‘You shouldn’t always believe what you read, you know,’ I told her.
‘Oh, I didn’t know you were there!’ she said. ‘C’mon, then, let’s see it!’
She was talking about the ring. I was fuming, but I also felt really ashamed because I could sense everyone in the hairdresser’s staring at me. I didn’t know what to do, and maybe I should have ignored her, but all I could think of was to prove her wrong. So I showed her my engagement ring, the one I was meant to have chucked away, still on my finger, where it belonged. She just looked and went, ‘Ahh, it’s lovely, isn’t it?’ And I went, ‘Yeah.’ That was it. She never apologized.
I used to gossip about celebrities like everyone else. My mates and I would chat about what so-and-so’s been up to, pore over their lives in newspapers and magazines, but now I’m always telling people not to believe what you read unless you know for sure yourself or it’s an interview with the person themselves.
I’ve had an up-and-down relationship with the newspapers. For the past couple of years, ever since I appeared in Vogue, on the whole I’d say they’ve been writing really positive things about my fashion, but in the beginning there was a lot of criticism about the clothes I wore, saying I looked a show, how I was the Queen of Chavs and all that rubbish. I’ve never really known what a chav is, I don’t think anyone knows. They’d criticize me for my Juicy tracksuits and my moon boots, or because I was wearing loads of Burberry. I don’t wear loads of Burberry. Not that I’ve got anything against them because it’s a great British fashion brand, but I’m not a slave to any designer. I wouldn’t say the criticism upsets me exactly – hey, even I look back on those moon boots and wonder why I ever wore them – though it can get annoying and a bit tiring. Don’t get me wrong. I know the press has a job to do. I also understand that the successful careers Wayne and I are lucky to have depend to an extent on media interest and coverage. But I don’t believe that gives the media the right to take over your whole life and continually invade family privacy.
I’m more into girly-girl fashions than the sex-siren look!
Everyone seems to have their opinion on my sense of style. Even Wayne. He prefers me in my normal casual stuff, like jeans and a T-shirt. Mind, he has also said that my bum looks massive in my Juicy tracksuit, but I don’t take any notice! Wayne just likes me in normal gear. He’s not big on me showing a lot of flesh off. Not that I’m much of a one for split skirts and low-cut tops.
I don’t really wear short skirts unless I’ve got tights on, but now and again I wear a top that’s cut a bit lower than usual. Or I might wear a chiffon dress or something similar.
It’s at those times when Wayne suddenly becomes Mr Fashion Expert! ‘I can see your knickers through that!’ he’ll say to me, or, ‘What are you wearing that for?’ If he thinks I’m not taking any notice, he’ll tell me to go and ask what my dad thinks. That’s his ultimate tactic: ‘Ask your dad!’ The reason is because Wayne knows that if my dad thinks I’m wearing something unsuitable he’ll moan to such a degree that I inevitably cave in and change. Not long ago, I’d been invited to a Childline charity do in Liverpool and I had on a sheer white dress. My dad took one look and said, ‘You’re not going out in that, are you?’ In the end, he made such a big fuss about it that I went upstairs and borrowed one of my mum’s underskirts. Trouble was, my dress was a bit shorter than the underskirt so I had to chop a few inches off the bottom. All night, frayed cotton was dangling down from under my dress, and every five minutes I had to keep getting a lighter out and burning them off! Very ladylike.
The same thing happened the other week. My mates and I were going to the local pub and I was wearing a white chiffon dress. Dad went on and on about being able to see my knickers, so much so that I nipped upstairs and put another one of Mum’s underskirts on. I should keep a few in stock really!
Dad’s one of the few people I will listen to when it comes to fashion. Maybe he’s one of the expensive styling team of mine that some journalist was referring to!
Fashion is the one subject that people are always writing to me about via my column in Closer. I’ve loved clothes ever since I can remember. As a young girl I always loved dressing up. When I was really young, I’d be in the post office asking for Just Seventeen to look at the fashion pages, and my mum would tell me to change it because it was too old for me. During the summer holidays I’d stay at my nan’s house, and every morning we’d go up to the shop for the morning paper and she’d say, ‘Go pick a magazine.’ And I’d always come back with OK! I must have been about eleven years old, but I really enjoyed seeing what all the celebrities were wearing and what their houses looked like. I can still remember seeing photographs of Donatella Versace’s home when I was really young, and thinking how amazing it must be to live somewhere like that.
One of the reasons I was so obsessed with OK! was because it was also my Auntie Tracy’s favourite magazine. Auntie Tracy is my dad’s sister, and when I talk of fashion icons there’s no one who’s had a bigger influence on my style than her. She was always the young auntie – there’s never been that many years between us – and she has always looked stylish. Auntie Tracy used to save me her fancy shopping carrier bags so I could use them for my school gym kit and she was also the person who introduced me to Cricket. I was the typical young niece, in awe of my trendy auntie, eyeing up her handbags and the shoes she wore, wishing they were mine. My nan and granddad own a pub, The King’s Vault in Garston, and I remember a family party there when my Auntie Tracy came along carrying this little black bag, with a clasp and a long strap, by Moschino. Even though I was only small I remember thinking, ‘I can’t wait to grow up so I can have a bag like that.’ I’m worse than she is now! These days, we’ve got the same taste in fashion – we’ve even turned up at matches to watch Wayne wearing the same clothes, a jumper by See by Chloé. Auntie Tracy’s was black and mine was pale pink. If I like something she’s wearing I’ll go out and buy it, and she does the same with me!
My mum would tell you that when I was a kid and it came to clothes I was an absolute nightmare. All I ever asked for on birthdays or for Christmas would be clothes or shoes, and I would cry and cry until she bought me what I wanted. I was never into Barbies like other girls, I just wanted a good wardrobe! One year it was a black velvet jumper-dress with gold sequins. I must have been about seven years old.
My mum said she would never put me in black. She didn’t think a child should wear black. She’ll tell you that I screamed and screamed, wanting this special dress for Christmas, until eventually I got what I wanted.
Afterwards, my mum, who was probably tired of my screaming by then, bought me these tights and little black boots to complete the outfit. Very disco! I think it’d be very in now!
My obsession didn’t even stop at clothes. At seven years old I started wearing glasses, and I loved them. The optometrist came to school one day to check everyone’s eyes, and when I failed my mum thought I’d done so on purpose! ‘Do you want to wear glasses, Coleen?’ she asked me, thinking I’d made it up to be trendy. I hadn’t. I was short-sighted. I might not have wanted glasses to start with, but once I had them there was no stopping me. The first pair I ever bought had multicoloured frames, and from then on I made them my own thing, a way of individualizing my uniform. I always remember a pair of Moschino glasses I owned which had question marks on the arms. They were great but I’ve got to confess, some of the glasses I wore were bad! These days I wear lenses.
In my early teens