I’m appalled to confess to this but we then started slapping each other. It was horrific. I’ve never been in a physical fight in my life but that’s how upset we both were.
‘I wish I’d never met you!’ I yelled at her, which, of course, wasn’t true at all but it was the most hurtful thing I could think of to say.
‘Why don’t you just clear off back to your cosy little life then?’
Fortunately, someone intervened and pulled us apart and Nick then took me home.
‘Don’t do this to yourself,’ he said, stroking my hair. ‘After everything you’ve been through, why turn on each other like this?’
Looking back on it, while Nan had brought me and my sisters together initially, it was as if the glue couldn’t hold us together after she died. I didn’t speak to either of them for months after the funeral, which is so sad when we could probably have helped each other with our loss.
Eventually, we did reconcile and move on and, nowadays, I love them both dearly. I feel so grateful that they came in to my life when they did – but I will always be filled with profound regret that the three of us didn’t have longer with Nan.
As I mentioned, Nick was a rock for me during that time but I knew I had to pull myself together because my GCSEs were looming that spring. It wasn’t the best time to be facing big exams that would shape my future career but I threw myself into my revision for the next few months and did better than I ever could have hoped, getting all As and Bs, and even four A* grades. I was so happy that all that hard work paid off.
As a reward to myself, and probably in direct response to the heartache of the past year, I went a little crazy that summer. Nick, our friends and I would hit the bars and clubs in Wakefield most evenings and I lost count of the number of messy nights we had. I remember wearing some truly shocking outfits too, such as string vests and a coloured bra underneath, with tight pedal-pusher combats and pointy heels. I even wore sweatbands and ankle warmers – nice!
Things with Nick were going well too. Although my parents liked him, he was never allowed to stay at ours, so I spent most of my time at his house, and his parents, Vicky and Tony, became like family to me. On a Friday night, they would have friends round for dinner and drinks and there was always laughter in the house. It was just a welcoming, relaxing place to hang out.
My great exam results meant that I won a place at Greenhead College in Huddersfield that autumn, which was one of the best in the country. It’s so prestigious that you have to have formal interviews to get in, so I was thrilled and very excited when they accepted me.
And, of course, Mum and Dad were so proud they could hardly get their heads through the front door for a couple of weeks after they found out! I opted to take A Levels in English, Spanish and Music and it started off brilliantly. I had a feeling this was going to be a really great time in my life.
But sadly, despite loving my subjects individually, my enjoyment of college didn’t last long, thanks to my horrible Spanish teacher. For some reason, she took an instant dislike to me and was always really mean about the fact I chose to dress like Victoria Beckham.
It was 2003 and, though the Spice Girls had gone their separate ways three years earlier, my obsession with Posh was still going strong. By this point, she was doing her solo music stuff and I loved her hip-hop sound and cool new image. She did a song called ‘Let Your Head Go’, which turned out to be her last solo single. The video was amazing – she was sitting on a throne and wearing a tiara, then basically going mental, flinging clothes around and chucking vases of flowers with all this wild hair. She even did a mock flash of her boobs to the paparazzi before being led away by men in white coats. I loved the way Victoria could take the mickey out of herself and, though she obviously wasn’t the greatest singer to have ever graced the earth, she always looked gorgeous.
As a hobby, Posh was a costly one: I spent a small fortune trying to keep up with her ever-changing wardrobe. Just as well then that I had not one but two part-time jobs during college – one at River Island and one at Cedar Court, the hotel where I still did waitressing. It was hard work but it had to be done if I wanted to wear Victoria’s Rock & Republic jeans! In fact, hers was the only denim brand I’d wear and one of the worst lies I ever told Mum was that I needed to borrow £400 for one of my closest friends Rachel, who I’d met working at River Island. I told Mum I had to help her pay for a lip operation, when, in fact, it was to buy myself new jeans!
‘Rachel really needs the surgery, Mum,’ I fibbed. ‘She’s really miserable and depressed, so I’ve got to give her the cash.’
Mum, of course, being the kindly soul she is, handed the money over and off I went to get my VBs! I confessed all eventually and paid her back every penny but how awful was that?
Victoria also once had an amazing fake-fur bag, which had a diamante fastening on the side, and I was thrilled when I found a great high-street copy of it – for hundreds of pounds less than her designer version, obviously. But the Monday after I bought it and proudly swanned into college with it for the first time, my Spanish teacher took one look at it and said, ‘You are not bringing that bag inside this classroom.’
‘Why not?’ I asked, innocently. ‘It’s like Victoria Beckham’s – it’s stunning.’
‘It’s revolting,’ she replied, totally deadpan. ‘Fur is disgusting, whether it’s fake or not.’
‘But I’m not just going to leave my bag outside class, am I?’ I said, getting annoyed.
‘OK, fine. Stay outside then, with your bag,’ she said, smirking.
So the nasty woman then made me carry my desk out of the classroom and work in the corridor for the rest of the lesson. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? And as if that wasn’t humiliating enough, she gave me a dressing-down in front of the whole class, saying, ‘You’re clearly very insecure if you think you need to look like someone else. Maybe you should stop being so pretentious.’ I didn’t actually understand what she meant by the word ‘pretentious’ but it was still like a slap in the face. I looked it up in the dictionary later and couldn’t believe she had been so rude. I was doing nothing wrong and it was no different to other girls copying any trend off the catwalk. I mean, the whole thing was crazy; the bag wasn’t even real! I don’t agree with killing animals either but this was a fake from a high-street shop that all girls my age went to.
That pretty much set our relationship in stone and, as anyone close to me will tell you, when I develop a grudge against someone, it goes deep.
From then on, it was all-out war between us. She made me cry several times and actually called me a bimbo in front of the whole class! That was a ridiculous accusation because I wore mainly jeans and vest tops to college and would never have dreamed of turning up in a tiny skirt like some of the other girls in my year. I hated the whole trashy Paris Hilton look and thought Victoria’s style was much more sophisticated. But for some reason, because I liked to look after my appearance and always had nice make-up, manicured nails and a matching bag, this silly woman seemed to think I was some brain-dead slapper.
I never really got what her problem was. Especially as most people thought my worship of Posh was vaguely amusing. And you know what? Her blatant dislike of me only encouraged me to annoy her as much as I possibly could. So I’d try to copy as many of Victoria’s looks as possible, tearing out pictures from magazines and searching for similar clothes on the high street. I loved the way she’d make a simple jumper dress with a belt or a granddad shirt look so effortlessly cool.
And, as you’ll soon find out, my obsession with Posh was soon to hit a whole new level.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A Dream Come True
I know I shouldn’t have let it get to me but my problems with my Spanish teacher at Greenhead tarnished my whole college experience. Before that, I had always been the teachers’ favourite at school, so this felt a bit like rejection. I hated it. I’ll also admit that, because this was such a brilliant college, I was only an average stud
ent there, which made me stop working as hard. I know it’s ridiculous and makes me sound very spoiled but I thought, ‘What’s the point in even staying here?’
After dropping out towards the end of my first term, I got a full-time job at a call centre with Halifax bank and was also waitressing at Oulton Hall Hotel, near Leeds. Hardly the road to academic glory that I had planned to pursue but at least I was earning decent money. My parents were obviously disappointed, as I’d worked so hard to earn a place at Greenhead, but they didn’t want me to be miserable either. And they perked up when I started my A Levels again at New College in Pontefract that September – which was a much better choice for me. For starters, my Spanish teacher there, Lola, was absolutely lovely, so I happily got back into my studies.
That year, there was a major item on my to-do list: I was desperate to learn to drive and get my own car, so I could be more independent. My only way of doing this was to borrow the money from my parents, so I made a detailed financial plan, which I presented to Dad. I thought it was so grown up because it showed all my incomings and outgoings and how long it would take me to pay them back the £3,500 I’d estimated I needed. I gave him this sheet of A4 paper with all my mathematical scribblings on it and I’d written at the bottom:
Love you, Daddy, and with this car I can’t go out getting drunk apart from once a month so I will study more + be really intelligent and get a great job.
Please, Dad, this would make me really happy and prove to you I’m responsible, I just need help to get on the ladder! xxx (I won’t let you down!)
How could he resist that? Even though I was generally such a pain in the arse, he got me the car, which was so sweet. Then I started driving lessons with this fantastic woman called Anne, who had the patience of a saint. But on the odd occasion my dad did take me out for a practice, we’d end up pulling over at the side of the road screaming at each other and then he’d drive us home. Still, I passed first time, so I can’t have been that bad.
Having my own car made life so much easier when I was going to and from college in Pontefract every day, plus juggling two part-time jobs at the same time – and I saved a fortune on bus fares! Overall, I was very happy at Pontefract but it was around this time when I realised that Nick and I were starting to drift apart. Don’t get me wrong, we still got on so well but our goals in life were poles apart. He was drifting along, working as a lifeguard at a local pool, which was fine for him, but I felt he lacked drive. It sounds cruel and I don’t mean it to but I’ve always been headstrong and had lots of big aims and plans for the future. Ambition is one of the things I admire most in men – I think Simon Cowell should be everyone’s role model! It’s not that I fancy him (he’d be far too old for me) but I love the fact he came from a normal background and has got to the amazing heights he’s at now. It’s not about money either; the determination to succeed is what attracts me to someone. I just think Simon’s brilliant. I’d give my house to meet him!
Anyway, there was no big scene between Nick and me but, as I was looking ahead to my eighteenth birthday that November, it became clear that our two-year relationship was over. We’d booked a holiday to the Dominican Republic but, just before we were about to go, I backed out – even though it had cost us £1,000 each.
‘Nick,’ I said as we sat side by side on the couch. ‘You know I love you, don’t you?’
‘Er, yes, I guess I do.’
‘And that I’ll always love you?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Well, I think I’ve grown to love you as my friend, rather than my boyfriend. Does that make sense?’
‘It does actually, yes.’
‘Do you hate me for saying it?’
‘Massively. I don’t think I’ll ever talk to you again.’
‘Are you being serious? Don’t wind me up, Nick.’
‘No, it’s OK, really. I’ve kind of been thinking the same thing.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Yeah, I think we’ve just sort of moved on, haven’t we?’
‘So, for the record, are we splitting up?’
‘Looks like it, doesn’t it?’
‘Well,’ I said and smiled, ‘can we be official best friends from now on then?’
‘Seeing as you put it so nicely, there’s nobody I’d rather be best mates with.’
And as he gave me a playful punch on the arm, that was it. We were through. Talk about the smoothest break-up in history. No blazing rows, no fighting over possessions, no tears. How civilised! If only my love life could always have been such a breeze.
Being single again not only allowed me to concentrate more on my studies but also on the other super-important thing in my life: Victoria Beckham! I think it’s fair to say that this was the year my Posh obsession went sky high.
I still made lots of effort to dress like her but the one thing that had always been difficult for me to copy was her long, luscious hair extensions because they were so ridiculously expensive. One time, I raided £2,000 from a savings account that Mum and Dad had set up for me, just to pay for some. Unsurprisingly, they weren’t over the moon when they found out the hard-earned cash they’d stashed away for my future had gone towards paying for some poor eastern-European girl’s cast-offs to weave into my own hair.
‘That was our little nest egg for you,’ said Mum sadly. ‘And now there’s nothing.’
God, I felt terrible. Sorry again, Mum and Dad!
However, there were no such hair challenges when Victoria very helpfully cut her hair short into a drastic bob. I was thrilled – this look was going to be a cinch to replicate! So I marched straight down to my hairdressers, saying, ‘Give me a Pob, please, right now!’
That haircut made me look even more like her and people on the street would often stop and do a double-take, especially if I was wearing big sunnies and my VB jeans. You can imagine how ecstatic I was when people pointed out my likeness to her. It began happening frequently whenever I glammed up for a night out and I bloody loved it! I even started posing like her and pouting, which Zoe, Alison and co. thought was hilarious! Somebody telling me ‘You look like Victoria Beckham,’ was the ultimate compliment and always gave me a real high. It might seem daft now but so what? Who was I harming?
A lot of people have asked me over the years what I made of the whole Rebecca Loos scandal and how I could still hold the Beckhams up as role models after David reportedly cheated on Victoria while he was playing for Real Madrid in 2004. Well, I’ll admit I was mortified when all that came out but I flatly refused to believe it and would say to everyone, ‘No, Victoria’s denied it. Trust me, it didn’t happen.’
But whatever did or didn’t go on in Spain, that desperado Rebecca still makes me sick to this day. I remember a few years back, I was meant to be doing a shoot for the Daily Star and I heard that she was going to be there the same day doing some pictures. So I phoned in and said, ‘I’m not coming in – I refuse to be in the same studio as that tramp!’
While I stayed loyal to the Beckhams through and through, one thing still eluded me. I had never met Victoria and I knew I wouldn’t truly feel satisfied in life until I’d managed to arrange that little feat.
After putting her pop career to one side, Victoria had, by now, established herself as a designer and published a lovely glossy fashion book called That Extra Half An Inch. And when I heard she was going to be signing copies at Selfridges in London, it became my life’s mission to see her in the flesh once and for all.
I had to take the day off college for it and convinced my friend Jamila – who I’d met at Halifax – to come with me. We drove all the way down from Wakefield, which I remember was particularly scary as it was the first time I’d driven to London since passing my test. Along with 3,000 other fans, we stood in this never-ending queue for hours but I’d have happily stood there for a week just to meet her. As we inched nearer and nearer to Victoria, I was so nervous I thought I was going to black out. I still remember it like it was yesterday – she was wearing a l
ovely black dress with black tights and stilettos, and was impossibly tiny. I recall thinking she looked like a little ant, albeit a very beautiful one! And contrary to what people always say about her being miserable and cold, she was smiling loads too and seemed very warm. As we finally reached the front of that queue, I basically turned to mush. I never normally get star-struck or lost for words but I just couldn’t think of anything to say. All words vanished from my head as she signed my copy of the book and I blurted out, ‘People say that I really look like you.’
What a cringe-worthy thing to say! But, to this day, I still can’t believe her reply. Looking up from the book and taking me in with her big brown eyes, she smiled and said, ‘Well, that’s a huge compliment to me.’
No effing way! To be told I was good looking by Victoria Beckham was literally the best thing anyone had ever said to me. It really was one of the greatest moments of my life. I went home on cloud nine and stayed up there for several days.
I know people thought I was a bit strange but my adulation of Victoria was all so innocent. Surely it’s no different to being a One Direction fan nowadays – although I never stalked Victoria or tried to break into her hotel room! But just in case you’re wondering, I do still love the Beckhams today. When I see cute pictures of David cuddling and kissing their toddler Harper, I totally melt. There simply can’t be any better father figure in the public eye. They do everything for their kids and they always have. Regardless of what people think of me and the choices I’ve made in my life, those are exactly my values.
Overall, I have a lot to thank Posh for. If I hadn’t looked a bit like her, I would never have got any of the opportunities that later came my way. So Victoria, on the off-chance that you’re reading this, I’m eternally grateful to you!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Chanelle Hayes - Baring My Heart Page 8
