Page 14 of Deliah

B efore I knew it, my first shift back at the club was looming. Archie messaged me while I was halfway through a bacon sandwich.

“Deliah, can you do us a favour? Pick up one of the new girls from the airport. She’s flying in alone—name’s Cherry. Staying in a hotel until we get her sorted.”

Ash and I jumped in a taxi, both of us hungover, both of us still trying to convince ourselves we weren’t doing another season of this madness. As soon as she stepped through the sliding doors at arrivals, I clocked her straight away.

“Hi, I’m Cherry!” she beamed.

Gorgeous. Long dark hair, tiny waist, perfect tits that somehow didn’t move when she walked, and massive brown eyes that made you want to confess all your secrets.

She had this mad, effortless confidence.

You could tell she wasn’t trying to impress anyone—she just was impressive.

And her accent? Pure Northern gold. On the drive back, she started pointing out the window at the sea, wide-eyed and smiling.

“I can’t believe I’m actually ’ere,” she said, phone out, filming already. “Straight off t’beach, me.”

Me and Ash just looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“Oh my god, not off t’beach.” I giggled, mimicking her accent so badly it sounded like I had a blocked nose.

From then on, we rinsed her for it constantly. Every time she got dressed up, it was, “Oh look at Cherry, off t’beach again.” She took it like a champ, though, always firing back some savage little one-liner that had us in stitches. We hit it off instantly.

A few weeks passed in a blur of tan lines, tequila, and new routines.

Jay and I were still living together, and it honestly felt…

easy. Familiar. Like we hadn’t missed a beat.

But there was one change I couldn’t ignore: Aneeka wasn’t coming back.

I’d known for a while, but it didn’t sink in until I was sitting on the beach scrolling through her stories.

She’d landed some posh office job back in Birmingham during the winter.

Something admin-y with good hours and decent pay.

She messaged me a few times saying how much she loved it—how she could wear real clothes to work and didn’t have to put glitter on her tits before breakfast.

“I actually feel like I’m doing something with my life, D,” she told me. “It’s chill, it’s secure, and I’ve finally got weekends off.”

Part of me was proud of her. The other part…

felt left behind. Like we’d all come here running from something, but only some of us had managed to stop running.

With Aneeka gone and the club revving back up, living arrangements became the next big thing.

I’d loved last season—living with Jay, Jamie, and the rest of the chaos crew—but this time around, I wanted a bit more peace.

My own room. Somewhere to take my makeup off in silence, not while ten lads were screaming FIFA insults in the next room.

Cherry felt the same. Her hotel was decent, but she was sick of dragging her case around and using a wardrobe the size of a shoebox.

We were both hunting for somewhere decent, and it eventually just made sense to get a place together.

She had that no-bullshit vibe I clicked with.

We didn’t need to be best friends—we just needed to respect each other’s space and have a laugh.

Jay already had a new apartment lined up with one of his mates from work.

When I told him that Cherry and I were moving in together, he acted cool.

Said it’d be good for us both to have space with the season starting up again.

And I agreed… sort of. But if I’m being honest, not living with Jay made something inside me twitch.

I told myself it was normal. That we’d spent months living in each other’s pockets, and we needed that breathing room now that we were working again.

But late at night, I’d lie in his bed, head on his chest, and remember the things the girls had said last year.

“ He’ll use you as his winter shag and drop you by spring. ”

I tried to shake it off. We were solid. Different.

What we had wasn’t casual. It wasn’t transactional.

I wasn’t just another girl on the strip.

He loved me; I knew he did. You can’t fake the way someone looks at you when you’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts.

Or the way they stroke your hair when you’ve had one too many and your lashes are halfway down your face.

You can’t fake the kind of sex we had—the kind that made you forget who you were, the kind that felt like a full-body exorcism.

And I loved him. Not in a sweet, movie-romance kind of way.

I loved him with every fucked-up part of me.

So I told myself it would be fine. That space was healthy, and we’d still spend time together—we didn’t have to live together to love each other.

And besides, Cherry was excited. We found a place not too far from the strip.

It was perfect, three double bedrooms, two balconies, and air-con.

Thank the fucking lord for the air-con. It was ours, and I was happy.

Genuinely happy. But when the day came to move out of Jays, I sat on the edge of the bed, folding my things into my suitcase, and I couldn’t ignore the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes when I said I was leaving.

“You’ll still come over, yeah?” he asked casually.

“Course,” I said, brushing it off. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

But my stomach was tight. Something about it felt final, even though it wasn’t. And when I kissed him goodbye and walked out the door, I told myself—out loud, in my head, and in the mirror back at the new flat— It’ll be fine.

Cherry was the best thing that happened to me that season.

We were a fucking dream team. From the minute we stepped onto that floor, it was like we’d been dancing together for years.

We laughed our way through shift after shift, bouncing off each other like absolute dick heads.

The chemistry was effortless. The banter was sharp.

And the way we rinsed the blokes—God, it was art.

We’d lock eyes over a dance, silently clock who was spending what, and tag-team them without missing a beat.

“Babe, he’s got a Black Amex,” she’d whisper.

“I’m on him like glitter on tits,” I’d reply.

Every night we’d leave making an absolute fortune, and for a little while, it was enough to distract me.

But not completely. Jay started pulling away more, and I felt it like a bruise forming under the skin—dull at first, then impossible to ignore.

I told myself it was nothing, that we were both working.

Late shifts, weird hours, and it was exhaustion.

It was bound to be like this. But then the replies got shorter. And colder.

Me: Miss you x

Jay: Miss you too, babe. Just knackered, babe, speak tomorrow xx

Me: Babe, I haven’t seen you in ages.

Jay: I know, babe, work’s mad rn.

Me: Do you still love me?

Jay: Of course I do. Don’t be paranoid x

Every time I wanted to scream, I swallowed it.

He said I was overthinking. That he was tired.

That I was being dramatic. And for a little while, I believed him.

Or at least, I tried to. I’d stare at my phone like it owed me answers.

Sometimes I’d scroll through old messages—ones where he’d called me gorgeous, where he said, “I fucking love you, Deliah.” Now I was lucky to get a “wyd” text before midnight.

The worst part? When we did see each other, he acted like everything was fine.

He told me I was crazy, and he loved me to pieces.

But I just had this gut feeling that something was off.

I’d lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, silently stressing while Cherry dozed next to me with her fake lashes still on. She caught on fast.

“You alright, babe?” she asked one night as we sat cross-legged on the floor, eating cereal with whipped cream on the top. What a fucking combo.

“Yeah,” I lied. “Just tired.”

“You’ve been tired for a week and a half.” I looked down at my spoon.

She shifted closer. “Is it Jay?”

I didn’t even answer. Just blinked fast, trying to hold it in.

“Babe…” She sighed. “He loves you. Of course he does. He’s probably just got a lot on.”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, maybe.” But I didn’t believe it. Not really.

Because love doesn’t go quiet like that.

Doesn’t ignore calls or struggle to text you back.

I missed him so much it made me physically ache.

I missed the stupid texts. The surprise kebabs and the early mornings he’d wake me up by kissing the back of my neck.

I missed how I used to feel around him—alive, wanted, obsessed. Now? I felt invisible.

At work, I wore the smile. I poured the drinks, danced on the pole, teased and flirted, and let men believe they were the centre of the universe for ten minutes at a time.

But behind the scenes, I was unravelling.

Cherry did everything she could. Dragged me to the beach, made me laugh till I cried, told me I was too fit to be stressing over a man who couldn’t even be arsed to send a heart emoji.

“Honestly, babe, if I had your tits, I’d be ignoring him.”

She meant well. And sometimes, it helped. But the gut feeling stuck. I couldn’t explain it. It was like my body knew before my brain caught up. Something had changed. And I didn’t know how to fix it. And then I got the news.