Louise Redknapp had it all planned out. She’d stroll over to London’s Mayfair from Waterloo Station, taking in the city, then settle into a quiet nook of a members’ club for our interview. But as the singer well knows, sometimes life throws you curveballs. “I didn’t realise it was gonna take 45 minutes,” she says, breathlessly, slipping off her scarf. “Have a tea, have a tea!” She calls over a waiter, apologies flowing out of her – the venue we’re in is far busier than she’d expected, and she feels terrible about keeping me waiting. “I don’t want to turn up late for someone who’s taken their time to meet me, you know? It’ll bother me because I am just not an arsehole. Do you need sugar?”
When she was a pop star the first time around, Louise was famously, almost tooth-wincingly nice. She didn’t drink or do drugs. She didn’t slag anyone off. She didn’t punch a single All Saint in a Brit Awards bathroom. And now, in doting mum mode with a journalist she’s only just met, she’s living up to her reputation. I tell her this, to her slight horror.
