Chapter Five. Cheryl. Home alone.
Eight o’clock and I’ve been sat on me bed staring at me wardrobe with a towel wrapped round us ever since I stepped out of the shower. It’s an unseasonably cold night for late April but me heating’s keeping me warm enough to fend off the goosebumps. The temperature’s not the problem, it’s more a case of deciding what I’m actually going to wear to Kimberley Walsh’s club. I’ve been to some dives in me time but never anywhere like The Leopard Lounge, even its name brings images of sleaze to me mind.
And when did I get to be such a prude?!
Taking a stray damp hair between me finger and thumb I tuck it back into place underneath me head towel. Perhaps a proper night out could be just what I need, I rarely go out late except if Nicola and her husband Charlie invite us round for a meal or when I go to the cinema with Walt. There’s the gigs of course but I’m always on me own for them, Walt’s more into cheesy pop than metal or rock. I mean this is the guy who thinks that indie’s ‘really heavy stuff’.
Smiling to meself about me naïve friend I get up from the bed, strolling over to the modestly sized wardrobe and opening the doors wide…
Do I own too many tracksuits? Even for a sporting professional?!
That’s the question I’m repeatedly asking meself as, roughly an hour later, I’m settled inside a black cab hurtling its way through the streets of central London. I’ve never felt self-conscious about me clothes before but earlier, looking at me strictly compartmentalized wardrobe I felt quite depressed. It was the same emptiness that came over us for a few seconds when I was sat on me bed and I realised how alone I was. Again.
Snap out of it Tweedy…feeling sorry for yourself never got you anywhere before! At least you’ve gone with the theme of the night. Sort of.
Kimberley’s theme, as she’d told me the previous day, was everything English handily timed to coincide with The Leopard Lounge’s St George’s Day celebrations. So instead of me usual hoodie, sweatpants and trainers I’ve clipped me hair up and worn the smartest suit I own, the only suit I own, otherwise known as the ‘funerals and weddings tux’. I’m satisfied that I look enough like the female version of James Bond to pass the stereotypically English test. Plus there’s part of us that kind of enjoyed the playacting we did yesterday at the shoot.
God that was a surprise! Cheryl Tweedy steps out of her comfort zone for a total stranger!
The driver finally pulls up in front of Kimberley’s club and I hand him a couple of notes, taking me change before hopping out of the cab and looking at the tall, narrow building in front of me. From the outside architecture it’s obvious that the place was once a cinema. An art deco masterpiece of the twenties or thirties it’s been updated with a combination of silver metal and curved black acrylic inset with vivid blue horizontal lights. They wind their way into the entrance of the club like ‘will o’ the wisp’ beckoning their victims forward to their fate. It’s way more stylish than I was expecting and it must’ve cost an absolute fortune. Then again I suppose money is something Kimberley Walsh isn’t short of, that and confidence, the one thing I’m sorely lacking right now.
Gathering courage I fix me suit and stroll up to the group of bouncers stood round the outside of the main doors.
“Me name’s Cheryl Tweedy” I pause, aware of how dry me throat has gone, “I should be on the guest list”
As the head bouncer starts scanning down his clipboard a voice with a distinctive Irish twang comes from out of the shadows.
“It’s ok lads she’s with me”
