fic: Breaking Up (rps: Cheryl / Kimberley)
It was Hilary, she sounded stressed.
“You’ve probably heard about this already from Cheryl,” she had begun.
Kimberley said nothing. She hadn’t heard about it from Cheryl. She’d heard next to nothing from Cheryl ever since her mad midnight dash to Oxshott.
Not that she was at all surprised by the announcement.
“There’s more,” Hilary had stated, her meaning more than a little cryptic.
Of course there’s more, she had thought ruefully. There’s always more with those two.
It would no doubt be breaking news. Because it was Cheryl. And Cheryl simply was news. And Cheryl and Ashley together - or, more precisely, Cheryl and Ashley not being together - was a hurtling juggernaut of a story likely to cause the biggest media maelstrom of the year.
She sleepily wiped the hair from her eyes and gritted her teeth for what was to come. Hilary was sketchy on the details, maybe deliberately so, but they were close enough and Kimberley was sharp enough that the reading between the lines was evident.
There would be a story, they were planning for it. Because it was Cheryl. Until then, all the girls were to lay low.
She’d been cleaning her teeth when the phone rang once more. She half expected it to be Hilary again with an update. As her fingers curled around the receiver her heart gave a twinge at the possibility that it might be Cheryl. She swallowed hard.
“Kimberley? It’s me. Has Hilary got hold of you yet?”
Nicola.
“At about 8.30 this morning. Hello to you too.”
“Well, sounds like I was first on the hit list then,” Nicola ignored any attempt at pleasantries, clearly irritated at the interruption this new change of events was likely to cause to her pre-planned diary.
“So what you reckon to all this then?”
Kimberley sighed as she sat down on her unmade bed, her eyes darting to the window and the grey slate of sky.
“I guess it was gonna happen sooner or later,” she replied diplomatically, doing her best to appear as neutral as possible.
She knew Nicola would take the bait though, she could practically feel the grimace down the crackly line. She heard a car horn blaring and hoped that Nicola wasn’t the one driving.
“God, why’s everything got to be so bloody complicated with those two?”
For the second time that morning Kimberley held her tongue. Nic didn’t know the half of it, she thought.
“S’pose it’s best it all comes out now though and not when we’re buggering about with promo.”
“Mm... yeah,” Kimberley agreed half-heartedly, thinking of how a story like this would affect promo. Cheryl’s promo. And there was no way the label was simply going to sit back and let the tabloids swarm all over the nation’s sweetheart. Not without some carefully constructed strategy to garner every column inch and turn it into an opportunity to exploit brand Cole further. Or brand Tweedy. That was still to be decided.
She could visualise Sundraj frantically tapping away at his laptop, shifting into place some carefully orchestrated PR masterplan one detail at a time, planning and re-planning for every possible outcome. He was good at his job, she had to admit. He had a way of thinking on the hoof. And he had the right kind of connections, which meant everything in PR.
“What’s Chez said about all of this?” Nicola broke her concentration. “I can’t get hold of her at the minute.”
“Oh, I...” I haven’t been speaking to her, Kimberley realized in that split second. She hadn’t been deliberately avoiding Cheryl since that night. But she hadn’t been actively seeking her company either.
There’d been a short message on her voicemail a few days afterwards. She’d sounded weary and slightly embarrassed. She’d thanked Kimberley for staying over, apologised once again for making her worry, asked her out for lunch. At least, thought Kimberley, she had the good sense not to try and lure me back there. At least she recognised the need for neutral territory.
But Kimberley had been busy, and couldn’t have met her anyway. She hadn’t intentionally put off returning her call, but when at last she’d remembered, the line was constantly engaged. She hadn’t bothered with a message. Cheryl would have seen her many missed calls.
Her words trailed off into the static space between them. She couldn’t articulate at that moment what Cheryl must be thinking. And at this the guilt began to clutch at her heart.
“Are you still there?”
“Huh? Yeah, sorry Nic. I haven’t spoken to Cheryl for a couple of days.”
At that Nicola’s voice shifted imperceptibly from casual annoyance to something altogether steelier. Her Liverpudlian accent became just that bit thicker, her eyes narrowed.
“Kimberley, what’s going on?”
Never was there a more direct question with such a myriad of possible answers, each one more intricately cavernous than the last.
Kimberley stared into the middle distance as she subconsciously loosened her grip on the receiver, her thoughts drifting to a place and a girl not so far away.
“Honestly,” she began, “I wish I knew.”
* * * * *
She had never just turned up unannounced. You couldn’t do that in her world, with an army of camera-wielding stalkers tracking her every move.
But today was different.
Today she’d made a decision. It was to be the first of many, but even she knew just how fundamental this one would be to the machinations of her carefully constructed spotlight of a career.
She was famous, arguably the most famous woman in the country at the moment, certainly the most talked-about.
But fame was like glass to her. Shaped by fire, transparent and brittle. It was strong enough to hold her up to the world and contain her rising star. But no matter what skill went into its craft, a careless swipe was enough to shatter everything.
It was a strange way of living, so open and accessible to millions of people, yet with a tiny core of emotions and secrets that could only be guessed at.
She’d learnt well, a willing and able pupil to the suits and cheque writers, who promised the earth if she could only behave herself.
It had felt like a joke at the time. Sitting on your hands, biting your tongue, carefully attuning your wardrobe, your friends, your life. Layer after layer of gloss had been applied to her tiny frame until all that could be seen was what they wanted to see.
And in return she had the lifestyle, the money, the opportunity for solo success. It felt like everything to a girl who had worked a smoke filled bar in Heaton for cash in hand and a bag of chips on a Friday night.
Never again would she have to worry about signing on, or queuing to put money on her key meter, or nipping down to the One Stop in the rain at 11pm to stock up on Mayfair’s - unable to scrape together enough change for Marlboros.
She had four bank accounts - one off-shore, a car that cost more than all of her siblings’ flats put together, two Chihuahuas that had a grooming routine more lengthy than her own at 18 years old.
She was part of the most successful British girl group ever. Even alone, her name was responsible for 25 pay cheques. She had a general manager, a PR manager, a PA, a personal stylist, a personal hairdresser, a manicurist, a masseuse and a podiatrist who took care of her ingrown toenails on a monthly basis.
There were sponsors, endorsements, television contracts and label distribution rights, all earning her money in her sleep.
Which wasn’t to say she didn’t work for it, because out of all the girls she undisputedly put in the most hours and expended the most energy.
Out of all of them, she wanted it the most.
But there had been something else she had come to want just as much. Something that no amount of scene-stealing headlines, flashbulb premiers, sold-out tours or celebrity trappings could dispel.
It had crept up on her - a stealthy delicate shadow, building beneath her ribcage, growing, shape-shifting, eluding her entirely whenever she tried to grasp at it and seek control.
It was 2010. She’d been living out loud for over seven years.
She’d spent a dark and miserable evening sipping from her wine glass as Nina sang about a new dawn and a new day and finally wrestled her insecurities into submission.
This feeling, she’d admitted, it was never going to go away.
Before her lawyer, before her husband, before her lover, she had called Hilary.
She didn’t have much time though. They were hammering out an action plan, a feat akin to readying for war. There were people and props to put into place, meetings to arrange and then cancel and re-arrange. Press releases to write. Family to debrief.
It was a slick operation - it had to be. She was Cheryl Cole, an integral part of the multi-million pound industry that was Girls Aloud, a brand in her own right, a small but effective global conglomerate. A star that was rising ever further into the stratosphere.
And today, right now, sitting behind the wheel of her car with the engine still running, this was the last chance she’d have to catch her breath. She knew what she needed to do.
If Kimberley was at all taken off guard by her sudden appearance she hid it well.
Cheryl waited on the threshold expectantly, her hands clasped in front of her, gloved to conceal her empty ring finger from the prying lenses of any stray photographers.
“Hiya babe,” she whispered softly, lashes fluttering unconsciously in that way that made Kimberley’s stomach clench.
She gave a slight shake of her head as her mouth curled up on one side. Of course Cheryl would choose today to turn up on her doorstep unannounced.
But as she ushered her in the other more obvious thought entered her head. The reason behind the visit.
“No Justin?” Cheryl enquired with a backward glance as she sauntered through to the kitchen.
“No. He’s in Bristol, visiting Chloe.”
Of course, Cheryl already knew this. Kimberley had mentioned it a few weeks ago. It wasn’t the sort of information Cheryl allowed herself to forget.
“So,” Kimberley began as she followed Cheryl to her breakfast table, her face offering a tight smile, her mood suddenly flooded with unease.
They stood facing each other across the table, Cheryl’s bag and keys and about a half dozen unspoken confessions between them.
And this was new to both of them. The uncomfortable silence. The refrigerator hummed gently and the clocked ticked ominously from the wall.
“Kimberley, I-”
“Would you like a drink?” she interrupted, a sudden desperation to prolong whatever it was Cheryl was getting ready to launch into.
“Er, okay.”
“What would you like?”
“Just - whatever, you’ve got. Water, actually. I’m a bit parched.”
Kimberley fussed about with the glasses, keeping her back to Cheryl as she did so.
“D’ya want me to knock up some lunch, love? I was just about to eat.”
Her throat might have felt like sandpaper, but Cheryl’s stomach had begun to churn in a way that seemed dangerous to provoke with food. Her rapidly diminishing confidence wasn’t being helped by Kimberley’s stalling.
“I’m not really hungry babe, but you go ahead and eat.”
Kimberley looked almost crestfallen at the admission. “You sure? I could do you a salad…or… Ooh, I’ve got this really nice quiche I could warm up.”
Cheryl shook her head no and insisted Kimberley just go ahead and help herself.
“But, I can’t have it all on my own. And look, it goes off today. You sure? Go on…” her smile was enticingly wicked and altogether inappropriate for the subject.
Cheryl was soon swayed and Kimberley was relieved to have something to do with herself, sorting out the oven, the cutlery, avoiding meeting Cheryl’s gaze directly.
“Right,” she said at last, the quiche in the oven, two places set at the table, her smile almost frantic in her desperation to appear at ease.
“So, you’ve probably gathered this isn’t a social call,” Cheryl began, arching her eyebrow pointedly.
“Well, I had heard.”
“Hilary?”
Kimberley nodded, finally flicking her eyes up to meet Cheryl’s expectant face.
“And?” her hand was on the table, leather gloves still on, but fingers splayed and searching.
“If that’s what you want Cheryl,” Kimberley offered, the line she had been practicing in her head as sincere and appropriate now finally spoken and sounding trite and over rehearsed. “You know we’re all here for you.”
Cheryl blinked deliberately a couple of times and took a sip from her water.
“Yeah, I know that,” she said cautiously, not comprehending how the dissolution of her marriage could be met with anything other than support from the rest of the band.
“Good. ‘Cos… it’s true,” Kimberley smiled again and gave a slight shrug, bowing her head to scratch her neck.
She’s nervous, Cheryl finally conceded. She’s scared as fuck as to what I’m gonna say.
It was an unusual role-reversal between the two, with Cheryl so accustomed to leaning on Kimberley for support whenever a situation overwhelmed her and her anxiety took hold.
But for once, and perhaps ironically given that this was the biggest situation Cheryl had gotten herself into, she felt no fear. She’d made her resolution less than 24 hours ago. She had no intention of caving in now.
“Kimberley,” she began steadily, “You know why I left him.”
“Because he was a cheat and a liar,” she answered glibly. “Because he didn’t love you. He didn’t deserve you.”
“Because I didn’t love him.” Cheryl said defiantly. “You know that don’t you? And you know why.”
“Cheryl…” Kimberley’s tone betrayed her, eyes flicking nervously about, totally torn by ambivalence as to whether she wanted to hear this.
“It’s you, Kimberley. I love you.”
If she’d expected this to bring about the apocalypse, she’d have been sorely disappointed. While the declaration might not have been new, the stakes had certainly never been higher.
But Kimberley Walsh didn’t appear to be registering this with her usual earnestness. Instead she chose to realign the cutlery in a maddening way that made Cheryl want to reach out and send it all askew simply because she could.
When drumming her fingers along the tabletop failed to produce any response she heaved out a sigh. “Kimberley, please say something.”
She turned the knife over in her hand before setting it down again.
“I have Justin,” she said, her voice a near-whisper.
Cheryl grunted and shook her head. “You don’t love him.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Really? So that’s why you’re still coming round me house. Sleeping in me bed. Telling me you want me.”
Kimberley said nothing, because, really, what could she say to that?
Seven years. Seven years and still she’d found herself drifting back to Cheryl whenever one of them was lonely, or someone was crying, or they were both drunk or… they’d run out of excuses long ago.
“You’re settling.”
And that was enough to stir up Kimberley’s more vehement emotions.
“I’m doing what’s right for me, Cheryl. Okay? I’m where I want to be.”
Cheryl smirked, seemingly unconvinced by the outburst, which only served to fan the flames further.
“And what about you? You were with Ashley that whole time. You married him.”
“Only cos you wouldn’t have us, Kimba. You wouldn’t be with me.”
She remembered that conversation, the first of many, but still the most damaging, the most integral as far as manoeuvring her mindset into its current position. The one that accepted a life with Justin. The one that kept Cheryl on the periphery of her heart. For all the good it had done her.
She shook her head out of her reverie. “It couldn’t work. The band, Cheryl.”
“Yeah, I know. The girls, the band has to come first. You’ve been spoutin’ the same rubbish for six year now. And what’s changed, Kimberley? Tell me that.”
What’s changed? she thought. Everything. Nothing. They were more successful and famous than they’d ever dreamt possible. Back then it was all a promise, an opportunity of a lifetime that was theirs to lose. Now it was a reality.
She closed her eyes to the possibility that Cheryl was laying before her. Heard her getting up from the table and felt her drawing near.
“I still love you every bit as much now as I did then, you know,” she said softly.
Kimberley swallowed hard against the rush of blood drowning her ears.
Cheryl inched forward, until her knees knocked against Kimberley’s thigh.
“So can we just stop pretendin’ now please. You want me. You wouldn’t keep coming back if you didn’t. Can we just...”
She sighed. They both did. It was the impasse that they had found themselves at all those years ago.
“It’s you and me babe, it’s always been. That’s why you put up with us when I’m acting like a loon.”
Kimberley offered a meek watery smile at that.
Cheryl continued, “That’s what keeps us all together, as a band. We’re the glue, Kimba. You know it. And you know me better than anyone else. You know me inside out. I don’t think there’s anyone else I trust that much. That’s why I let you in, Kimba, don’t you see? You know all me secrets and you still want me. What does that tell you?”
Kimberley had fixed her eyes on the table, still occasionally nudging stray pieces of cutlery that had drifted imperceptibly from their positioning.
Cheryl scrutinised her face with growing desperation. What she’d painted as fact was now wavering into the realms of uncertainty.
“Just say it,” she husked, her voice low, “ Say it Kimberley and we can... You love me. You want me. You’ve always wanted me.”
And finally she shook her head. No. “I suppose, I can get carried away sometimes, but...” she looked up hesitantly, barely able to meet the fiery eyes, the look of utter incredulity directed back at her, “It doesn’t make it right.”
Cheryl tried to count to ten in her head. The oldest trick she’d learned for controlling her temper, and one she seldom ever put into practice.
She was exhausted, bewildered and near speechless at what was happening.
She made it to three, before grabbing her handbag from the table, her car keys leaving a ghost of a scar across the pine as she swiped them up too.
“Fuck you, Kimberley,” she rasped, a dangerous tremor in her tone as she wrestled to keep the tears at bay. “Just... fuck you.”
She didn’t even bother slamming the door as she left; the deflation took away all her sting.
Kimberley remained alone at her kitchen table, staring at her matching cutlery while her quiche overcooked in the oven.
She sat and listened as the refrigerator continued its reverberating hum and the clock its rhythmic tick and wondered if this was the beginning to the end of everything she’d ever wanted.
Part Seven
“You’ve probably heard about this already from Cheryl,” she had begun.
Kimberley said nothing. She hadn’t heard about it from Cheryl. She’d heard next to nothing from Cheryl ever since her mad midnight dash to Oxshott.
Not that she was at all surprised by the announcement.
“There’s more,” Hilary had stated, her meaning more than a little cryptic.
Of course there’s more, she had thought ruefully. There’s always more with those two.
It would no doubt be breaking news. Because it was Cheryl. And Cheryl simply was news. And Cheryl and Ashley together - or, more precisely, Cheryl and Ashley not being together - was a hurtling juggernaut of a story likely to cause the biggest media maelstrom of the year.
She sleepily wiped the hair from her eyes and gritted her teeth for what was to come. Hilary was sketchy on the details, maybe deliberately so, but they were close enough and Kimberley was sharp enough that the reading between the lines was evident.
There would be a story, they were planning for it. Because it was Cheryl. Until then, all the girls were to lay low.
She’d been cleaning her teeth when the phone rang once more. She half expected it to be Hilary again with an update. As her fingers curled around the receiver her heart gave a twinge at the possibility that it might be Cheryl. She swallowed hard.
“Kimberley? It’s me. Has Hilary got hold of you yet?”
Nicola.
“At about 8.30 this morning. Hello to you too.”
“Well, sounds like I was first on the hit list then,” Nicola ignored any attempt at pleasantries, clearly irritated at the interruption this new change of events was likely to cause to her pre-planned diary.
“So what you reckon to all this then?”
Kimberley sighed as she sat down on her unmade bed, her eyes darting to the window and the grey slate of sky.
“I guess it was gonna happen sooner or later,” she replied diplomatically, doing her best to appear as neutral as possible.
She knew Nicola would take the bait though, she could practically feel the grimace down the crackly line. She heard a car horn blaring and hoped that Nicola wasn’t the one driving.
“God, why’s everything got to be so bloody complicated with those two?”
For the second time that morning Kimberley held her tongue. Nic didn’t know the half of it, she thought.
“S’pose it’s best it all comes out now though and not when we’re buggering about with promo.”
“Mm... yeah,” Kimberley agreed half-heartedly, thinking of how a story like this would affect promo. Cheryl’s promo. And there was no way the label was simply going to sit back and let the tabloids swarm all over the nation’s sweetheart. Not without some carefully constructed strategy to garner every column inch and turn it into an opportunity to exploit brand Cole further. Or brand Tweedy. That was still to be decided.
She could visualise Sundraj frantically tapping away at his laptop, shifting into place some carefully orchestrated PR masterplan one detail at a time, planning and re-planning for every possible outcome. He was good at his job, she had to admit. He had a way of thinking on the hoof. And he had the right kind of connections, which meant everything in PR.
“What’s Chez said about all of this?” Nicola broke her concentration. “I can’t get hold of her at the minute.”
“Oh, I...” I haven’t been speaking to her, Kimberley realized in that split second. She hadn’t been deliberately avoiding Cheryl since that night. But she hadn’t been actively seeking her company either.
There’d been a short message on her voicemail a few days afterwards. She’d sounded weary and slightly embarrassed. She’d thanked Kimberley for staying over, apologised once again for making her worry, asked her out for lunch. At least, thought Kimberley, she had the good sense not to try and lure me back there. At least she recognised the need for neutral territory.
But Kimberley had been busy, and couldn’t have met her anyway. She hadn’t intentionally put off returning her call, but when at last she’d remembered, the line was constantly engaged. She hadn’t bothered with a message. Cheryl would have seen her many missed calls.
Her words trailed off into the static space between them. She couldn’t articulate at that moment what Cheryl must be thinking. And at this the guilt began to clutch at her heart.
“Are you still there?”
“Huh? Yeah, sorry Nic. I haven’t spoken to Cheryl for a couple of days.”
At that Nicola’s voice shifted imperceptibly from casual annoyance to something altogether steelier. Her Liverpudlian accent became just that bit thicker, her eyes narrowed.
“Kimberley, what’s going on?”
Never was there a more direct question with such a myriad of possible answers, each one more intricately cavernous than the last.
Kimberley stared into the middle distance as she subconsciously loosened her grip on the receiver, her thoughts drifting to a place and a girl not so far away.
“Honestly,” she began, “I wish I knew.”
* * * * *
She had never just turned up unannounced. You couldn’t do that in her world, with an army of camera-wielding stalkers tracking her every move.
But today was different.
Today she’d made a decision. It was to be the first of many, but even she knew just how fundamental this one would be to the machinations of her carefully constructed spotlight of a career.
She was famous, arguably the most famous woman in the country at the moment, certainly the most talked-about.
But fame was like glass to her. Shaped by fire, transparent and brittle. It was strong enough to hold her up to the world and contain her rising star. But no matter what skill went into its craft, a careless swipe was enough to shatter everything.
It was a strange way of living, so open and accessible to millions of people, yet with a tiny core of emotions and secrets that could only be guessed at.
She’d learnt well, a willing and able pupil to the suits and cheque writers, who promised the earth if she could only behave herself.
It had felt like a joke at the time. Sitting on your hands, biting your tongue, carefully attuning your wardrobe, your friends, your life. Layer after layer of gloss had been applied to her tiny frame until all that could be seen was what they wanted to see.
And in return she had the lifestyle, the money, the opportunity for solo success. It felt like everything to a girl who had worked a smoke filled bar in Heaton for cash in hand and a bag of chips on a Friday night.
Never again would she have to worry about signing on, or queuing to put money on her key meter, or nipping down to the One Stop in the rain at 11pm to stock up on Mayfair’s - unable to scrape together enough change for Marlboros.
She had four bank accounts - one off-shore, a car that cost more than all of her siblings’ flats put together, two Chihuahuas that had a grooming routine more lengthy than her own at 18 years old.
She was part of the most successful British girl group ever. Even alone, her name was responsible for 25 pay cheques. She had a general manager, a PR manager, a PA, a personal stylist, a personal hairdresser, a manicurist, a masseuse and a podiatrist who took care of her ingrown toenails on a monthly basis.
There were sponsors, endorsements, television contracts and label distribution rights, all earning her money in her sleep.
Which wasn’t to say she didn’t work for it, because out of all the girls she undisputedly put in the most hours and expended the most energy.
Out of all of them, she wanted it the most.
But there had been something else she had come to want just as much. Something that no amount of scene-stealing headlines, flashbulb premiers, sold-out tours or celebrity trappings could dispel.
It had crept up on her - a stealthy delicate shadow, building beneath her ribcage, growing, shape-shifting, eluding her entirely whenever she tried to grasp at it and seek control.
It was 2010. She’d been living out loud for over seven years.
She’d spent a dark and miserable evening sipping from her wine glass as Nina sang about a new dawn and a new day and finally wrestled her insecurities into submission.
This feeling, she’d admitted, it was never going to go away.
Before her lawyer, before her husband, before her lover, she had called Hilary.
She didn’t have much time though. They were hammering out an action plan, a feat akin to readying for war. There were people and props to put into place, meetings to arrange and then cancel and re-arrange. Press releases to write. Family to debrief.
It was a slick operation - it had to be. She was Cheryl Cole, an integral part of the multi-million pound industry that was Girls Aloud, a brand in her own right, a small but effective global conglomerate. A star that was rising ever further into the stratosphere.
And today, right now, sitting behind the wheel of her car with the engine still running, this was the last chance she’d have to catch her breath. She knew what she needed to do.
If Kimberley was at all taken off guard by her sudden appearance she hid it well.
Cheryl waited on the threshold expectantly, her hands clasped in front of her, gloved to conceal her empty ring finger from the prying lenses of any stray photographers.
“Hiya babe,” she whispered softly, lashes fluttering unconsciously in that way that made Kimberley’s stomach clench.
She gave a slight shake of her head as her mouth curled up on one side. Of course Cheryl would choose today to turn up on her doorstep unannounced.
But as she ushered her in the other more obvious thought entered her head. The reason behind the visit.
“No Justin?” Cheryl enquired with a backward glance as she sauntered through to the kitchen.
“No. He’s in Bristol, visiting Chloe.”
Of course, Cheryl already knew this. Kimberley had mentioned it a few weeks ago. It wasn’t the sort of information Cheryl allowed herself to forget.
“So,” Kimberley began as she followed Cheryl to her breakfast table, her face offering a tight smile, her mood suddenly flooded with unease.
They stood facing each other across the table, Cheryl’s bag and keys and about a half dozen unspoken confessions between them.
And this was new to both of them. The uncomfortable silence. The refrigerator hummed gently and the clocked ticked ominously from the wall.
“Kimberley, I-”
“Would you like a drink?” she interrupted, a sudden desperation to prolong whatever it was Cheryl was getting ready to launch into.
“Er, okay.”
“What would you like?”
“Just - whatever, you’ve got. Water, actually. I’m a bit parched.”
Kimberley fussed about with the glasses, keeping her back to Cheryl as she did so.
“D’ya want me to knock up some lunch, love? I was just about to eat.”
Her throat might have felt like sandpaper, but Cheryl’s stomach had begun to churn in a way that seemed dangerous to provoke with food. Her rapidly diminishing confidence wasn’t being helped by Kimberley’s stalling.
“I’m not really hungry babe, but you go ahead and eat.”
Kimberley looked almost crestfallen at the admission. “You sure? I could do you a salad…or… Ooh, I’ve got this really nice quiche I could warm up.”
Cheryl shook her head no and insisted Kimberley just go ahead and help herself.
“But, I can’t have it all on my own. And look, it goes off today. You sure? Go on…” her smile was enticingly wicked and altogether inappropriate for the subject.
Cheryl was soon swayed and Kimberley was relieved to have something to do with herself, sorting out the oven, the cutlery, avoiding meeting Cheryl’s gaze directly.
“Right,” she said at last, the quiche in the oven, two places set at the table, her smile almost frantic in her desperation to appear at ease.
“So, you’ve probably gathered this isn’t a social call,” Cheryl began, arching her eyebrow pointedly.
“Well, I had heard.”
“Hilary?”
Kimberley nodded, finally flicking her eyes up to meet Cheryl’s expectant face.
“And?” her hand was on the table, leather gloves still on, but fingers splayed and searching.
“If that’s what you want Cheryl,” Kimberley offered, the line she had been practicing in her head as sincere and appropriate now finally spoken and sounding trite and over rehearsed. “You know we’re all here for you.”
Cheryl blinked deliberately a couple of times and took a sip from her water.
“Yeah, I know that,” she said cautiously, not comprehending how the dissolution of her marriage could be met with anything other than support from the rest of the band.
“Good. ‘Cos… it’s true,” Kimberley smiled again and gave a slight shrug, bowing her head to scratch her neck.
She’s nervous, Cheryl finally conceded. She’s scared as fuck as to what I’m gonna say.
It was an unusual role-reversal between the two, with Cheryl so accustomed to leaning on Kimberley for support whenever a situation overwhelmed her and her anxiety took hold.
But for once, and perhaps ironically given that this was the biggest situation Cheryl had gotten herself into, she felt no fear. She’d made her resolution less than 24 hours ago. She had no intention of caving in now.
“Kimberley,” she began steadily, “You know why I left him.”
“Because he was a cheat and a liar,” she answered glibly. “Because he didn’t love you. He didn’t deserve you.”
“Because I didn’t love him.” Cheryl said defiantly. “You know that don’t you? And you know why.”
“Cheryl…” Kimberley’s tone betrayed her, eyes flicking nervously about, totally torn by ambivalence as to whether she wanted to hear this.
“It’s you, Kimberley. I love you.”
If she’d expected this to bring about the apocalypse, she’d have been sorely disappointed. While the declaration might not have been new, the stakes had certainly never been higher.
But Kimberley Walsh didn’t appear to be registering this with her usual earnestness. Instead she chose to realign the cutlery in a maddening way that made Cheryl want to reach out and send it all askew simply because she could.
When drumming her fingers along the tabletop failed to produce any response she heaved out a sigh. “Kimberley, please say something.”
She turned the knife over in her hand before setting it down again.
“I have Justin,” she said, her voice a near-whisper.
Cheryl grunted and shook her head. “You don’t love him.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Really? So that’s why you’re still coming round me house. Sleeping in me bed. Telling me you want me.”
Kimberley said nothing, because, really, what could she say to that?
Seven years. Seven years and still she’d found herself drifting back to Cheryl whenever one of them was lonely, or someone was crying, or they were both drunk or… they’d run out of excuses long ago.
“You’re settling.”
And that was enough to stir up Kimberley’s more vehement emotions.
“I’m doing what’s right for me, Cheryl. Okay? I’m where I want to be.”
Cheryl smirked, seemingly unconvinced by the outburst, which only served to fan the flames further.
“And what about you? You were with Ashley that whole time. You married him.”
“Only cos you wouldn’t have us, Kimba. You wouldn’t be with me.”
She remembered that conversation, the first of many, but still the most damaging, the most integral as far as manoeuvring her mindset into its current position. The one that accepted a life with Justin. The one that kept Cheryl on the periphery of her heart. For all the good it had done her.
She shook her head out of her reverie. “It couldn’t work. The band, Cheryl.”
“Yeah, I know. The girls, the band has to come first. You’ve been spoutin’ the same rubbish for six year now. And what’s changed, Kimberley? Tell me that.”
What’s changed? she thought. Everything. Nothing. They were more successful and famous than they’d ever dreamt possible. Back then it was all a promise, an opportunity of a lifetime that was theirs to lose. Now it was a reality.
She closed her eyes to the possibility that Cheryl was laying before her. Heard her getting up from the table and felt her drawing near.
“I still love you every bit as much now as I did then, you know,” she said softly.
Kimberley swallowed hard against the rush of blood drowning her ears.
Cheryl inched forward, until her knees knocked against Kimberley’s thigh.
“So can we just stop pretendin’ now please. You want me. You wouldn’t keep coming back if you didn’t. Can we just...”
She sighed. They both did. It was the impasse that they had found themselves at all those years ago.
“It’s you and me babe, it’s always been. That’s why you put up with us when I’m acting like a loon.”
Kimberley offered a meek watery smile at that.
Cheryl continued, “That’s what keeps us all together, as a band. We’re the glue, Kimba. You know it. And you know me better than anyone else. You know me inside out. I don’t think there’s anyone else I trust that much. That’s why I let you in, Kimba, don’t you see? You know all me secrets and you still want me. What does that tell you?”
Kimberley had fixed her eyes on the table, still occasionally nudging stray pieces of cutlery that had drifted imperceptibly from their positioning.
Cheryl scrutinised her face with growing desperation. What she’d painted as fact was now wavering into the realms of uncertainty.
“Just say it,” she husked, her voice low, “ Say it Kimberley and we can... You love me. You want me. You’ve always wanted me.”
And finally she shook her head. No. “I suppose, I can get carried away sometimes, but...” she looked up hesitantly, barely able to meet the fiery eyes, the look of utter incredulity directed back at her, “It doesn’t make it right.”
Cheryl tried to count to ten in her head. The oldest trick she’d learned for controlling her temper, and one she seldom ever put into practice.
She was exhausted, bewildered and near speechless at what was happening.
She made it to three, before grabbing her handbag from the table, her car keys leaving a ghost of a scar across the pine as she swiped them up too.
“Fuck you, Kimberley,” she rasped, a dangerous tremor in her tone as she wrestled to keep the tears at bay. “Just... fuck you.”
She didn’t even bother slamming the door as she left; the deflation took away all her sting.
Kimberley remained alone at her kitchen table, staring at her matching cutlery while her quiche overcooked in the oven.
She sat and listened as the refrigerator continued its reverberating hum and the clock its rhythmic tick and wondered if this was the beginning to the end of everything she’d ever wanted.
Part Seven