Chanelle Hayes - Baring My Heart (13 page)

Around this time, a change for the better came about when a mutual friend introduced me to the footballer Danny Simpson, who went out with Tulisa from the
X Factor
a few years later. At the time, he was playing for Manchester United and was one of the big up-and-coming stars. We started texting a lot and I was quite drawn to him – especially after finding out that he was a real family man and adored his mum so much that he’d bought her a lovely house. He was ambitious too and, as a professional footballer, was more clean living than some of the druggy people I’d been mingling with in London.

Although it was never overly serious, Danny turned out to be a guy I’d see intermittently over the next 18 months and dating him definitely helped me deal with my food issues. Staying up with him in Manchester, we’d go out for dinner a lot – either to a Chinese restaurant, where all the footballers like Wayne Rooney and Rio Ferdinand went, or to Nando’s. The crux of it is that I had to eat normally with him. It was a new relationship and I didn’t want him to think I was a psychopath. Plus I didn’t want to be taking laxatives at his place and spending all day on the toilet! Can you imagine anything more embarrassing? So by default, I kind of snapped out of it altogether. I started going to the gym with him, got my energy back and put on a few pounds.
But because I was working out, I was toned and had muscles. People said I looked better than in ages and I genuinely felt that way too.

I guess, in some ways, I was lucky that I could get better through spending time with Danny and also by not wanting to lose my modelling contracts. Some girls obviously don’t have that chance and that’s when eating disorders can spiral out of control. I was able to sort out my weight issues because my circumstances meant I needed to.

And while I’ve been dieting like mad this year after putting on 3st, I’ve been doing it sensibly and by eating super healthily. If I cut down on carbs as well as alcohol, the pounds do fall off. I think my weight will always fluctuate – as you’ll know if you saw some rather unflattering pictures of me in a bikini on the beach in Tenerife in December! But I’m relaxed about it nowadays and I’d definitely never touch laxatives again. I just couldn’t go through all that again – I don’t have enough time to sit on the toilet all day, for starters!

E
ventually, life in London began to grind me down and I was more and more homesick for my friends and family back home. My on-off romance with Danny had also fizzled out again after – surprise, surprise – I found out he was messaging other girls, and I was a bit disillusioned by the circles I’d been moving in. It felt like I was losing the ‘real’ me amidst all the bitching, backstabbing and cheating that went on in showbiz.

I was also sick of the constant pressure to look good and the way that girls would compete to get ‘papped’. I realised how crazy it had become when I went to get my lips plumped one day and had the most hideous reaction to the injection. The day after, I was out for dinner at Nobu with Dave and some of the guys and my lips just kept on swelling. In the end, they got so big I looked like Lesley Ash. I had to have antihistamines injected into them to decrease the size but then my tongue swelled up too and I had to cancel all my work for a week. What a joke.

Nowadays I’m much more careful and, though I do still occasionally have my lips done and the odd bit of Botox once a
year or so, I only see a specialist that I’d trust with my life. Ultimately, I am happiest in my pyjamas, with my hair scraped back off my face and wearing no make-up.

I began making plans for a quieter life and set about finding my own place to buy in Wakefield. It was a decision made all the easier as I’d also ended up starring in a fake sex tape for MTV that April, which proved to be a massive headache. Let me get this straight: I categorically didn’t want to do it and, if you’ve not seen it, please don’t go and Google it! But it all came about when Dave said, ‘I’ve got a great job for you. You’re going to do a sex tape with a puppet!’

‘What are you talking about?’ I said. ‘There’s no way I’m doing a sex tape, Dave.’

‘But it’s not real. It’s with a puppet. It’ll be a laugh.’

‘No way, it’s not going to happen.’

‘It is going to happen – I’ve signed the contracts,’ he said.

‘But I’ve not authorised you to sign any contract, so I’m not doing it.’

‘Yes, but you signed a contract authorising me to represent you and to sign deals on your behalf. And that’s what I’ve done. So you are doing it.’

We argued back and forth for days but, despite being offered £15,000 for just two hours’ work, I was dead set against it.

‘Look,’ I persisted. ‘I’ll pay them £15,000 and they can pay someone else to do it.’

‘You’re being really silly,’ Dave said. ‘It’s funny. It’s a viral advert. Learn how to laugh at yourself – who cares?’

‘But I don’t want to. It’s not funny. My mum and dad will go mad. I can’t do it.’

‘Come on, it’s no different to Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet having sex in
Titanic
.’

‘But they were acting in a film – that’s different.’

‘Well, think of this as an acting job then. But you’re doing it and that’s the end of it.’

A few days later, I went along to the shoot, was really pleasant to everyone and got the job done – but I was so angry that I didn’t speak to Dave for a week. The clip was shot in semi-darkness and I was rolling around on this bed in my underwear. And then I had to pretend I was having full-on sex with this horrible frog-like puppet wearing sunglasses. The disgusting thing was spanking me and shouting, ‘Yessss!’ How utterly grotesque!

Up to this point, there were usually just a couple of photographers outside my apartment every day but, after the ad went viral, there were 25 of them out on the pavement. My neighbours were furious with me for causing such chaos but I was like, ‘What can I do?’

I can at least laugh about it now but it was the most humiliating thing I’ve ever done. I was especially mortified as Mum and Dad got abuse on the street over it and their house was egged. I just knew then that I couldn’t carry on with that kind of lifestyle. I’d always done everything Dave wanted me to do and, of course, I was very grateful to him for helping me forge such a lucrative career but I was coming up to my 21st birthday and it was time for a change.

I bought my first house in Horbury, near Wakefield that autumn, which was so exciting. It cost about £380,000 and it was my dream home, with six bedrooms across three storeys. I got the whole top floor knocked into one big bedroom and turned two of the other rooms into an office and gym. I was thrilled with the house and, when I got the cutest long-haired Chihuahua called Marmite to keep me and Crumpet company, I had my perfect little family.

It felt so significant to have bought my first place by the time I’d reached 21 – like I was finally a proper, responsible grown-up.
On the day of my birthday, we had a champagne breakfast at Mum’s and then about 10 friends and I took the train down to London, where Dave was throwing me a glitzy party at Embassy nightclub. We checked into St Martin’s Lane Hotel, all had a relaxing massage and then ate dinner in the hotel restaurant.

The party was great fun and I was glad that my sisters came down, while celebs like Calum Best and Brian Belo also dropped in to wish me a happy birthday.

The night after my party, we all got the train home, hungover and tired, and went back to mine to watch DVDs and cook a big roast.

It was a good time and I loved playing homemaker and finally seeing my post-
Big Brother
earnings come to good use by getting on the property ladder. But my resolve to stay single hit the buffers in February 2009 when I got a text right out of the blue from yet another footballer, this one called Matthew Bates.

‘Hi,’ the text said. ‘How are you?’

‘Who’s this?’ I wrote back.

‘I’m Matt Bates. I play with Seb Hines.’

Oh, for God’s sake. What were these blokes like?

‘What do you want?’ I texted back.

‘I was just wondering if I could take you out on a date.’

Unamused, I replied, ‘What do you think I am, the Middlesbrough-team bike? Don’t you feel a bit awkward?’

‘Seb said you were just friends.’

‘We are.’

‘So would you like to go for dinner some time?’

As our text exchange went on for a bit, I started to feel a bit curious, so agreed to meet him. He was a year older than me but, because I’d never even heard of him, I had to Google him to see what he even looked like. I wasn’t sure at first because he had a bit of a skinhead in some of the pictures I found but then I
discovered that he’d shaved it all off for charity after his friend died, which I thought was really sweet. But on our first date, I think my first words were, ‘Thank God you’ve got hair!’

We went to a nice pub and had steak and mash, which is my favourite meal ever, and it was one of those rare first dates that was easy and natural. I wasn’t looking to meet anyone, so there was no expectation on my part but I found I really did like him and we laughed all evening. Amazingly for a footballer, he loved books and reading, which instantly appealed to me. Normally, I am quite awkward and geeky in these situations but there was none of that.

You might wonder if I had a thing for footballers but let me get this straight now: I definitely did not! They all just seemed to be very confident about asking girls out, which worked for me because I’m hopeless at making any first approach. Anyhow, if any footballer ever made a move on me these days, I’d be like, ‘Go screw yourself!’ I’ve got no time for them any more.

A few nights after my meal out with Matt, he came over to my house and I cooked spaghetti bolognese for us. Not the most original but it was the only thing I’d mastered then. The next morning, I was going on holiday to Mexico with Chantelle – who I was still good friends with – so I didn’t want a late night. After dinner, we watched a bit of TV on the sofa and, though we did kiss, Matt was very gentlemanly and left me to get to bed early, saying politely, ‘Thanks very much for having me.’

Next day, Chantelle and I flew to Cancun for a fortnight of sun and sea – but I kept thinking of Matt the whole time I was there. I also ran up a £1,000 phone bill because we were speaking constantly. Incidentally, I also got an interesting call from Danny a few days into the holiday. He’d been chasing me again over the previous few weeks, saying he really wanted to get serious this time. But I was so wary of being hurt that I’d been keeping him
at arm’s length.

‘Don’t be with Matt,’ he said when he rang. ‘Be with me. We can make things work. I’m telling you now I’m going to commit to you a hundred per cent.’

‘Danny, it’s too late,’ I said.

But he wouldn’t give up. ‘Please rethink this before you come back from holiday. Seriously, that guy Matt is an arsehole.’ It was a bit confusing to hear all this but I just knew I couldn’t trust him. Danny was always going to be playing the field, whereas Matt had already told me he wanted to settle down.

It wasn’t the best holiday, especially as Chantelle had her own drama to deal with. She was seeing the footballer Jermain Defoe at the time and got a call from Dave informing her of an imminent ‘kiss ’n’ tell’ by some girl. We were sharing this gorgeous room overlooking the sea but, when she heard the news, she screamed down the phone at Dave and threw a glass against the wall, which smashed everywhere.

I was talking to Matt at the time and he could hear it all kicking off.

‘Why don’t you change your flights and come home early?’ he said. ‘I’m desperate to see you.’

‘Yeah, OK. I might do,’ I said.

The next day, Chantelle and I both flew back. We said our goodbyes at the airport after we landed and that was the last I saw of her for a very long time.

Back home, my relationship with Matt picked up steam and he booked us a weekend away at a gorgeous hotel, which cost at least £800 per night.

‘How can you afford all of this?’ I asked as he bought me loads of spa treatments and massages.

‘I borrowed some money off my mum,’ he said. ‘I wanted it to be special.’

What was surprising about Matt in those days is that he wasn’t some minted, millionaire footballer, flashing his cash around like there was no tomorrow. I was earning more than him with all my glamour shoots in the beginning, so it was sweet that he tried so hard to impress me. But early that summer, he signed a new contract at Middlesbrough and his salary rocketed. He went from being skint to super-rich overnight.

Another thing I liked about Matt was that he was bright. Everyone thinks footballers are stupid but he could hold a good conversation and was competent at having a debate – essential for someone like me who loves an argument! We’d sit around reading books, go for leisurely walks and cycle rides with Marmite and hit the gym together too. He was such a perfect boyfriend that he even took my parents and Zoe out for dinner just to get to know them better.

I couldn’t have asked more of him. I’d fallen madly and deeply in love and the early part of summer 2009 passed by in a blur of happiness, with sun-soaked trips to Ibiza, Dubai and Portgual. But perhaps I should have known that it was too good to be true.

One day after he’d been to training, we were in his car when he said, ‘I’m having a lads’ night tonight. Do you mind staying at yours?’

I’d been living at Matt’s house in Yarm, near Middlesbrough almost permanently over the past few weeks but this was no problem at all.

‘Yeah, that’s fine,’ I said and nodded. ‘Just make sure you behave!’

I was only joking of course – I trusted Matt implicitly. So I went back to mine and we didn’t speak at all that weekend, which was very unlike us. On the Monday morning, while he was at training, I drove up to his place to clear up – assuming it’d be a bomb site after his boys’ night. The kitchen was a real mess
and, as I started to wash up some of the dirty plates and cups, I saw two wine glasses with lipstick smudges around the rim. My first thought was, ‘That’s weird; he never said he was having any girls round.’ But at that point I wasn’t too worried because, if I’d been having a party, I’d invite guy friends over as well as girls.

I carried on tidying up and that’s when my stomach did a huge somersault because lying behind the sofa was a girl’s lacy bra. ‘Oh God. Oh God,’ I thought, my mind racing. So that’s what had been going on. I felt so sick, not to mention gutted because this relationship had seemed like the real deal. Only a few nights earlier we’d been talking about our future and our dreams of getting married one day, having kids and opening a restaurant together.

I didn’t say anything when Matt got back from training – partly because I wanted to be sure before I accused him of doing the dirty on me. We had dinner with my friend Neil that evening and on the way back I saw Matt’s phone flash in the car. We had exactly the same Blackberry, so I picked it up, pretending I thought it was mine.

Scrolling through, I saw that he’d been Facebooking several different girls – all of them second-rate glamour models, who had written stuff like, ‘Hi, babe, what you up to?’

He’d replied back, saying things like, ‘Nice bum in that pic!’

As I looked in horror at all these tarts in their underwear, I fumed, ‘Who the fuck are these girls, Matt?’

‘Give me my phone!’ he shouted, trying to grab it back while he was driving.

‘Who are they?’ I yelled even louder.

We were right by a Holiday Inn and he pulled over at the side of the road, protesting his innocence.

‘It’s nothing!’

‘Tell me now!’

‘Calm down. Why are you being like this?’

Right then, a surge of anger so immense came over me that I couldn’t control it. Sitting in the passenger seat wearing a pair of high-heel spiked boots, I began kicking holes in his dashboard and glove box. I was seriously behaving like a total psycho – but even now, I feel livid remembering it.

‘Stop it!’ he screamed, trying to hold my legs down to stop me causing any more damage. ‘Let me explain!’

‘Take me home,’ I ordered him. ‘Drive me back right now. I don’t want to hear from you or see you again. You’re an absolute arsehole.’

As he pulled up outside my house, the tears were pouring down my face. ‘Don’t ever contact me again,’ I said. ‘I can’t believe I trusted you. Danny Simpson warned me but I thought you were different to other footballers. And now it turns out it’s you who is the total player.’