She looked at me, and I suddenly realised that she looked like a little child who had lost her parents. “Cheryl...” I begun, but I didnt know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. Her hands wrapped around my vest top and she clung to me. I reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ve got Diana, and she needs me.”
Cheryl smiled sadly “you’ve very lucky you know, she’s beautiful”
“Thank you. And Cheryl, if there’s anything I can do...”
“Let me give you a lift home”
I paused, but her eyes were pleading, irresistible. “Okay” I said quietly.
“What are you going to tell Sacha?”
“About this? Nothing. Why, do you think I should?”
Cheryl shrugged “I don’t know”
I laughed “she’ll kill me! She’ll want to know everything, she’s like, obsessed with you.”
“Really? Me?” Cheryl looked surprised.
“Her bedroom is like a shrine. I would show you later, but it’s a bit weird.”
“No. Nothing to do with that kid could ever be weird. I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to live with her!”
“I’m not listening!”
She grinned at me and took my hand in hers, leading me back inside, suddenly happy again. In her bedroom she opened another door, which revealed a walk-in wardrobe.
“Oh my god! Cheryl!” she smiled at me, leading me inside. In the centre of the room there was a large red leather sofa and on the wooden floor lay deep rugs, made of silver-grey faux chinchilla hair. The walls were covered in posters and mirrors and hanging rails filled with the most beautiful clothes I could even imagine. There was English red lace and Scandinavian white fur and Italian black leather, smooth grey silk and golden sequins and hot pink netting. Above the hanging space came shelf upon shelf of shoes, and in a corner hung handbags. I ran a finger along them and saw Mulberry, Balenciaga and Miu-Miu.
I turned to Cheryl, grinning “Is this for real?” she smiled back, then slipped off the Chelsea shirt that she wore. As she turned away I read the name ‘A. Cole’ and a number 3 on the back, and for a second I felt as though someone had punched me in the ribs. But then it was gone, and I could see her muscled, tanned back. I turned away, pretending to inspect her posters of Marilyn Monroe, Audrey Hepburn and, I smiled, Kate Moss and Rihanna.
“I love her” she said, and I turned to watch her wriggle into some skinny jeans and throw on a hoodie.
“Which one?” I asked
“All of them I suppose, but Rihanna...she’s like, wow. I love her” she said, passing me a jumper, which I put on.
“Yeah, same...” I looked at the poster again “she’s perfect isn’t she?”
“No-one’s perfect. No-one.” said Cheryl, standing behind me and also looking at the poster
“Apart from you, obviously” I said, and Cheryl slapped me, laughing.
“How can you stand there and say that?” she giggled, looking in one of the mirrors “I look a mess”
“Everyone wants to look like you, you’re pretty. You should hear Sacha, you wear something, the next thing you know she just has to have one the same.” I flop down onto the sofa, and Cheryl sits beside me.
“Doesn’t she want to look like you?”
“Who, Sacha? No, but I don’t mind, the less she wants to be like me the better”
“Why?”
“I’m not really a perfect role model for her, am I?”
“I don’t know...you’re really pretty. Have you got a boyfriend?”
I shake my head and bite my lip. I feel as though we are entering dangerous waters, I can almost feel the tension in the room rise, but I reply honestly. I will only lie where necessary, I promise myself.
“What kind of boy would want a girlfriend like me? No, I’m a good ride for a night and I keep a bed warm, but that’s it. Nothing else.” I say calmly. She nods, as if she understands. I wonder if she does.
“What about Diana’s dad?” her mouth moves, creating the inevitable question, one that I have been asked so many times that lying should be easy. It isn’t. Four words. She only said four words. And if I answered her honestly I could make her hate me forever.
I close my eyes, feeling my heart pounding inside my chest, so loudly I’m sure that Cheryl will hear and know that something is wrong. I can feel the blood racing around my head, making it hard for me to think straight. What are my options? I could lie. I could pretend I hadn’t heard. I could leave, run downstairs and out of the front door, as fast as I could. Or I could tell her the truth. This makes me feel ill, hot and cold all at the same time. My mind races, and I can feel something, either tears or sick begin to collect at the back of my throat, burning.
“Kimberley?” she says
“He was a client” I tell her. I didn’t even have to lie.
