Chanelle Hayes - Baring My Heart

by Hayes, Chanelle

  Alongside all the academic stuff, I’d usually bag a lead role in whatever plays or concerts were going on at school. I once played Juliet in a version of Romeo and Juliet and, to this day, Dad says I was so good that I could have cut it as a professional actress. I’m still waiting for my call from Hollywood, obviously.

  As for sports, I think I still hold Horbury’s record for the high jump! But, while I enjoyed athletics and running, I hated hockey because I got so bruised and I found trampolining boring and stupid too.

  My biggest talent of all though was playing the violin and I got up to Grade Seven, which was quite a personal achievement. I joined Wakefield Youth Orchestra and loved the buzz of playing in big concerts at the city cathedral. Sometimes I still get my old violin out now and have a little go – but I’m a bit rusty these days.

  I think one of the only times I got badly into trouble was when I was supposed to have a TB immunisation and I refused and ran out of school. I’ve always been so terrified of needles (even now, if I have my lips done or a bit of Botox, I can’t stand them)! The next day, my teachers had a massive go at me and threatened to take my prefect badge off me. But after I’d grovelled a bit, they changed their mind.

  Family holidays were always a highlight of growing up and, though we never went anywhere fancy or abroad, we used to have the best time at Center Parcs. We used to go to the one in Nottingham every February and it was brilliant because my friend Alison would come along and we could just run wild for a week. It’s so safe there and Mum and Dad never had to worry about what we were getting up to (or so they thought). We’d spend most of our time in the pool and on the slides and checking out boys, of course! I still have very happy memories of those days.

  In the summer holidays, we’d usually go and stay in a caravan at Bridlington. It wasn’t exactly the Costa del Sol but I usually took Alison along and we always had fun. Mum and Dad would give us each £10 every morning and we’d make it last all day and into the evening. It’s amazing how much we managed to stretch our precious funds: swimming in the morning, a bag of chips at lunchtime and a trip to the arcades in the afternoon. Then at night, we used to cake ourselves with make-up and go to the on-site club to watch rubbishy bands. We felt so grown up!

  We still sometimes go back to Bridlington as a family now but last year David said, ‘I’m twenty-two, for God’s sake. I don’t want to go to a caravan and spend a week in the pouring rain.’ Fair enough, I guess.

  While my school days were pretty ordinary, the summer of 1996 sparked a change in me that would go on to shape my life for years to come. It started when I was 10 years old, after I heard a really catchy song playing on the radio. Putting two and two together, I realised this was the new pop group that everyone was talking about: the Spice Girls. Has there ever been a more memorable debut than their first single, ‘Wannabe’? I seriously doubt it. One listen for me and a major addiction was born.

  Like millions of other youngsters, I loved the song’s ballsy lyrics – all that stuff about the guy needing to be accepted by the girl’s friends. I’d never heard anything like it before and loved the band’s feisty image and their ‘Girl Power’ message. I soon became obsessed with them and would save all my pocket money to buy merchandise. I had a Polaroid camera, posters, towels, duvet sets and a Spice Girls body spray – which actually smelt like cat wee, though I still wore it, of course! I had all the cassettes and video tapes and then, when their stuff came out on CD and DVD, I had to get those too. At least knowing what to buy me for birthdays and Christmas was an absolute doddle!

  The great thing about the group was that they were all such different characters, so you could pick who you wanted to be. Everyone had a Spice Girl they could relate to and, for me, it was initially Geri Halliwell. I even coloured my hair red with one of those wash-in, wash-out dyes – which looked disgusting! Then I began wearing a bra and stuffing socks in it because Geri had big boobs and I had absolutely nothing up top at that age. I liked the fact that Geri was so gobby too. You got the impression she wouldn’t stand for any nonsense.

  Still, in the fickle way that you do as a kid, I soon grew a bit bored of Geri in all her flamboyant Union Jack gear and, as quickly as I had latched on to her, dropped her for Posh Spice. She had recently started dating David Beckham and, like the whole nation, I was intrigued by this glamorous popstar/footballer combo. Their romance seemed like such a fairy tale and I devoured all the glossy-magazine shoots and interviews they did around the time Brand Beckham took off. It seems naff now but all the matching clothes, David in a sarong and the ‘his ’n’ hers’ thrones at ‘Beckingham Palace’ were so fun – even if they wouldn’t be seen dead doing that kind of thing today.

  As you’ll discover throughout this book, Posh has maintained a very steady presence in my life since then – even if she might not realise it! I’ve always loved watching her style evolve and the fact that all of her looks tell a different story. When the Spice Girls first strutted onto the scene, she would typically wear leopard-print fur coats, teeny leather bras and mini-skirts but that changed drastically as her fame began to soar. I used to pore over pictures of her ever-changing hairstyles and increasingly expensive outfits and shoes, and craved the lifestyle that she and David had.

  Then, when the golden couple had their first son, Brooklyn, in 1999 and got married that same year, my adulation took on a whole new dimension. I loved the fact that, while they both worked hard and looked so good, they were totally family orientated – something I admired even when I was young. Apart from for a couple of years in my life when I hit the party scene, I’ve always been a stay-at-home girl at heart. I think, because of being adopted myself, the idea of the family unit has always been crucially important to me. I looked up to Victoria for not only being stylish and gorgeous but also having such strong maternal instincts. She and David were the perfect role models in my eyes.

  All in all, my childhood was very happy and I was lucky to be surrounded by a close-knit family. I was especially fond of my Aunty Jean – who was married to Dad’s brother Basil. One vivid memory I have of her is that she was the first person to ever get me drunk! It happened at some kind of family party when I was about 13 and she kept passing me Bacardi Breezers under the table. By the end of the evening, I was pretty tipsy and hiding the fact I couldn’t quite walk straight from Mum and Dad was a real challenge! Aunty Jean only died recently, which was so sad, but I’ll always have fond memories of our naughty collaboration that evening.

  As well as Aunty Jean, I adored Joan and Reg and the only real sadness I knew in those days was when they both died during my early teens. He passed away first and then she followed not too long after. It was almost like she couldn’t bear to go on without him. They were very much that kind of couple and I still think of them often.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A Need for Answers

  Although I never thought much about my real mum and what happened to her when I was a little girl, something suddenly changed in me by the time I reached 14. I had this nagging feeling that there was a lot of important stuff I should know about – a sixth sense maybe.

  I remember speaking to our old social worker Christine about it. We’d always stayed in touch over the years and I said to her, ‘How did my real mum die? Do you know?’

  She hesitated but said gently, ‘Look, I can’t tell you that. It’s not up to me to make that decision. That’s up to your mum and dad, so you’ll have to ask them.’

  Naturally, that only increased my curiosity further and something in her tone convinced me there was something awful I should know about.

  I didn’t want to make too much of a big deal of it because I didn’t want to upset Mum and Dad by poking around into my past but, when I put them on the spot and asked how my real mum had died, they both became very cagey. Of course, if you refuse to answer a teenager’s questions, they will automatically want to know at least a hundred times more urgently. So, though it had never been an issue before, it was now som
ething I thought about a lot and was determined to get to the bottom of.

  Over the coming months, I started asking my parents about her constantly but they felt I wasn’t ready to handle the truth. I’ve always been a stubborn little thing though and the brick wall they put up just made me more hell bent on finding out the truth. While my mates were more concerned with chatting up boys or scraping together funds for the latest shoes in Topshop, I was busy playing Miss Marple to piece together the clues I had about my mum’s life.

  Because I was so preoccupied by whatever had happened, I started having recurring nightmares. I’d dream I was being kidnapped and then wake up, sitting bolt upright with my hair all sweaty and stuck to my face. It was always the same scenario – I’d be shopping in town and there would be this weird-looking guy in black clothes. His hands would come out of nowhere and snatch me away from a woman, who I guess was my real mum.

  ‘Let go of me!’ I’d yell but the man would just grin at me and then, as the woman disappeared from my sight, I’d wake up. I got so scared that I even refused to go into town with Mum for a while.

  What was rapidly becoming an obsession started to make me difficult to live with. It felt like there was a big conspiracy to keep these missing strands of my history from me.

  ‘Mum, will you please just talk to me and respect my wishes?’ I’d ask her. ‘I really can cope with whatever the big secret is, you know.’

  ‘Oh, Chanelle,’ she would say. ‘I know you think you’re old enough but, when we adopted you, we made the decision not to tell you until you were older and we have to stick to that. It really is for your own good.’

  When I got tired of that kind of conversation, I’d try a more direct approach and corner her as she was making breakfast or putting on a load of washing.

  ‘Tell me now,’ I’d demand, without even wishing her a good morning. ‘I have a right to know how she died. You owe it to me.’

  ‘Chanelle, we’ve talked about this so many times and, when the time is right, your dad and I will tell you everything. But not yet.’

  These words were so infuriating. ‘So when will the time be right?’ I’d snap. ‘What’s the difference between now and in two or three years? You’re so mean to keep this from me. I’m not a kid anymore!’

  But it was hopeless; Mum wasn’t going to budge. And whenever I brought up the subject with Dad, I’d get a firmer response still.

  ‘When you’re eighteen, you’ll be an adult and you can find out everything you want to know. But not now. That’s the end of the matter.’

  Why couldn’t they see that I needed to uncover my past, just to know who I really was? The more they blocked me, the angrier I got. Fights became an almost daily occurrence and I remember once storming up to my room and slamming the door so hard the walls shook.

  ‘I hate you both!’ I screamed, throwing myself onto the bed and burying my face in the pillows. ‘Nobody understands what I’m going through. It’s so unfair!’

  I must have sounded like a stuck record – and God knows how my poor brother put up with all the commotion. But then David was always a calm, placid boy. He would sit quietly in his room on his PlayStation while, all around him, World War Three was breaking out and then casually emerge half an hour later, saying, ‘What’s for tea, Mum?’ It must stem from his own past because his real mum used to beat him black and blue if he so much as made a noise.

  While I was going through what could probably be described as a bratty phase, I decided to get a tattoo. And not just a tiny, subtle initial on my wrist or something but a full-on, massive design right across my lower back. I had to use fake ID to get it done, which I’m not proud of, but now I hate the thing. It’s vile and, if it didn’t leave a white mark behind, I’d have it removed in a flash. It makes me feel physically sick and I insist on having it airbrushed out of my modelling pictures. Overall, I’m not a fan of tattoos on girls – and while we’re on that subject, Cheryl Cole’s bottom is the most repulsive thing I’ve seen in my life. What on earth was going through her mind?

  When I got mine, it was quite funny though because, for about five years, I let my dad believe it was a henna tattoo and that I was having it topped up regularly. Only when I went on Big Brother did he realise that it was real and he yelled at Mum, ‘This is disgraceful! Why didn’t you tell me she had this monstrosity?’

  Poor Mum said, ‘I’m sorry, Harry but she told me not to say anything!’

  Getting a hideous tattoo and fighting with Mum and Dad non-stop illustrates how frustrated I was becoming at home and I felt that I couldn’t really share my problems with anyone. David and I were close but we didn’t share those kinds of things and I think I wanted to protect him from it anyway. And, of course, my friends didn’t understand what I was going through. None of them were adopted, for a start, and they certainly hadn’t had mums who’d died in weird, unspoken circumstances.

  As I could never share what was eating away at me with my mates, they were a bit baffled as to why my home life constantly resembled a battleground. We’d meet up and they’d be like, ‘What’s up with you today then?’

  ‘What do you think?’ I’d say. ‘I’ve had another fight with Mum and Dad – I bloody hate them.’

  ‘Oh, just the usual then.’

  Well, not exactly. What we were dealing with here were not typical teenage strops about pocket money or staying out past 11pm. That stuff seemed so trivial to me. This was a much bigger issue and, if I’m honest, I really didn’t know how to handle it. As my rows with Mum escalated, she’d simply refuse to talk to me or send me to my room.

  One day, when I had turned 15, after arguing for about the zillionth time, Mum told me cryptically, ‘There are things you don’t understand. And you won’t be able to understand them until you’re an adult.’

  ‘But I am grown up enough now,’ I protested. ‘Everyone says I’m very mature for my age. I’ve even got two jobs.’

  I was working part-time as a waitress at a nearby hotel called Cedar Court and thought this surely proved how responsible I was.

  ‘Chanelle, please just let it go,’ she said with a sigh. ‘My decision is final. You are too young and that’s that.’

  Then, as a tide of frustration and anger washed over me, I yelled, ‘What do you know? You’re not even my real mum!’ As my temper boiled over, I couldn’t stop. ‘I don’t know who you think you are but you can’t tell me what to do! You have no right!’

  It must be like a slap in the face for any parent to hear such vicious words and I could tell in an instant how badly I’d wounded her.

  ‘You are not my real mum!’ I repeated, out of sheer desperation. Seeing the pain fill her eyes as my words sank in, she looked like a broken woman.

  Looking back, I wonder how I could have been so cruel. It makes me feel sick that I intentionally tried to hurt her like that. Mum would do anything in the world for me and my brother, so the way I treated her still haunts me. Thankfully, she has forgiven me for all of that now but sometimes I look back and can hear myself shouting those nasty words. It’s then that I want to call her just to tell her how much I love her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Rebellion

  With my relationship with my parents deteriorating, I decided that, if they were going to treat me like a baby, I might as well behave like one. So that was when I decided to run away. With all my questions and tantrums getting me absolutely nowhere, it seemed like a good way to make a stand to my parents and punish them at the same time.

  One night, after a big fight, I was pacing my room, feeling so angry and like I had nowhere to turn. ‘I have to get out of this house,’ I said to myself. The situation was quite literally driving me crazy.

  It was dark outside and, when I was sure that Mum, Dad and David were all downstairs watching TV, I shoved a change of clothes and some schoolbooks into a carrier bag and climbed out of my bedroom window. Dropping onto the garage roof, I then jumped into the bushes beneath. This was a pretty big deal for me
, as the idea of being a tomboy appalled me and I’d have much preferred to use the front door. Incidentally, those bushes were a mess for ages afterwards and my dad moaned for an eternity about the Chanelle-shaped dent I left in them!

  Wanting to cause as much worry as possible, I didn’t bother to leave a note before I left but instead scrawled some horrible comments in the life book they’d made me when I was little. There was a really cute baby photo of me with them, which they’d captioned ‘Chanelle with her new family’. Cruelly, I wrote underneath, ‘Well, you’re not much of a family, are you?’ I wish I hadn’t done that now. It was such a lovely book and I’m still upset I spoiled it like that.

  At the time, I didn’t care about hurting them. I just wanted to be out of the house, so I’d scrabbled together a few pounds in cash and caught a bus to Wakefield train station. I was trying to look as grown up as I could but, in reality, was absolutely petrified. I almost didn’t go through with it and contemplated getting the bus straight back home again. But I had a point to prove and that determination somehow pushed me on.

  Even though it was fairly late in the evening and a good hour and a half away, I’d decided to go to Hull, where a girl I knew called Emma lived. She was a bit older than me but Alison and I had met her on holiday a few times and had a right laugh with her. The train pulled in to the platform and I got on, praying I wouldn’t see anyone I knew and that I wouldn’t get stopped for a ticket. As I didn’t have much money, I hid in the toilets for the entire journey. The stench was totally revolting and churned my stomach but I kept saying over and over to myself, ‘Just a little bit longer. They’ll be so worried by now. Serves them right.’

  When I arrived in Hull at around 11pm, I called Emma from a pay phone. If she hadn’t been in, I had absolutely no back-up plan in mind. But I would probably have slept rough at the station, rather than go home. Fortunately, she picked up the phone after a couple of rings.