Sheryl's return to England was a grand occasion. Media reporters swarmed the area and high-ranking figures from all walks of life clamored to meet her. But she refused all offers of collaboration and drove straight to my studio.
It was called a studio, but it was actually just the top floor of an old, run-down building. It had been in disrepair for so long that it didn't even have an elevator.
Sheryl climbed all the way up, panting with exhaustion. She cursed non-stop.
"Sharon, you're so cruel! You actually moved to this kind of hellish place just to hide from me. Just wait, when I find you, I'll break your remaining leg!"
I spat at her, wishing I could claw her face. She couldn't bear it after just one climb. Meanwhile over the years, I've dragged this broken leg of mine back and forth countless times.
Suddenly, a loud bang interrupted my thoughts. Sheryl kicked open the studio door with a bang.
She stood in front of the dusty room, frowning in disgust. "Is this where people live?"
"Sharon, you used to sleep on a mattress that cost less than a million, didn't you? How did you fall so low now?"
After saying that, she plopped down on my stool, breathing heavily.