she repeated to Kimberley, when the girl’s blank stare had failed to show any signs of recognition.
“What’s happening Monday?” she asked, leaning her elbows on the table, her palms flat against the back of her neck. She could feel tiny beads of sweat festering away under the weight of her tangled mass of hair. She longed for a shower and to slip between cool linen sheets.
“OK magazine, Kimberley,” Hilary prompted her, “You’re doing the feature with Justin.”
“Oh...” the syllable was low and faded into a weak grunt of displeasure. “I- I forgot.”
“Right, well, do you have something else planned? We’ve had this one booked in for months, I can’t exactly call up...”
“No, it’s not that.”
For the first time in half an hour Hilary dropped her pen into the spine of the diary and sat back against the padded chair, relinquishing her businesswoman persona for an altogether softer quality.
“What is it?”
“Hilary, I... I don’t want to do it.” Her voice was heavy with the burden of resignation, the admittance feeling more like a defeat than anything that had come before.
Hilary nodded slightly, taking in the sight before her. This girl she had known for some years now, looking weary and stressed when she should have been enjoying the fruits of her labour.
“Is it you and Justin?” she began, always insightful, always to the point. Never did she fall back on the bullish aggressiveness that so many women in her place thought necessary to break the ever-present glass ceiling.
“Sort of,” Kimberley responded, blinking rapidly as she swallowed the lump that had surprisingly started to crawl up her throat.
“Have you had a fight?”
She shook her head. Hilary nodded again, pausing once more to reconsider what she knew.
“Are you...?” she raised her eyebrows pointedly, eyes falling to Kimberley’s belly.
“No,” Kimberley said, “No it’s nothing like that.”
She raised her head to meet Hilary’s gaze, the uncertainty crystallised in her hazel eyes.
“I just, I don’t want to keep doing this, these stories with Justin. It doesn’t feel right.”
Hilary paused to drink in this new information, picked up the biro and absently began making tiny markings along the spine.
“Are you two having problems?” she brokered at last.
“We just…” and here Kimberley sighed and licked her lips and wondered how she had ever reached the point where her manager would naturally be the first she disclosed her relationship status too. She liked to think that fame was not something that had affected her to any recognisable extent. Evidently this conversation proved otherwise.
“I just,” she corrected herself, “I just need some space. From him.”
Hilary gave another slight nod of the head, her expression inscrutable.
“How much time do you think you’re going to need?”
Kimberley sat up straight at last, alert to the shift in conversation, the overriding need for practicalities as dictated by her career.
“I don’t know,” she replied honestly, “I haven’t even discussed this with him. I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
Hilary appeared to be thinking about this very carefully, drumming the pen rhythmically as her eyes focused on the middle distance.
“We still have the deal to fulfil, that’s the problem,” she began. “It was a couples spread.”
“Can’t I just do it on my own?” Kimberley asked hopefully.
Hilary looked more than a little dubious. “Maybe... OK might… You were pencilled in with Hello for next month though, and there’s the Cosmopolitan feature coming up-”
She broke off at the sight of the tears beginning to trickle down Kimberley’s cheeks, hands immediately brushing them off in embarrassment.
“I can’t,” she heaved out as the words dissolved into a devastating sob and she furiously hid her face in shame. “I… Sorry… I… can’t keep doing this… pretending…”
It had taken Hilary several agonising minutes and one cup of very strong coffee to learn what she needed to know of the situation. On a personal level her heart cracked open a fraction at the sobbing girl’s disclosure. But the underlying business brain ticked on. She knew with every passing second and frantic beseeching look that life was about to get very complicated.
She made the phone call with her back to Kimberley, who noted how Hilary’s posture became increasingly agitated, her hand on her hip, her foot tapping nervously away. She appeared to be put on hold on more than one occasion before being forced to reiterate her story in a way that suggested she was slowly progressing up a hierarchy of industry workers.
Only once did she turn her head completely back to Kimberley, who by now had retrieved a compact and was dabbing at her mascara streaked cheeks with the edge of a tissue.
Her eyes narrowed at something the mysterious caller the other end had said and she cupped her hand to the mouthpiece conspiratorially before turning and walking away.
When at last she returned there was an almost imperceptible shift in the atmosphere. Kimberley didn’t know why, but suddenly, despite the damp hot air, she felt a shiver dance up her spine.
Hilary struck a more business-like repose in her swivelling chair, careful hands folded underneath her chin, elbows aligned equidistant from the open diary.
“Does this have anything to do with Cheryl?”
Kimberley couldn’t be sure of her composure then, of the half-whispered untruths ready to slip from her parted lips as the desire to just lay her soul bare and be done with it threatened to overshadow everything.
Instead she shook her head, eyebrows frowning, “What? No. What do you mean?”
And there was hesitancy and Hilary caught it. Because you didn’t get to her age without knowing a few things about how women operated. And she knew her girls well. Too well.
“I mean,” and she was careful and precise and didn’t want to tip Kimberley into breaking because she was the backbone and without Kimberley, Hilary wasn’t sure if she’d have a pay cheque. “Cheryl leaves Ashley… and now you’re… reconsidering your relationship. Are the two connected?”
Kimberley swallowed hard, her throat felt like sandpaper and her migraine was back with a vengeance.
“I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at.”
Hilary decided to just lay her cards on the table, hoping Kimberley would do the same, needing her to if she had any chance of getting to grips with this mess.
“You two have always been close. Is she the reason behind this?”
It was the bluntness that did it. She buried her face in her hands, closed her eyes and slowly raised her head again, the tremor in her whisper, “Oh God.”
Hilary chewed the end of her pen and waited.
“Oh God,” Kimberley repeated, blinking hard and looking away again.
She continued to exhale and shake her head and mutter half-formed explanations which didn’t get anywhere beyond “I didn’t mean to…” and “She doesn’t know…”
Hilary waited for the scene to play out, her countenance remaining cool and open, but inwardly she knew the crisis had just intensified. Women were never easy, she reasoned. And they’d been pretty lucky for the last seven years, really. Maybe now was the time to start thinking about that desk job instead of traipsing after twentysomethings all the time.
She squeezed Kimberley’s hand and told her it would be all right, which they both knew was a lie, but the kind that needed to be expressed for both their sakes.
When at last Hilary returned to her phone and the list of people she would have to re-inform Kimberley began to panic.
“It does change things a bit,” she explained with a rueful smile. “We might be able to buy some time with OK, tell them you’re sick or something.”
“Who are you calling?”
“Sundraj-”
“Don’t tell him! Not about…” and as she trailed off there began a deep hammering within her, a warning bell that she had just set into motion a train of events that was likely to careen it’s reckless way through the debris of all their careers.
If, that is, she didn’t keep her grip, hold her nerve. If she didn’t do as she was told.
She waved her hand dismissively, it was already too late.
* * * * *
Now
It hadn’t taken long to work herself up into a fiery ball of fury. How could she? How dare she! On and on the rage swelled within her, masking the more solemn and distasteful truth lurking between the threads of her indignation. That she’d been passed over, for another, she’d been had, used, discarded.
It was nothing like the black and white newspaper clichés that they’d been busy peddling to the public. There was no victory to be swept up in, no martyrdom borne from the injustice. She felt exposed, raw, contaminated with every second she spent in open view, breathing the same air, sharing the same banner, working the same schedule.
And like a wounded animal dragging its trap with every hobbling step, the clank echoing in her ears, she decided she’d rather go to an early grave without the incumbency of their supposed friendship tainting her every move.
It was while frantically rifling through her handbag in search of her cigarettes that her mobile had all too temptingly spilled out onto the bed.
There was no hesitation as she placed the call, fumbling with her lighter, retrieving a king size Marlboro while she pressed the key for speed dial.
“I saw it!” She blurted into the receiver, “Nice fucking spread. Real nice! Class act, totally, you and him. Made for each other. Fuckin’ perfect, the pair of you, with your understandin’ and talkin’ things through and glorious future all planned out with yer fuckin 2.4 kids and their fuckin’ stay at home mam. That’ll be fuckin’ nice for ‘em, aye Kimberley! Cos it ain’t like you’ll be bored shitless, is it? With your husband who you don’t even fuckin’ love, and yer fuckin’ seein’ us for those yearly reunions or whatever the FUCK - I mean seriously, what the fuck is that supposed to mean? ‘When the band’s over that’ll be it. I’m sure we’ll still keep in touch, but it’ll be time for a new chapter’- What the fuck is that about? Keep in touch? Seriously, don’t feel like you need to do me any favours, babe, oh no. Wouldn’t want to get in the way of all that fuckin family time now would I? I mean, seriously, seriously... Just... I am sooooo fucking glad you finally had the balls to fuckin’ say it. So let me just say this one thing, right. Let me just say... how much I fuck-ing hate you, Kimberley. Just... fuckin’ fuck... fuck! I hate you, right? We are so... so done. So enjoy your fuckin’ man and have a nice life. I’ve got my career to get back to now so-”
She didn’t have time to think of an appropriate parting shot before Kimberley’s voicemail limit cut her off.
* * * * *
5½ weeks earlier
They’d brought her back here, another day in another office, yet the same familiar tension in her chest.
It was serious, when they brought you to the office. It was business. Usually her solo plans were small-fry for them, she’d get treated to the latest gastro indulgence and they’d share a bottle of vino until half past three; she’d reapply her spark-red lipstick under flattering lighting and they’d air-kiss their goodbyes.
But today wasn’t like that at all. Today she was actually invited to take a seat and someone fetched her a coffee and there were no jokes about how no one could work the machine so we might as well pop down to that lovely little cafe on the corner.
Today the phones were ringing and people were looking up from their desks and smiling, but not coming over to chat or say hello.
Today the door was shut behind them and the calls were put on hold.
She wasn’t used to feeling this exposed, this vulnerable, and suddenly she wondered how Cheryl could do it, had a new respect for the way she put herself in the firing line on a daily basis.
The coffee tasted strong and blazed a trail down her throat and she was focused, her nerves pulled taught over the blackhole of possibilities.
But immediately the ground was swept from under her as he asked how things were with Cheryl in that friendly yet calculated tone of his; she hadn’t seen Cheryl for weeks.
And yet she’d been there just the night before, the tabloids were screaming it in three-inch-high block lettering with phrases like “Best Pals” and “Heartbroken Cheryl’s doorstep” jumping out at her.
The picture was of Nicola behind the wheel of a car, her deathly pale complexion illuminated even more so by punishing flashes against the night sky.
Kimberley had accompanied her to Cheryl’s where they’d spent a “girly night in” consoling the “Wronged Wife and Nation’s Sweetheart.”
And as she shook her head, waves of honeyed hair spilling across her shoulders, she began to understand. A brief swell of rage flushed over her before sinking into the pit of her stomach. Control was slipping from her grasp, one perfectly manicured fingernail at a time.
Her reticence was duly noted as they clicked their pens and shuffled their papers and Kimberley watched them watching her.
“We think it’s best if things are seen to be continuing as normal,” Hilary explained quickly, “No rifts, nothing out of the ordinary, just…”
“Business as usual,” Kimberley concluded for her. She knew her lines for matters like this. They’d dealt with scandals before, past indiscretions, the odd drug story that they managed to more or less sink without trace. A fist fight that had turned into an arrest that had then become an “altercation” and ultimately Cheryl’s darkest hour and finest redemption.
She knew how cover-ups worked. It wasn’t lying. They all told her that. You never directly falsified an answer. You just made sure you were asked the right questions. And if you weren’t, then you wrote the questions yourself
He began reciting her revised schedule of interviews to the room while a girl who looked younger than Kimberley and whose name she always had trouble remembering slipped him appointment cards written in large looping script.
Evidently it was full steam ahead, she would be doing her OK couples feature, she was to be the Cosmo covergirl, and in spite of her growing incredulity, everyone seemed rather pleased with her expanding appointment book.
She’d caught Hilary’s eye at some point, while they were all busy tapping out updates on their iPhones and Blackberries, shot her an appropriate look of desperation.
She scooted closer to her charge, shook her head and said, “I’m sorry, this one went over my head. Way over.”
“I wish I’d never told you now,” Kimberley muttered into her coffee cup, its bitter taste barely registering on her tongue as she tried to numb herself to the situation.
“Look, it’s just shitty timing. We can’t have you both breaking up right now, it’s too much to explain.”
She raised her eyebrows and gave a grim smile in response. She might not have spoken to Cheryl directly for thirteen days and counting, but she was keeping up with the news, both internal and external.
“Yeah. Especially when you’ve gone to town with Cheryl. Can’t undo all that fabulous work, can we?”
The bitterness had crept in from nowhere and she almost felt like a traitor. She wasn’t jealous, just overwhelmed and mentally exhausted.
Hilary wavered, told her it wouldn’t be forever, they just had to play things carefully, although the “it” that wouldn’t last and “things” to be played were never spelt out.
Not by her at any rate. Hilary was probably the most senior out of all the little team assembled and invariably had the most diplomatic way of stating the situation.
As masterful as PR teams were with bending words to their will, they notoriously tossed them around with abandon behind the scenes.
So it wasn’t Hilary that explicitly stated how Kimberley ditching her boyfriend might impact upon Cheryl’s imminent European tour, especially if she was joined by her bestest friend.
Although she had remarked lowly that due to all that had unfolded, “we can’t afford to rock the boat with any...further revelations.”
They’d all caught her meaning and eyed each other knowingly, waiting for Kimberley’s reaction.
She could feel her life being stage-managed into a corner. Her, a self-confessed control-freak. If Cheryl’s constant insecurity had ever made her feel claustrophobic, this was about a million times worse.
And then he jumped in, all smiles and informality like this was the same as any other day and if only Kimberley could just play along with her boyfriend and not upset the script he’d written out for Cheryl’s summer.
In the time it took her to bite her tongue he had thrown out as an afterthought, “Even if we could somehow work you into Europe, she’s got her sights set on much bigger horizons.”
Kimberley’s eyes narrowed, and Hilary cleared her throat in a way that suggested the conversation might be better steered away from Cheryl’s big plans.
But they were on a roll and the excitement was buzzing amongst the eager faces that were no doubt looking forward to free flights and LA lunches.
America. Maybe through X Factor, they were still waiting on a distribution deal for the record, but Cowell was a big ally and they were busy forging foundations with other friends in high places.
The friendships would be key, she learned, head racing back to earlier headlines and shifting puzzle pieces into place. The great masterplan, all coming together nicely for the newly single Nation’s Sweetheart. Just a whiff of homosexuality would be enough to derail it entirely.
Still, she was altogether nonplussed. “So when’s all this meant to happen? And am I seriously meant to just stay in a relationship with Justin for the sake of all this?”
And here there were further glances and someone cleared their throat nervously while another had the good grace not to meet Kimberley’s gaze directly. It was a big ask.
Hilary knew this. She also knew that she needed Kimberley on side for the sake of Girls Aloud. If Kimberley walked, that was the end. It was like a right of caste among the five of them. She may have had fewer lines, a voice without the vocal dexterity of say Nadine’s or the star power of Cheryl, but she was still the lynchpin of the whole operation. Without her they’d all come tumbling down like a pack of cards.
For whatever reason, Kimberley had failed to notice this. That all these people dictating her schedule, fine-tuning her image, selling her name to the highest bidder, actually relied on her to pay their phone bills and mortgages, car insurance and kids’ school fees. They needed her as much as she needed them.
“We just need some time for things to fall into place a bit more before we... reassess the situation.”
“How much time?”
“We’ve got to just get through the European tour first and see how things pan out with Ashley-”
“What! What do you mean ‘pan out with Ashley’? What’s that got to-”
And just as her pitch shifted up a gear from its usual full-bodied monotone to something approaching a screech of incredulity, the PR machine swung back into action - chirping away about the World Cup schedule and X Factor and August meetings and Hollywood Records and had she spoken to Nadine? They were always being fobbed off by her new manager - whom nobody seemed to like- and the new album would be a huge consideration too, and the most likely date to take stock would be October because...
“October?” she blurted into their collective stream of consciousness. The room stared back coolly.
“This,” she began, paused, pursed her lips in disbelief before pushing the hair from her face, “This... is utterly ridiculous. Are you saying that if me and Justin were to split up now... that, what? All of this would just... be ruined?”
“No,” Hilary pronounced the word very slowly and deliberately. “We’re not saying that, Kimberley. Nobody in this room is responsible for that decision.
“I would love it if you could just do as you wanted and not have to worry about any of this. And who knows, maybe one day you can. But right now, we have to think about the needs of the group as a whole, and protecting the band as individuals. And it’s just too risky, Kimberley. You could split and the story could sink without trace. Or some hack over at News of the World could do some digging and who knows?”
She was ten seconds away from dismissing them all as cowards, fantasists, ten seconds away from walking out. But she had a long relationship with her manager and wasn’t one for rash exits, even when staying put cut against her better judgement. I should just leave, she thought, Cheryl would leave. Cheryl’s instinct for self-preservation was so much better than she realised.
And here came the part where the rock met the hard place. She was told that the label couldn’t support her if she decided that now was the moment to cut loose...
“And here, as your manager, as your friend, Kimberley, I have to advise you to seriously consider what’s best for the five of you right now. Is it really worth it? Can’t you hang on just a little bit longer?”
They’d feed her to the sharks, she realised. If she went against the plans, did her own thing, broke up with her boyfriend and against their wishes, there’d be no red carpet PR treatment. No sympathetic press releases about an amicable split, no requests at respecting her privacy.
Furthermore, there’d be no effort made to explain anything - she’d be left to fend for herself. She’d never tried to take on the press herself. Her public-perception was good and altogether positive, but she’d had an entire team of people seeing to that. How long would it take for her to undo all their years of groundwork?
As Kimberley hovered, clearly torn by indecision, the killer blow was made.
There was only one publicist who could kneel beside her chair, squeeze her hand between both of his and implore her so succinctly and directly.
“Look babe,” he began, “I don’t care if you’re fucking Justin, I don’t care if you’re fucking Cheryl, I don’t care if you’re fucking the Pope, yeah? What matters is what you’re putting out there.
“You don’t wanna be with him? Fine,” he shrugged his shoulders and flicked an imaginary speck of dust from off his arm, “He’s gone. You don’t have to be with him. We’d never make you be with someone you don’t want to be with. Okay?”
He gave her a reassuring smile, that row of sparkling white teeth almost irresistible when he turned on the charm.
But as his boyish grin faded, the resolution took hold in his eyes. “But Kimba, I need you to do this interview for me. I need both of you to do it. You can talk about whatever the hell you like. Babies, marriage, not yet, not ready, whatever. But together, yeah? Just a couple hours of your time... a few photos... Vanessa will be there, you know her, she’s lovely, few pics, few smiles, then all over for another month. Yeah? You can do that for us can’t you, babe?”
She sighed. Given her options, it didn’t feel like much of a choice.
* * * * *
Now
There was a growing sense of doom building up within her chest, it had been there ever since the phone call.
She’d carried out her appointments mechanically, smiling when she needed to, signing where they marked the Xs, eyes shining brightly the whole time, despite the over keen journalist who ignored her publicist and waded directly in to the marriage crisis.
And now she was being driven home, jostled between London traffic, anonymous behind dark tinted windows and even darker oversized sunglasses, into the foreboding crush of evening rush hour.
There had been no phone call. Not that she’d expected one, when she had ranted and cried and basically told her she never wanted to see her again. Like some five year old throwing a tantrum, she thought disgustedly.
But now she was stuck behind another red light, inching forward one agonising minute at a time. Her mind raced and twisted with thoughts of how she might have played things differently.
Life was catapulting her into a new kind of fame at break-neck speed - there was barely a second spare for anything outside her world of pre-planned engagements.
There was too much at stake, far too much, it had been drummed into her one way or another by everyone on her team, her side. And yet... and yet...
It was only a slight diversion, and anyway, it wasn’t like they were getting anywhere fast. She could legitimately say she was in the neighbourhood. Amongst other things.
Her lips curled into a grimace at the thought. The all too familiar buildings faded past her, but instead of the twinge of excitement she usually felt, there was only the unshakeable dread.
How strong were they? Was this really irreparable? Was this really it?
She thanked the lord for exclusive apartment complexes and underground carparks as the vehicle lunged underneath the building, and away from the ensuing paparazzi.
Without her picture, there was no story. Not that this was a tale her people would be eager to get out there.
He said he’d wait but she told him to go off and circle, or find somewhere else to be for a couple of hours - she’d call him.
Of course, Kimberley might have been out, but Cheryl knew different. It was the right day, the right time, and most of all she wanted her to be there.
And when she’d opened the door, a thousand natural shocks pulled at her nerve endings, the shame more inevitable than any chemical reaction.
She could barely meet her eyes, as she sniffed out an apology and asked to come in.
And the warmth that greeted her, of that apartment that she knew so well, that she hadn’t seen in nearly two months, since that day...
It was too much. With those hands encircling her waist and pulling her close and just holding her while she buried her face against that golden hair and fought against her tears.
“I’m so so sorry,” she uttered in between her sobs and Kimberley smoothed the back of her head with a steady hand and squeezed her tighter.
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” and she made a point of grabbing her chin, angling her face so she could whisper very deliberately against her ear, “I’m sorry too.”
They broke apart and smiled at each other, days and weeks and minutes of not talking to each other falling away with a single look.
“That message I left you,” Cheryl began, shaking her head, “That was so out of order. You know I didn’t mean any of it, babe, you know.”
And she squeezed Kimberley’s hands on the final word for emphasis, willing the contact to convey the rush of feeling that was busy consuming her.
“I never even checked my messages,” Kimberley offered with a half-smile. “I just... I just guessed there’d be some reaction. Well, I knew.”
And here she broke away and Cheryl felt instantly cold.
She followed Kimberley into her living room, automatically filling the space beside her on the sofa.
“I didn’t want this, Cheryl. The article today, the ones still to come. Please believe me, I didn’t want any of this.”
Cheryl saw the desperation flickering back at her in those ever-changing eyes, clouding with grey, a sure-sign of displeasure.
She looked down and fiddled with her rings, the barren fourth finger still a sight to get used to.
“What,” she paused before looking up shyly through her thick lashes, “what about Justin?”
“It’s not going anywhere. He knows something’s up, but...” her mouth was down-turned as she stared off, shaking her head sadly. “They don’t want me to say anything, not yet, anyway.”
“Because of me?”
Kimberley’s gaze returned to those earnest, chocolate eyes.
“Yeah,” she affirmed softly, “and the band. Timing issues, so they say.”
Cheryl heaved out a sigh in recognition. She’d had a somewhat similar conversation several weeks before.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, biting her bottom lip in a way that made Kimberley’s heart lurch.
She shook her head solemnly, fighting to know what to say, to proffer as means of encouragement, of reassurance.
We’re trapped, she thought hopelessly, the trepidation dripping slowly down her throat, choking her routine pragmatism with an awful sense of inevitably- that this would all end in disaster.
But Cheryl’s hands were warm, as her fingers stroked gently along her thigh and her head nestled against her shoulder.
“Come home with me,” she breathed against her collarbone, her whole hand burning a path along Kimberley’s skin.
“I can’t. Justin will be home soon.”
The hand began to roam more freely, almost tenderly in it movements and Kimberley experienced that fateful tingling as they relaxed further into one another. She hadn’t been touched by Cheryl in so long.
“Me mam’s at mine,” Cheryl said, looking up at her.
“Well, then.”
“Kimba, she knows,” she took her left hand and entwined it with Kimberley’s right, her small delicate fingers, teasing and stroking along her palm. “Everyone knows,” she murmured.
“Mmm.”
And they were kissing against their better judgement, against the feelings of unease over what was to come, the uncertainty of where this was all heading, now that it was out there, now that it was real.
And Kimberley wanted to break away, and assume control and tell Cheryl that they needed to figure things out, but she had no idea whether the ferocity of that need was any competition to the strength of their current one, and anyway, she had no idea how to begin figuring things out and clearly neither did Cheryl.
And when Cheryl implored her to say it, that she needed to hear the words, Kimberley could only lower her head, hands clasping either side of her face, whisper against her ear hot and breathless, “I love you,” over and over again.
Part Eight
Series: Spiralling (Part Seven)
Author: noclueontheloo
Fandom: Girls Aloud, Cheryl Cole/Kimberley Walsh (RPS)
Word Count: 6156
Summary: She wasn’t used to feeling this exposed, this vulnerable, and suddenly she wondered how Cheryl could do it, had a new respect for the way she put herself in the firing line on a daily basis.
Now
She’d been so totally blindside by it - their faces splashed across the cover with some appropriately banal headline, their beaming smiles never quite reaching their eyes - that she hadn’t paid attention to the percolator’s wayward angle, hissed and swore loudly as the coffee dripped onto her skin.
The blow was as precise and devastating as a swift punch to the gut. For seconds she remained bent forward, huddled over in pain as her naked arms slid against the cool marble of her kitchen counter.
It was inevitable, she knew, but it still hurt beyond measure. And all at once that dark abyss that she fought so hard to keep at bay was back to consume her whole. The only way to temper it, that wandering, rudderless feeling of eternal loneliness, of missed opportunity, of an unending sea of emptiness that she was drifting into, being swallowed up by every hour of every day, the only way she knew how to deal with it all when simple actions and everyday living was at the mercy of all these damn feelings and emotions that somehow she just could not control in the way other people seemed able to, was to embrace the pain and the sharp bitterness, transform it into anger. Turn it outward before it destroyed her.
* * * * *
6 weeks earlier
The room felt stiflingly hot as the ceiling high windows magnified the sun’s heat, intensifying each golden ray with pinpoint accuracy onto her already burning skin.
She was tense and distracted and could feel another one of her recurring migraines coming on, the pressure bubbling away under her scalp, building to an insistent throb.
She listened abstractedly as Hilary relayed the contents of her diary back at her with all the enthusiasm of an operator reciting the phone book.
It was the off-season, work was largely uneventful. Life too. Life without her.
She grimaced, scrunched up her eyes involuntarily, inwardly berated herself for letting her mind drift again, when she should at least try and give the other woman the courtesy of paying attention.
It was difficult though, focusing on work commitments, mustering the enthusiasm for promotions and appearances and the possibility of a career away from her four best supporters. She wanted them back. All of them. When they had parted ways for a year’s respite, she’d imagined spa treatments and poolside holidays, late mornings and even later nights.
But the holiday spirit had worn off after a couple of weeks. It was then that she realised she’d have to deal with herself. She’d never had that before, that time to take stock, to examine and analyse and just breathe out in the open without any constraints. Any real glaringly huge deadlines looming just around the corner.
She’d planned this, worked towards this for so long, the glittering career, the chance to sing, both for the love and for the achievement - that she could turn her passion into a means of support. She had.
But the annual routine that propelled her onwards had been swept from under her. The beat that had pounded out the last six years of her life, relentlessly forcing her through months of recording, promoting, filming, rehearsing, touring, resting and then repeating it all over and over again had just died instantaneously - and she had quickly learnt that she hated the silence.
“OK?” Hilary had said, jolting her back into the sweaty confines of their glass enclosure.
Kimberley exhaled against the tension knotting against her temples, eyes at last focusing as if she’d been interrupted from a long and restless sleep.
“Huh?”
“OK on Monday,” Hilary looked up from the diary, evidently waiting for Kimberley to offer her customary precise acknowledgement. Kimberley could usually recite her appointments verbatim back at Hilary. Her behaviour today was seemingly uncharacteristic, but, she reasoned, everyone has their off days. Kimberley was certainly the most contained and, dare she say it, responsible of the group.
Sometimes that meant she had to labour under the mantle of next-in-command, unofficially assuming leadership in management’s absence. The girls would look to her for guidance and reassurance first. It couldn’t have been easy, in fact Hilary knew it wasn’t, when she was really just the same as them, inexperienced but hungry and, above all, hopeful.
They’d exceeded everyone’s expectations, the five young girls with good but undisciplined voices, pretty but not stunning looks, brash and sometimes uncontrollable personalities. They’d caught the public’s imagination, aided by the most masterful pop-production of the minute and had outwardly thrived under the increasing attention.
Life was good, reasoned Hilary. The request for a year off seemed to be advantageous on all sides - the girls were of an age where they needed that extra time for their personal lives, they’d all found suitably low-profile partners (well, all but one, she corrected herself) and settled into a life away from the London club scene. There were younger acts emerging now and the label needed an opportunity to breathe life into their up and coming talent without the shadow of Girls Aloud looming over their latest signings.
Some respite would be beneficial, it was agreed, the girls would have the freedom to flex their star draw away from pop music and come back fresh and ready for the recording studio.
There had been a quiet stipulation agreed upon that if anyone had plans for babies, it was to be carried out in the first half of the year or not at all. Technically this would have been ludicrously illegal for any record company to impose in writing. But the girls were sharp, and their management were tactful and somehow the insinuation was both made and acknowledged without a single direct referral ever being uttered.
The hiatus was going well, Hilary had thought, enjoying for once the peace of having just one constant caller as opposed to five. Cheryl had made sure she was kept as busy as ever, but while she’d braced herself for Colemania in the wake of the first solo release, it was the marriage split that had really tested everyone’s nerve.
Still, they’d just about weathered that storm, she reasoned, quietly satisfied at how they’d emerged with Cheryl’s name intact and a growing fanbase across Europe.
“OK on Monday,” she repeated to Kimberley, when the girl’s blank stare had failed to show any signs of recognition.
“What’s happening Monday?” she asked, leaning her elbows on the table, her palms flat against the back of her neck. She could feel tiny beads of sweat festering away under the weight of her tangled mass of hair. She longed for a shower and to slip between cool linen sheets.
“OK magazine, Kimberley,” Hilary prompted her, “You’re doing the feature with Justin.”
“Oh...” the syllable was low and faded into a weak grunt of displeasure. “I- I forgot.”
“Right, well, do you have something else planned? We’ve had this one booked in for months, I can’t exactly call up...”
“No, it’s not that.”
For the first time in half an hour Hilary dropped her pen into the spine of the diary and sat back against the padded chair, relinquishing her businesswoman persona for an altogether softer quality.
“What is it?”
“Hilary, I... I don’t want to do it.” Her voice was heavy with the burden of resignation, the admittance feeling more like a defeat than anything that had come before.
Hilary nodded slightly, taking in the sight before her. This girl she had known for some years now, looking weary and stressed when she should have been enjoying the fruits of her labour.
“Is it you and Justin?” she began, always insightful, always to the point. Never did she fall back on the bullish aggressiveness that so many women in her place thought necessary to break the ever-present glass ceiling.
“Sort of,” Kimberley responded, blinking rapidly as she swallowed the lump that had surprisingly started to crawl up her throat.
“Have you had a fight?”
She shook her head. Hilary nodded again, pausing once more to reconsider what she knew.
“Are you...?” she raised her eyebrows pointedly, eyes falling to Kimberley’s belly.
“No,” Kimberley said, “No it’s nothing like that.”
She raised her head to meet Hilary’s gaze, the uncertainty crystallised in her hazel eyes.
“I just, I don’t want to keep doing this, these stories with Justin. It doesn’t feel right.”
Hilary paused to drink in this new information, picked up the biro and absently began making tiny markings along the spine.
“Are you two having problems?” she brokered at last.
“We just…” and here Kimberley sighed and licked her lips and wondered how she had ever reached the point where her manager would naturally be the first she disclosed her relationship status too. She liked to think that fame was not something that had affected her to any recognisable extent. Evidently this conversation proved otherwise.
“I just,” she corrected herself, “I just need some space. From him.”
Hilary gave another slight nod of the head, her expression inscrutable.
“How much time do you think you’re going to need?”
Kimberley sat up straight at last, alert to the shift in conversation, the overriding need for practicalities as dictated by her career.
“I don’t know,” she replied honestly, “I haven’t even discussed this with him. I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
Hilary appeared to be thinking about this very carefully, drumming the pen rhythmically as her eyes focused on the middle distance.
“We still have the deal to fulfil, that’s the problem,” she began. “It was a couples spread.”
“Can’t I just do it on my own?” Kimberley asked hopefully.
Hilary looked more than a little dubious. “Maybe... OK might… You were pencilled in with Hello for next month though, and there’s the Cosmopolitan feature coming up-”
She broke off at the sight of the tears beginning to trickle down Kimberley’s cheeks, hands immediately brushing them off in embarrassment.
“I can’t,” she heaved out as the words dissolved into a devastating sob and she furiously hid her face in shame. “I… Sorry… I… can’t keep doing this… pretending…”
It had taken Hilary several agonising minutes and one cup of very strong coffee to learn what she needed to know of the situation. On a personal level her heart cracked open a fraction at the sobbing girl’s disclosure. But the underlying business brain ticked on. She knew with every passing second and frantic beseeching look that life was about to get very complicated.
She made the phone call with her back to Kimberley, who noted how Hilary’s posture became increasingly agitated, her hand on her hip, her foot tapping nervously away. She appeared to be put on hold on more than one occasion before being forced to reiterate her story in a way that suggested she was slowly progressing up a hierarchy of industry workers.
Only once did she turn her head completely back to Kimberley, who by now had retrieved a compact and was dabbing at her mascara streaked cheeks with the edge of a tissue.
Her eyes narrowed at something the mysterious caller the other end had said and she cupped her hand to the mouthpiece conspiratorially before turning and walking away.
When at last she returned there was an almost imperceptible shift in the atmosphere. Kimberley didn’t know why, but suddenly, despite the damp hot air, she felt a shiver dance up her spine.
Hilary struck a more business-like repose in her swivelling chair, careful hands folded underneath her chin, elbows aligned equidistant from the open diary.
“Does this have anything to do with Cheryl?”
Kimberley couldn’t be sure of her composure then, of the half-whispered untruths ready to slip from her parted lips as the desire to just lay her soul bare and be done with it threatened to overshadow everything.
Instead she shook her head, eyebrows frowning, “What? No. What do you mean?”
And there was hesitancy and Hilary caught it. Because you didn’t get to her age without knowing a few things about how women operated. And she knew her girls well. Too well.
“I mean,” and she was careful and precise and didn’t want to tip Kimberley into breaking because she was the backbone and without Kimberley, Hilary wasn’t sure if she’d have a pay cheque. “Cheryl leaves Ashley… and now you’re… reconsidering your relationship. Are the two connected?”
Kimberley swallowed hard, her throat felt like sandpaper and her migraine was back with a vengeance.
“I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at.”
Hilary decided to just lay her cards on the table, hoping Kimberley would do the same, needing her to if she had any chance of getting to grips with this mess.
“You two have always been close. Is she the reason behind this?”
It was the bluntness that did it. She buried her face in her hands, closed her eyes and slowly raised her head again, the tremor in her whisper, “Oh God.”
Hilary chewed the end of her pen and waited.
“Oh God,” Kimberley repeated, blinking hard and looking away again.
She continued to exhale and shake her head and mutter half-formed explanations which didn’t get anywhere beyond “I didn’t mean to…” and “She doesn’t know…”
Hilary waited for the scene to play out, her countenance remaining cool and open, but inwardly she knew the crisis had just intensified. Women were never easy, she reasoned. And they’d been pretty lucky for the last seven years, really. Maybe now was the time to start thinking about that desk job instead of traipsing after twentysomethings all the time.
She squeezed Kimberley’s hand and told her it would be all right, which they both knew was a lie, but the kind that needed to be expressed for both their sakes.
When at last Hilary returned to her phone and the list of people she would have to re-inform Kimberley began to panic.
“It does change things a bit,” she explained with a rueful smile. “We might be able to buy some time with OK, tell them you’re sick or something.”
“Who are you calling?”
“Sundraj-”
“Don’t tell him! Not about…” and as she trailed off there began a deep hammering within her, a warning bell that she had just set into motion a train of events that was likely to careen it’s reckless way through the debris of all their careers.
If, that is, she didn’t keep her grip, hold her nerve. If she didn’t do as she was told.
She waved her hand dismissively, it was already too late.
* * * * *
Now
It hadn’t taken long to work herself up into a fiery ball of fury. How could she? How dare she! On and on the rage swelled within her, masking the more solemn and distasteful truth lurking between the threads of her indignation. That she’d been passed over, for another, she’d been had, used, discarded.
It was nothing like the black and white newspaper clichés that they’d been busy peddling to the public. There was no victory to be swept up in, no martyrdom borne from the injustice. She felt exposed, raw, contaminated with every second she spent in open view, breathing the same air, sharing the same banner, working the same schedule.
And like a wounded animal dragging its trap with every hobbling step, the clank echoing in her ears, she decided she’d rather go to an early grave without the incumbency of their supposed friendship tainting her every move.
It was while frantically rifling through her handbag in search of her cigarettes that her mobile had all too temptingly spilled out onto the bed.
There was no hesitation as she placed the call, fumbling with her lighter, retrieving a king size Marlboro while she pressed the key for speed dial.
“I saw it!” She blurted into the receiver, “Nice fucking spread. Real nice! Class act, totally, you and him. Made for each other. Fuckin’ perfect, the pair of you, with your understandin’ and talkin’ things through and glorious future all planned out with yer fuckin 2.4 kids and their fuckin’ stay at home mam. That’ll be fuckin’ nice for ‘em, aye Kimberley! Cos it ain’t like you’ll be bored shitless, is it? With your husband who you don’t even fuckin’ love, and yer fuckin’ seein’ us for those yearly reunions or whatever the FUCK - I mean seriously, what the fuck is that supposed to mean? ‘When the band’s over that’ll be it. I’m sure we’ll still keep in touch, but it’ll be time for a new chapter’- What the fuck is that about? Keep in touch? Seriously, don’t feel like you need to do me any favours, babe, oh no. Wouldn’t want to get in the way of all that fuckin family time now would I? I mean, seriously, seriously... Just... I am sooooo fucking glad you finally had the balls to fuckin’ say it. So let me just say this one thing, right. Let me just say... how much I fuck-ing hate you, Kimberley. Just... fuckin’ fuck... fuck! I hate you, right? We are so... so done. So enjoy your fuckin’ man and have a nice life. I’ve got my career to get back to now so-”
She didn’t have time to think of an appropriate parting shot before Kimberley’s voicemail limit cut her off.
* * * * *
5½ weeks earlier
They’d brought her back here, another day in another office, yet the same familiar tension in her chest.
It was serious, when they brought you to the office. It was business. Usually her solo plans were small-fry for them, she’d get treated to the latest gastro indulgence and they’d share a bottle of vino until half past three; she’d reapply her spark-red lipstick under flattering lighting and they’d air-kiss their goodbyes.
But today wasn’t like that at all. Today she was actually invited to take a seat and someone fetched her a coffee and there were no jokes about how no one could work the machine so we might as well pop down to that lovely little cafe on the corner.
Today the phones were ringing and people were looking up from their desks and smiling, but not coming over to chat or say hello.
Today the door was shut behind them and the calls were put on hold.
She wasn’t used to feeling this exposed, this vulnerable, and suddenly she wondered how Cheryl could do it, had a new respect for the way she put herself in the firing line on a daily basis.
The coffee tasted strong and blazed a trail down her throat and she was focused, her nerves pulled taught over the blackhole of possibilities.
But immediately the ground was swept from under her as he asked how things were with Cheryl in that friendly yet calculated tone of his; she hadn’t seen Cheryl for weeks.
And yet she’d been there just the night before, the tabloids were screaming it in three-inch-high block lettering with phrases like “Best Pals” and “Heartbroken Cheryl’s doorstep” jumping out at her.
The picture was of Nicola behind the wheel of a car, her deathly pale complexion illuminated even more so by punishing flashes against the night sky.
Kimberley had accompanied her to Cheryl’s where they’d spent a “girly night in” consoling the “Wronged Wife and Nation’s Sweetheart.”
And as she shook her head, waves of honeyed hair spilling across her shoulders, she began to understand. A brief swell of rage flushed over her before sinking into the pit of her stomach. Control was slipping from her grasp, one perfectly manicured fingernail at a time.
Her reticence was duly noted as they clicked their pens and shuffled their papers and Kimberley watched them watching her.
“We think it’s best if things are seen to be continuing as normal,” Hilary explained quickly, “No rifts, nothing out of the ordinary, just…”
“Business as usual,” Kimberley concluded for her. She knew her lines for matters like this. They’d dealt with scandals before, past indiscretions, the odd drug story that they managed to more or less sink without trace. A fist fight that had turned into an arrest that had then become an “altercation” and ultimately Cheryl’s darkest hour and finest redemption.
She knew how cover-ups worked. It wasn’t lying. They all told her that. You never directly falsified an answer. You just made sure you were asked the right questions. And if you weren’t, then you wrote the questions yourself
He began reciting her revised schedule of interviews to the room while a girl who looked younger than Kimberley and whose name she always had trouble remembering slipped him appointment cards written in large looping script.
Evidently it was full steam ahead, she would be doing her OK couples feature, she was to be the Cosmo covergirl, and in spite of her growing incredulity, everyone seemed rather pleased with her expanding appointment book.
She’d caught Hilary’s eye at some point, while they were all busy tapping out updates on their iPhones and Blackberries, shot her an appropriate look of desperation.
She scooted closer to her charge, shook her head and said, “I’m sorry, this one went over my head. Way over.”
“I wish I’d never told you now,” Kimberley muttered into her coffee cup, its bitter taste barely registering on her tongue as she tried to numb herself to the situation.
“Look, it’s just shitty timing. We can’t have you both breaking up right now, it’s too much to explain.”
She raised her eyebrows and gave a grim smile in response. She might not have spoken to Cheryl directly for thirteen days and counting, but she was keeping up with the news, both internal and external.
“Yeah. Especially when you’ve gone to town with Cheryl. Can’t undo all that fabulous work, can we?”
The bitterness had crept in from nowhere and she almost felt like a traitor. She wasn’t jealous, just overwhelmed and mentally exhausted.
Hilary wavered, told her it wouldn’t be forever, they just had to play things carefully, although the “it” that wouldn’t last and “things” to be played were never spelt out.
Not by her at any rate. Hilary was probably the most senior out of all the little team assembled and invariably had the most diplomatic way of stating the situation.
As masterful as PR teams were with bending words to their will, they notoriously tossed them around with abandon behind the scenes.
So it wasn’t Hilary that explicitly stated how Kimberley ditching her boyfriend might impact upon Cheryl’s imminent European tour, especially if she was joined by her bestest friend.
Although she had remarked lowly that due to all that had unfolded, “we can’t afford to rock the boat with any...further revelations.”
They’d all caught her meaning and eyed each other knowingly, waiting for Kimberley’s reaction.
She could feel her life being stage-managed into a corner. Her, a self-confessed control-freak. If Cheryl’s constant insecurity had ever made her feel claustrophobic, this was about a million times worse.
And then he jumped in, all smiles and informality like this was the same as any other day and if only Kimberley could just play along with her boyfriend and not upset the script he’d written out for Cheryl’s summer.
In the time it took her to bite her tongue he had thrown out as an afterthought, “Even if we could somehow work you into Europe, she’s got her sights set on much bigger horizons.”
Kimberley’s eyes narrowed, and Hilary cleared her throat in a way that suggested the conversation might be better steered away from Cheryl’s big plans.
But they were on a roll and the excitement was buzzing amongst the eager faces that were no doubt looking forward to free flights and LA lunches.
America. Maybe through X Factor, they were still waiting on a distribution deal for the record, but Cowell was a big ally and they were busy forging foundations with other friends in high places.
The friendships would be key, she learned, head racing back to earlier headlines and shifting puzzle pieces into place. The great masterplan, all coming together nicely for the newly single Nation’s Sweetheart. Just a whiff of homosexuality would be enough to derail it entirely.
Still, she was altogether nonplussed. “So when’s all this meant to happen? And am I seriously meant to just stay in a relationship with Justin for the sake of all this?”
And here there were further glances and someone cleared their throat nervously while another had the good grace not to meet Kimberley’s gaze directly. It was a big ask.
Hilary knew this. She also knew that she needed Kimberley on side for the sake of Girls Aloud. If Kimberley walked, that was the end. It was like a right of caste among the five of them. She may have had fewer lines, a voice without the vocal dexterity of say Nadine’s or the star power of Cheryl, but she was still the lynchpin of the whole operation. Without her they’d all come tumbling down like a pack of cards.
For whatever reason, Kimberley had failed to notice this. That all these people dictating her schedule, fine-tuning her image, selling her name to the highest bidder, actually relied on her to pay their phone bills and mortgages, car insurance and kids’ school fees. They needed her as much as she needed them.
“We just need some time for things to fall into place a bit more before we... reassess the situation.”
“How much time?”
“We’ve got to just get through the European tour first and see how things pan out with Ashley-”
“What! What do you mean ‘pan out with Ashley’? What’s that got to-”
And just as her pitch shifted up a gear from its usual full-bodied monotone to something approaching a screech of incredulity, the PR machine swung back into action - chirping away about the World Cup schedule and X Factor and August meetings and Hollywood Records and had she spoken to Nadine? They were always being fobbed off by her new manager - whom nobody seemed to like- and the new album would be a huge consideration too, and the most likely date to take stock would be October because...
“October?” she blurted into their collective stream of consciousness. The room stared back coolly.
“This,” she began, paused, pursed her lips in disbelief before pushing the hair from her face, “This... is utterly ridiculous. Are you saying that if me and Justin were to split up now... that, what? All of this would just... be ruined?”
“No,” Hilary pronounced the word very slowly and deliberately. “We’re not saying that, Kimberley. Nobody in this room is responsible for that decision.
“I would love it if you could just do as you wanted and not have to worry about any of this. And who knows, maybe one day you can. But right now, we have to think about the needs of the group as a whole, and protecting the band as individuals. And it’s just too risky, Kimberley. You could split and the story could sink without trace. Or some hack over at News of the World could do some digging and who knows?”
She was ten seconds away from dismissing them all as cowards, fantasists, ten seconds away from walking out. But she had a long relationship with her manager and wasn’t one for rash exits, even when staying put cut against her better judgement. I should just leave, she thought, Cheryl would leave. Cheryl’s instinct for self-preservation was so much better than she realised.
And here came the part where the rock met the hard place. She was told that the label couldn’t support her if she decided that now was the moment to cut loose...
“And here, as your manager, as your friend, Kimberley, I have to advise you to seriously consider what’s best for the five of you right now. Is it really worth it? Can’t you hang on just a little bit longer?”
They’d feed her to the sharks, she realised. If she went against the plans, did her own thing, broke up with her boyfriend and against their wishes, there’d be no red carpet PR treatment. No sympathetic press releases about an amicable split, no requests at respecting her privacy.
Furthermore, there’d be no effort made to explain anything - she’d be left to fend for herself. She’d never tried to take on the press herself. Her public-perception was good and altogether positive, but she’d had an entire team of people seeing to that. How long would it take for her to undo all their years of groundwork?
As Kimberley hovered, clearly torn by indecision, the killer blow was made.
There was only one publicist who could kneel beside her chair, squeeze her hand between both of his and implore her so succinctly and directly.
“Look babe,” he began, “I don’t care if you’re fucking Justin, I don’t care if you’re fucking Cheryl, I don’t care if you’re fucking the Pope, yeah? What matters is what you’re putting out there.
“You don’t wanna be with him? Fine,” he shrugged his shoulders and flicked an imaginary speck of dust from off his arm, “He’s gone. You don’t have to be with him. We’d never make you be with someone you don’t want to be with. Okay?”
He gave her a reassuring smile, that row of sparkling white teeth almost irresistible when he turned on the charm.
But as his boyish grin faded, the resolution took hold in his eyes. “But Kimba, I need you to do this interview for me. I need both of you to do it. You can talk about whatever the hell you like. Babies, marriage, not yet, not ready, whatever. But together, yeah? Just a couple hours of your time... a few photos... Vanessa will be there, you know her, she’s lovely, few pics, few smiles, then all over for another month. Yeah? You can do that for us can’t you, babe?”
She sighed. Given her options, it didn’t feel like much of a choice.
* * * * *
Now
There was a growing sense of doom building up within her chest, it had been there ever since the phone call.
She’d carried out her appointments mechanically, smiling when she needed to, signing where they marked the Xs, eyes shining brightly the whole time, despite the over keen journalist who ignored her publicist and waded directly in to the marriage crisis.
And now she was being driven home, jostled between London traffic, anonymous behind dark tinted windows and even darker oversized sunglasses, into the foreboding crush of evening rush hour.
There had been no phone call. Not that she’d expected one, when she had ranted and cried and basically told her she never wanted to see her again. Like some five year old throwing a tantrum, she thought disgustedly.
But now she was stuck behind another red light, inching forward one agonising minute at a time. Her mind raced and twisted with thoughts of how she might have played things differently.
Life was catapulting her into a new kind of fame at break-neck speed - there was barely a second spare for anything outside her world of pre-planned engagements.
There was too much at stake, far too much, it had been drummed into her one way or another by everyone on her team, her side. And yet... and yet...
It was only a slight diversion, and anyway, it wasn’t like they were getting anywhere fast. She could legitimately say she was in the neighbourhood. Amongst other things.
Her lips curled into a grimace at the thought. The all too familiar buildings faded past her, but instead of the twinge of excitement she usually felt, there was only the unshakeable dread.
How strong were they? Was this really irreparable? Was this really it?
She thanked the lord for exclusive apartment complexes and underground carparks as the vehicle lunged underneath the building, and away from the ensuing paparazzi.
Without her picture, there was no story. Not that this was a tale her people would be eager to get out there.
He said he’d wait but she told him to go off and circle, or find somewhere else to be for a couple of hours - she’d call him.
Of course, Kimberley might have been out, but Cheryl knew different. It was the right day, the right time, and most of all she wanted her to be there.
And when she’d opened the door, a thousand natural shocks pulled at her nerve endings, the shame more inevitable than any chemical reaction.
She could barely meet her eyes, as she sniffed out an apology and asked to come in.
And the warmth that greeted her, of that apartment that she knew so well, that she hadn’t seen in nearly two months, since that day...
It was too much. With those hands encircling her waist and pulling her close and just holding her while she buried her face against that golden hair and fought against her tears.
“I’m so so sorry,” she uttered in between her sobs and Kimberley smoothed the back of her head with a steady hand and squeezed her tighter.
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” and she made a point of grabbing her chin, angling her face so she could whisper very deliberately against her ear, “I’m sorry too.”
They broke apart and smiled at each other, days and weeks and minutes of not talking to each other falling away with a single look.
“That message I left you,” Cheryl began, shaking her head, “That was so out of order. You know I didn’t mean any of it, babe, you know.”
And she squeezed Kimberley’s hands on the final word for emphasis, willing the contact to convey the rush of feeling that was busy consuming her.
“I never even checked my messages,” Kimberley offered with a half-smile. “I just... I just guessed there’d be some reaction. Well, I knew.”
And here she broke away and Cheryl felt instantly cold.
She followed Kimberley into her living room, automatically filling the space beside her on the sofa.
“I didn’t want this, Cheryl. The article today, the ones still to come. Please believe me, I didn’t want any of this.”
Cheryl saw the desperation flickering back at her in those ever-changing eyes, clouding with grey, a sure-sign of displeasure.
She looked down and fiddled with her rings, the barren fourth finger still a sight to get used to.
“What,” she paused before looking up shyly through her thick lashes, “what about Justin?”
“It’s not going anywhere. He knows something’s up, but...” her mouth was down-turned as she stared off, shaking her head sadly. “They don’t want me to say anything, not yet, anyway.”
“Because of me?”
Kimberley’s gaze returned to those earnest, chocolate eyes.
“Yeah,” she affirmed softly, “and the band. Timing issues, so they say.”
Cheryl heaved out a sigh in recognition. She’d had a somewhat similar conversation several weeks before.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, biting her bottom lip in a way that made Kimberley’s heart lurch.
She shook her head solemnly, fighting to know what to say, to proffer as means of encouragement, of reassurance.
We’re trapped, she thought hopelessly, the trepidation dripping slowly down her throat, choking her routine pragmatism with an awful sense of inevitably- that this would all end in disaster.
But Cheryl’s hands were warm, as her fingers stroked gently along her thigh and her head nestled against her shoulder.
“Come home with me,” she breathed against her collarbone, her whole hand burning a path along Kimberley’s skin.
“I can’t. Justin will be home soon.”
The hand began to roam more freely, almost tenderly in it movements and Kimberley experienced that fateful tingling as they relaxed further into one another. She hadn’t been touched by Cheryl in so long.
“Me mam’s at mine,” Cheryl said, looking up at her.
“Well, then.”
“Kimba, she knows,” she took her left hand and entwined it with Kimberley’s right, her small delicate fingers, teasing and stroking along her palm. “Everyone knows,” she murmured.
“Mmm.”
And they were kissing against their better judgement, against the feelings of unease over what was to come, the uncertainty of where this was all heading, now that it was out there, now that it was real.
And Kimberley wanted to break away, and assume control and tell Cheryl that they needed to figure things out, but she had no idea whether the ferocity of that need was any competition to the strength of their current one, and anyway, she had no idea how to begin figuring things out and clearly neither did Cheryl.
And when Cheryl implored her to say it, that she needed to hear the words, Kimberley could only lower her head, hands clasping either side of her face, whisper against her ear hot and breathless, “I love you,” over and over again.
Part Eight