Читать книгу A WAG Abroad - Alison Kervin, Jason Leonard - Страница 10

Wednesday 28 May 8 a.m.

Neither Dean nor Paskia-Rose believes me.

‘Why would I make something like that up?’ I say.

‘It’s not that we think you’re making it up,’ says Dean. ‘It just seems so unlikely.’

‘Thanks. You think it’s unlikely that anyone would consider me for their film, do you?’

‘No, love. All I mean is that you’ve just arrived, it’s your first time on Rodeo Drive and you get asked to be in a movie. Come on, that only happens in films.’

‘Well, it happened to me.’

I show Dean the card the guy in the street gave me, with the time of my screen test on the back.

‘I’m coming with you,’ he says. ‘It sounds dodgy. We’ll go when we get back from St Benedict’s.’

‘Fine.’

9 a.m.

The driveway to Paskia-Rose’s new school is long and winding; it takes us past playing fields, a small lake and smartly dressed young ladies enjoying a morning stroll.

‘Fuck me, it’s like Eton,’ I say.

‘Please don’t talk like that when we’re in the school, Mum,’ says Pask, rubbing her little button nose with the back of her hand. She’s got a pretty nose – it’s a pity it’s covered in loads of freckles. It’s a pity, too, that she’s got such piggy eyes. I’ve frequently offered her the use of a pair of false eyelashes, or even just mascara, but she won’t have any of it.

Despite my real fears about Paskia-Rose’s dowdy and unbecoming appearance, I do love her enormously, and I feel rocked to the core by the thought of her starting a strange new school. It’s nice having her around the place. I’ve even got used to waking up in the morning to the incessant thump of a football against the wall.

‘There,’ she screeches all of a sudden, pointing madly to the far side of the imposing building ahead of us.

‘What is it?’ I ask, veering slightly off the driveway onto the grass and nearly taking out a group of four girls sitting on a rug, reading Shakespeare.

‘Muuum … you just concentrate on driving. Dad, have you seen what’s over there?’

‘Yeeeeeaaahhhhh!!!!’ says Dean. ‘Goal posts.’

Is that what all the fuss is about? The two of them have seen some goal posts … big wow! It’s not that I really object to her love of football, it’s more that I hate the fact that it’s a difference between us. I hate the fact that she has a passion that I can’t share and craves a world that I can’t inhabit. She wants to be a successful footballer and I’d love her to marry a rich and successful footballer. I’d like her to enjoy a wonderful, happy marriage like mine, and be able to enjoy her life knowing that she has someone special who loves her.

I want her to be happy, but because happiness for me is dressing up, piling on the makeup and funnelling champagne down my throat I guess that’s what I want for her, too. I want us to love the same things, and go clothes shopping together, gossiping over the latest copy of Heat. I want her to rush in and squeal with excitement at a boy she’s met or a sparkly blue eye shadow she’s discovered. I want us to dress the same way and act the same way. I thought we’d be like sisters and have pamper parties and snuggly girls’ nights in.

I wanted to be as similar to her as my mum was different to me. I want her to know how much I love her. It’s hard to show her that when she’s more interested in Steven Gerrard’s foot work than Alex Curran’s footwear.

‘Who are we seeing today?’ I ask.

‘Muuuummmm, you’re not seeing anyone,’ she says. ‘You’re just dropping me off and collecting me later. I’m spending the day here.’

‘Can’t I spend the day here too?’ I ask.

‘I’d rather die,’ says Pask.

‘Just speak your mind, love. Don’t sit on the fence,’ I mutter, peculiarly hurt. I’d love to think she wanted me to be here.

We walk up the steps towards the school’s reception area, Dean and Pask jogging up two at a time in their matching LA City Raiders shirts, me going one at a time and sideways because my skirt’s too tight to negotiate them in any other way.

‘You could wait in the car,’ says Pask as I’m hitching up the tight plastic pink skirt in order to try and catch up with them.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.’

Finally I’m at the top, and Pask points at my thighs. ‘Do you want to pull the skirt down a bit before we go in?’

‘Sure,’ I say. She’s a funny one, is Pask. She says she has no interest in clothes, but seems always to notice what mine are doing. I inch the skirt down so it covers my knickers. ‘Happy now?’

‘Happier,’ she says.

We walk into the intimidating school with its dark oak walls and that faint smell of cabbage that curses every large building. It’s very English-looking inside, designed to appeal to those Americans who still believe that to be truly sophisticated you have to have had a British education. A smartly dressed girl approaches with a wide, welcoming grin.

‘Pleasure to receive you here at St Benedict’s English School for Girls. How may I help?’ she says.

‘This is Paskia-Rose Martin,’ I say, as if Pask’s about two years old and unable to speak for herself. ‘We’d like to see the school principal.’

The girl shuffles off in her silly grey pleated skirt and long grey socks. I look over at Pask and shake my head miserably. It’s not exactly what I had in mind when I was thinking about LA schools. I thought they were all full of cool kids in funky clothes getting off with each other and getting shit-faced.

‘Welcome, welcome,’ says a man in his forties, wearing a crumpled beige linen suit. ‘I’m Mr Barkett. Principal Cooper’s just tied up at the minute, but she’ll join us for coffee later. Would you like to follow me?’

He leads us through the school, pointing out the various rooms and corridors along the way.

‘This is the science block,’ he says, and I howl with laughter. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Yes, sorry, I’m just remembering something that happened to me in the science block once,’ I say, and there’s a pause while everyone waits for me to tell them. ‘His name was John Harrison and he used to keep porno magazines in his desk. One day, when the teacher was out of the room, all the girls took their bras off and –’

‘What sciences do the girls do?’ asks Dean through gritted teeth, glaring at me with eyes that scream ‘Shut up, Tracie.’

‘Obviously we do computer science and earth and natural sciences, but we make a point of focusing on integrated curriculum teaching and not on individual subject areas. We explore areas like interdisciplinary teaching, thematic teaching and synergistic teaching. Are you with me?’

‘Tracie,’ says Dean. ‘Tell us what happened when you all took your bras off.’

Principal Cooper comes to join us for coffee. She’s a bloody fearsome-looking woman. Reminds me of Margaret Thatcher, but without any of the former Prime Minister’s softer, more sensitive and humane characteristics. She’s English and she insists that this school produces ladies in the very British understanding of the word.

‘The girls here will behave properly, and dress properly,’ she insists, with a passing, and rather obvious, glance at my attire. ‘This is a school that excels in all areas and is peerless in sport. We do all the classic school sports for girls as well as soccer.’

‘Excellent,’ says Paskia-Rose.

‘Talk in sentences, dear,’ says the Principal.

‘Sure,’ says Paskia.

‘Sentences,’ bellows the Principal, and I have to bite my tongue not to point out that the terrifying Mrs Cooper isn’t talking in sentences.

‘This is a deeply religious school and we operate by a strict moral code,’ she continues, and Dean and I just nod. ‘We believe that God was sacrificed for man and that each man should be willing to sacrifice himself for his brothers. We won’t tolerate selfish behaviour or bad community spirit.’

‘That’s right,’ says Dean. ‘Like in football – if a player keeps the ball too long, and doesn’t pass it, he’s not gonna score too often.’

‘Quite,’ says the Principal. ‘Now, do you have any questions?’

We don’t. Well, we do. I have tons of questions, but I’m too scared to ask them. Instead we’re offered the chance to take a walk around the grounds on our own.

‘If you can get back here by 11 a.m., that will assist us greatly,’ says Principal Cooper in a voice which indicates strongly that failure to arrive back by the allotted time will be punishable by death.

‘What do you think?’ I ask Pask when we get outside.

‘’s OK,’ she says, and I can’t resist it.

‘Sentences, Paskia-Rose, sentences,’ I say.

She gives me a half-smile and Dean gives her a hug.

‘Bit of a monster,’ says Dean.

‘Yes,’ we all agree.

The grass outside is now littered with girls playing, reading and talking intelligently to one another. Everyone looks rich and sophisticated but desperately dull. On Paskia’s instruction we walk towards the football pitches so she can have a look. We take the route round the side of the school where there’s a pavement and thus I won’t sink into the grass in my high heels. When the path runs out at the back of the school Pask and Dean head off to the pitch while I wait on solid ground.

That’s when I see them, like a dream – the school’s bad girls. There are three of them standing round the side of the building using a mobile phone (banned), wearing makeup (banned), with their skirts shortened (banned) and wearing high-heeled shoes (banned). They look amazing. I find myself transported back in time to my own schooldays when I was desperate to be friends with girls like these.

‘Here,’ I say, handing them a bottle from my bag. ‘It’s champagne. Enjoy it.’

‘Wow, thanks,’ they say. ‘That’s awesome.’

I hear the cork pop and I rush off, desperate to reach Dean and Pask despite the heel/mud situation. I need to tell Pask about the great girls I’ve just seen. ‘Sweetheart, I’ve found some lovely friends for you. They’re great. You’ll love them. Come and see,’ I shriek.

If I can get Paskia in with these girls, she’ll be sorted. Gosh how I longed to be one of the tough girls when I was at school. ‘You’re too soppy,’ they always told me. ‘Look at you, with your silly pink, frilly clothes and your mad mother.’

I tried so hard to be accepted into that group, but never was. Now Paskia has a real chance to live the dream. She’s not soppy – she’s tough and talented and lovely. She has to meet them.

I shout over again, but Pask and Dean don’t hear me at all – they remain where they are, locked away from the world as they talk about Arsenal’s performance last season and whether Cristiano Ronaldo is better than George Best, or some such nonsense.

‘Come on,’ I shout over, wishing that, just once, I could impress my daughter as much as Dean does.

The two of them begin walking. ‘Quickly,’ I cry. ‘I’ve found some lovely friends for you. Look!’

The three girls are slouching against the wall, necking the champagne. One of them is even running her heavily glossed lips up and down the neck of the bottle in a gesture which has the two other girls choking with laughter.

I march Paskia over to them in a whirl of excitement. Imagine if Pask could get herself in with the cool girls? She’d start accessorizing properly and having fun. I just want to see her happy, dressed up and made up like a prom queen. Maybe one day she too will perform fellatio on a champagne bottle, but let’s not run before we can walk. Such a hope remains a dim and distant wish.

‘This is my daughter, Paskia-Rose,’ I say, pushing Pask towards the girls entirely against her will, but knowing it’s in her best interests.

‘I’m Cecily-Sue,’ says the dark-haired girl. ‘Call me Cecil.’

‘Natasha-May,’ says the least groomed of the girls. She has long auburn hair that would benefit from a little glitter and a lot of bleach.

‘I’m Carrie-Ann,’ says the third girl, who’s perfect. She stands, menacingly, with her short skirt and her long legs. She’s tanned and has lovely blonde hair that hangs like a thick curtain across her face. She makes no eye contact, chews gum and drinks champagne at the same time. She’s got ‘troublemaker’ written all over her. I want to adopt her.

‘Come on,’ says Dean. ‘Let’s carry on having a look round.’

‘OK, but Pask, why don’t you stay here with the nice girls, and we’ll come back and get you later?’

The girls stand there, scowling and exuding menace through every pore. How I wish I were a teenager again. What fun they’re having!

‘I’ll come with you and Dad,’ says Pask, moving off towards the other side of Dean.

I say my goodbyes and tell the girls they’re all beautiful, and we walk off round the back of the school where there are tennis courts dotted around a huge athletics track. Across the courts, all dressed in white and bashing a little ball backwards and forwards to each other, are girls of all shapes and sizes. Why would they do that?

‘I can’t wait to start,’ Pask is saying as she takes in all the sports facilities. ‘This school is awesome.’

‘And you’ve already made some nice friends,’ I say. ‘Those girls seemed lovely.’

‘I think they were troublemakers,’ insists Pask. ‘You know – the way they were hanging around the back, wearing makeup and stuff. And drinking! Did you see that? I can’t believe they sneaked alcohol into school.’

‘They’re just having fun,’ I say, but my lovely, perfect, sports-mad daughter’s having none of it. She shakes her head and we wander off towards the pool block where she gets more excited than is appropriate at the thought of making it onto the swim team.

‘I think my times will be good enough,’ she says with glee as she studies the noticeboard. ‘I’m definitely going to the trials.’

We hurry back to the Principal’s office, Paskia and Dean delighted with the sports facilities and me feeling more hope than I’ve felt in a long time that my beautiful child may grow into the sort of teenager I can be proud of.

‘Principal Cooper please,’ we ask of the smartly dressed girl in reception, but it’s Mr Barkett who comes out to see us.

‘Sorry, Principal’s tied up at the moment. There’s been some very uncustomary and deeply regrettable behaviour that she needs to deal with immediately.’

‘Oh,’ we chorus because it doesn’t seem like the sort of school where deeply regrettable behaviour takes place. I’m tempted to ask what sort of behaviour we’re talking about here, when he volunteers the information.

‘Three girls. Caught drinking,’ he mouths. ‘Terrible. We’ve called their mothers to the school. Dreadful business.’

1.30 p.m.

‘The rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain,’ I say, pronouncing each word as clearly as my Luton-laced accent will allow. We’re on Sunset Boulevard and all that stands between me and a stunning career as a glittering leading actress is Gareth managing to find the right building and me passing a simple audition. As far as I can see, the Oscar’s practically mine.

‘That’s it,’ I say, just as Gareth’s beginning to lose the will to live. The non-sequential numbering coupled with the fact that it’s the longest road in the world and I didn’t know which part of it we had to go to was making him very irate. His green eyes were blazing and, frankly, I feared for the life of the cab driver who cut him up.

Gareth pulls over, almost taking out a cyclist in the process, and I gather my things together. ‘Do you think I should portray myself as the new Marilyn?’ I ask. I suddenly feel nervous. I don’t know how to act.

‘What do you think, Dean? Marilyn?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I only know about football. You decide.’

‘You don’t think they’ll want me to recite Shakespeare or anything, do you?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so, Candyfloss,’ he says. ‘But you never know with these people. Film people love books and stuff, don’t they?’

He’s very wise, is Dean. ‘Does my makeup look OK?’ I ask. I redid it in the loos at Pask’s school so that it now stands about three inches off my face. They’ll expect me to be camera-ready. I don’t want to let myself down.

‘Yeah,’ says Dean without looking, and we jump out of the car and head to the building. The reception area is painted a bright, glossy orange. Dean says that if I put my head back against it, it looks as if my features are painted onto the wall, so similar is the painted interior’s colour to that of my foundation.

‘Tracie Martin?’ asks a rather scruffy guy with khaki shorts and a baggy grey T-shirt that’s seen better days. ‘Follow me for the screen test.’ He’s not what I was expecting at all, but I wave goodbye to Dean and teeter off after the man.

‘Through there,’ he says dismissively, signalling towards a large, messy room with four men standing in it, surrounded by technical-looking equipment

‘Tracie Martin?’ asks one.

‘That’s me,’ I say with confidence, giving them my best smile.

‘Great. Glad you could make it. Are you ready to get going?’

‘Absolutely,’ I say, with a shake of my blonde mane.

The room has rugged wooded floorboards and bits of white masking tape all over the place. It’s not very LA at all. More like the sort of place you’d find in Camden High Street than on Sunset Boulevard. There’s peeling paint and piles of cables lying all over the floor – knotted and twisted together. I’ll need to recall this when people ask me about the audition. I need to remember the moment when my acting career began.

If things take off the way I want them to, I may refer to this moment in my Oscar acceptance speech. I’ll thank Dean and Paskia for their support and Victoria for her inspiration. ‘And, you know, as I stand before you today, as the most successful and most dearly loved actress in the world, dressed in £100 million worth of diamonds, I should tell you about how it all started – in a messy studio just a few months ago.’

I’ll dedicate the Oscar to Dean’s late grandmother Nell and I’ll make sure I mention every one of my friends. I’ll also thank my mum and tell her I forgive her. Forgiveness is important, and I think I could find it in me to be forgiving, especially while covered in Tiffany sparklers.

‘Do you want me to say anything?’ I ask the guys. They seem to be just standing there, looking down at a pile of equipment.

One guy looks up from where he’s fiddling with the camera. ‘Wow. Your voice is amazing,’ he says. ‘You’d never know. I think we’ll have to make a feature of that. Can we mike her up, John?’

An amazing voice, eh? That’s what being born and bred in Luton does for you.

I stand still while a microphone is attached to the collar of my pale pink jacket.

‘OK. First thing I need you to look into the camera and read this. I’ll give you a few moments to learn it,’ says the cameraman.

I take the piece of paper that he hands me, hoping that I’m going to be playing a beautiful, fragile princess, waiting for her knight in shining armour to return from battle. The men are still looking over at me, so I smile back and think to myself that I’ll try and mention as many of them as I can in my Oscar-winning speech – it’s only fair.

OK, here we go. What have I got to read out? ‘Hi, my name’s Tracie Martin, and though I may look like a woman, take a closer look and you’ll see I’m a man. Welcome to Tranny Town – the new film about Transvestites in the City.’

‘Why do you want me to say this?’ I ask.

‘Screen test,’ mutters the guy.

‘For a film about transvestites? I’m not a transvestite.’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘No!’ I howl. ‘Of course not. How could you even think that?’

‘Well – the piles of badly applied makeup, the trannie clothes and really skinny legs. Sorry. Simple misunder-standing.’

I tear off the microphone as theatrically as I can, and turn on my heels with a level of drama that these fools can only dream of injecting into their films, then I charge out of the room – away from my dreams of becoming a film star. The Oscar will have to wait. The friendship with Keira and the affair with Brad are on ice for now, I’m off back to Deany.

5 p.m.

Paskia’s tucking into a big cheese sandwich when I walk into the kitchen, and almost crash into the door because I’m so busy looking at my reflection in the stainless steel fridge. They do not look like the legs of a man. Why would anyone think I was a transvestite? Is my jaw too square or something?

‘How did the screen test go?’ asks Pask, and I feel my heart sink. ‘Dad says you won’t talk about it.’

‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ I say, giving her a little hug. ‘I just decided that being an international superstar wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I decided that my main job was being a good mum to you, and a good wife to your dad.’

Paskia looks confused. ‘But you are a good mum. I thought you wanted to be a film star, too.’

I’m a good mum.

‘I’m not really bothered about a life of fame, wealth, free clothes and global adoration.’

Did she really say I was a good mum?

‘So you didn’t do the audition?’ she asks.

‘No. In the end I walked away from it,’ I say, but all the time her words are ricocheting round my mind, bubbling up and busting into silky, rainbow-coloured happy thoughts as they glide around my head. I’m a good mum!

‘In what ways am I a good mum, Pask?’ I ask gently, sitting down next to her and stroking her hair in a way that she clearly finds very irritating.

‘I dunno,’ she says, between chews. ‘I know you love me and care about me.’

‘I do, Pask,’ I say. ‘I really do. I worry that you don’t realize how much I care about you.’

‘Course I realize,’ she says. ‘Even when you’re being mad I know you mean well. It’s like Dad’s always saying – you look for the best in people. I’ve never heard you say a bad word about anyone. You’re the nicest person I’ve ever met. Stuff like that.’

‘Pask, that’s lovely,’ I say, and suddenly it doesn’t matter that all the movie-makers in LA think I look like a bloke in a skirt. What do I care about them? Paskia loves me and Dean loves me. Nothing else matters.

‘How was school?’ I ask her.

‘Man, it was unbelievable,’ she says, her eyes sparkling as she recalls her day. ‘I wish I could start straight away. Do I have to wait until Monday?’

‘It’s only a few days,’ I say. ‘I’m sure you can last until then.’

‘I guess,’ she says. ‘I’ll practise some maths, and read as much as I can between now and then.’

That’s when I have to bite my tongue. Why does she want to go to school? She’s twelve! What girl her age wants to practise maths? It’s not natural. I worry for her. The girl hasn’t had so much as a pregnancy scare. She has no intimate piercings or tattoos, and despite my many searches I’ve never found any illegal drugs in her room. Now she’s desperate to go to school. What horrors have I got lurking round the corner? University? PhDs?

But I don’t say a negative word. Not now I know that I am super mum. I smile sweetly and try to interest her in my world.

‘Would you like to get your makeup done before the party tonight?’ I ask. ‘The beauticians are setting things out upstairs.’

‘Er … like … how do I say this? Er … no! I don’t even want to go to the party. I want to watch TV. There’s a match on.’

‘You have to come. Oh, Paskia, go on, sweetheart. Mummy would love to get you all dressed up and show you off. Please let me turn you into a little princess.’

‘No,’ she says definitively.

‘Please,’ I try. ‘It could be fun!’

‘No! I’ll come, but I’m not dressing up like a fairy. Leave me alone.’

‘OK then, love,’ I say, ‘I’ll be upstairs if you need me.’ Then I sashay out of the kitchen, glancing once again at my reflection before heading upstairs to where a team of LA’s hottest facialists, waxers, hairdressers and nail technicians await.

‘What look are you after?’ they ask.

‘Mainly, I would like not to look like a transvestite,’ I say. ‘That’s my overriding aim.’

‘Lady, you look nothing like a transvestite,’ says a woman stirring a pot of warm wax and chuckling to herself. ‘I don’t think I ain’t ever met someone who looks less like a transvestite.’

She has no idea how big a tip she just earned herself.

Sian and Chuck’s house, 8.30 p.m.

PARTY TIME!!! But we’re hovering in the cloakroom.

‘Don’t bend down, love,’ says Dean, again. I know he means well, but – honestly – I can’t go through the entire party standing bolt upright.

‘You’ll have to,’ he insists. ‘Honestly, love. Every time you bend down to reach for the Bacardi you moon the whole party through the cloakroom door.’

‘And?’ I say, rather petulantly. ‘What’s the problem with that?’

Dean shrugs and says nothing’s wrong with it, but we don’t know these people and they might not want to see a lady’s bottom before the watershed. It seems unlikely, but I’m not in the mood for an argument, so I move the Bacardi up so I can reach it without any indecent exposure and promise I won’t bend down.

‘No, not there,’ he says, quickly putting the alcohol back on the floor.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

‘No one here drinks,’ he says. ‘Keep it hidden.’

‘Oh God. This is mad,’ says Paskia-Rose. ‘Can’t we just go into the party like normal people? Why do we have to hide away in the cloakroom, drinking alcohol like naughty schoolchildren?’

‘Pask’s right. Come on, love. Why don’t you try and have a night when you don’t get drunk? I haven’t touched a drop.’

God, he’s become dull. What is it with these LA people? It’s like there’s some sort of bizarre abstinence cult they’ve all joined. It’s no way to live. I grab a large beaker and fill it to the top with Bacardi to keep me going.

‘Come on then,’ I say. ‘Let’s go in. After all, they’re throwing the party for us.’

Throwing a party for us … imagine that! I’ve been thrown out of parties in the past, and I’ve thrown up at parties, but never had a party thrown for me.

We walk into the main room and, I have to be honest, it’s weird. Big time weird. You know how you walk into a party and the first thing you do is look around the room to check what everyone’s wearing, and that no one’s wearing the same as you?

Ha! Well, no one is! Not by a fucking long, long way, because no one has bothered to dress up for this party at all. I mean – not-at-all! They’re in flip-flops, for God’s sake. They have great bodies and everything, but their taste in clothes leaves so much to be desired that I can barely speak as I look around the huge open-plan house. There are people everywhere, and as far as the eye can see they have all stopped what they are doing, and they’re staring at me. Have they never seen a Bacardi-drinking Wag in a skin-tight gold lamé mini-dress with matching thigh-length gold boots before?

Let me describe what the scene is like. In many ways it’s like a Barbie convention – a veritable feast of brown, plastic-looking skin, yellow hair and great big enormous knockers. To that extent they all look like me, and walking into the room is like walking into the hall of mirrors at the funfair, and seeing your image reflected back at you from all sides. Except for the clothes.

And the thing I don’t get is, why would you bother starving yourself, eating cotton wool and taking pills to suppress your appetite if you’re then going to just stick a T-shirt and flat (I hate that word) shoes on? What’s the point? Why would you suffer the pain and indignity of having great big jelly mould tits stuck on your chest if you’re just going to cover them up? It’s a mystery. You can say what you like about me, but I do get my bangers out at every possible opportunity. In fact, with the falsies I’ve used you can see my nipples approaching you roughly ten minutes before the rest of me wiggles into view.

Dean’s shuffling from foot to foot next to me when Sian approaches, wearing a white cheesecloth kaftan and loose-fitting jersey trousers. ‘Well, look at you two,’ she squeals, and I’m not sure whether she’s talking to my chest or to me and Dean. ‘Our lovely British friends.’ I’m once again enveloped in a rather painful hug and subjected to kissing and hair stroking. ‘My God, but you’re wonderful,’ she says. ‘Look at you!’

Behind her strides Chuck. His hair has a parting so neat it looks like it’s been done with a ruler, and his hair is all gelled to one side like he’s in the Great Gatsby or something. He’s wearing white trousers that are ever-so-slightly too tight and way too short. He’s got them pulled up high and I can see every lump and bump on his groin. For the sake of absolute clarity: this is a bad thing. Chuck is not a man with lumps and bumps that any sane girl would want to admire. His light blue, short-sleeved shirt is ironed to within an inch of its life, and even from this distance I can see that he has huge, round sweat marks under his arms. His belt is elasticated and stripy light and dark blue, and his light blue socks, visible because the trousers are so bloody short, match the shirt exactly. He looks, as Dean so accurately observes, like ‘a complete fucking ponce’.

He’s on the phone as he walks over, and Sian apologizes before he even arrives.

‘Sorry, guys, it’s a business thing. He had to take the call.’

‘Ya,’ Chuck is saying into his state-of-the-art mobile. ‘I like where you’re coming from on that. We should diarize and book in a hook-up to discuss ballpark figures.’ He puts his hand over the receiver and apologizes. ‘It’s all gone crazy in the world of canned meats. Be with you in five,’ then he’s back to his conversation. ‘It’s time for everyone to step up to the plate and stretch the envelope,’ he says, raising his voice a little. ‘But let’s not forget – keep everything swimming in lanes, then we can take a helicopter view of the situation.’

He clips his phone shut and puts it into the front pocket of his shirt.

‘Our lovely guests are here. What an honour,’ he says, kissing my hand without breaking eye contact. ‘Truly. We are thrilled that you could join us.’

He goes to hug Dean but Dean’s too British to cope. He knows that when a man gets that close to you in England it means he’s either gay or about to beat you up. I can see Dean hoping and praying that he’s going to get punched.

‘Let’s introduce these children to one another,’ says Sian, heading off to collect her offspring. Paskia-Rose has run off to the far side of the sitting room and is admiring all the football pictures and signed photos on the wall. Sian’s twin girls are the same age as Pask but could not be more different from my daughter. They are, I have to say, among the most perfect girls that I have ever seen. They’re dressed in pink and they’re all small and delicate, like little dolls. If they piled the makeup on and stuffed a pair of socks down their bras, they’d be almost as lovely as the three girls we met today. Pask runs back over and stands next to Dean. She towers over the twins and looks ungainly next to them in her daft football shirt, baggy jeans and trainers.

‘I love soccer,’ I hear her say, as the twins look at each other in astonishment. ‘I’m going to this fantastic school with the best football pitches I’ve ever seen!’

‘Come on,’ says Sian. ‘Let me show you three girls what I’ve got in the kitchen. Frozen fat-free yoghurt!’

‘Yummy!’ shout the twins.

‘Whooppee!’ says Paskia, her voice weighed down by sarcasm. ‘I thought you were going to say pizza and chips.’

I’m not sure whether the ‘p’ word or the ‘c’ word has ever been used in this house before. I can see Sian fighting to regain her composure before leaving the children to their ‘treat’ and marching back towards me.

‘Tracie, can I introduce you to Poppy and Macey?’ she says, indicating two women standing to my left. One has plain dark hair and the other has plain blonde hair, and neither is wearing makeup. They stare at me as if I’ve been beamed down from outer space.

‘Great to meet you,’ says Macey, flicking her natural locks away from her face like the girl in the Timotei advert. She’s wearing a long white cotton skirt and a white crop top which, I’ll grant her, does display her large breasts to their best advantage, and gives you a peek at a flat, tanned stomach, but it’s not right. She needs a belly-button piercing at the very least.

Poppy’s incredibly sweet-looking, with her long dark hair and the way she tilts her head to one side, like Snow White. I expect bunnies to come hopping through the sitting room at any minute. She’s wearing a sun dress in an emerald green colour with simple kitten-heeled shoes. It’s shameful the way these women dress. I must work with them and try and inject a little of Luton into their wardrobes.

‘We’ll all get the chance to chat later,’ says Sian, dragging me away from them and over to one of the many huge cream sofas in her sitting room. Happily, our journey takes us right past the drinks – all laid out neatly in the kitchen.

‘Ooooh,’ I say as we pass, my glass now a desperate, Bacardi-free zone.

‘A little juice?’ asks Sian, picking up a glass, inspecting it, and handing it to one of the women on drinks patrol. ‘How does celery and carrot suit you?’

I laugh madly at this. Why the holy fuck would I want a glass full of mashed-up celery? ‘You’re funny!’ I say, minutes before realizing that she isn’t joking. I glance around the room. Dean’s right. No one appears to be drinking alcohol.

‘I’d prefer something a bit stronger … if you don’t mind.’

‘Wheat grass?’ she suggests, and I realize that it’s time to stop being subtle.

‘Alcohol, please,’ I say. ‘I’d prefer champagne, vodka or Bacardi, but really any alcohol at all would be great. Absolutely anything. I’ve even got my own bottle with me – it’s hidden in the cloakroom if you want me to go and get it.’

‘No, no, I’ve got some somewhere,’ she says, looking quite thrown by my confession. ‘And you’re right. We should allow ourselves a little taste tonight, shouldn’t we? We are celebrating, after all. Goodness, I should have thought of that – let’s have a little treat.’

Weird, weird, weird. I have alcohol because it’s Wednesday, because it’s 8.40 p.m., because my name is Tracie, because the sky is blue. Who needs an excuse to get mullered?

‘Right, take a seat,’ she says, handing me a glass that’s got so little in it, it’ll probably all evaporate before I get to it. ‘Now, tell me all about your screen test. Dean mentioned it to Chuck. Sounds very exciting.’

Oh God. Do we have to talk about this?

‘I decided not to do it,’ I say. ‘I don’t really have the time for it right now. I told them to give the role to Nicole Kidman or J-Lo or someone. Just one second.’ Sian looks on all confused as I clip-clop across to the kitchen, pull out a large beaker and fill it with champagne, then I tip vodka in the top and walk back to my seat with the glass in one hand and the bottle of champagne in the other. ‘Cheers,’ I say, and ‘Cheers,’ she replies. But her eyes don’t say cheers; her eyes say, ‘Your body is a temple. How could you do this to yourself?’ My eyes say, ‘How I’d love to take you out in Luton for the night.’

‘Tracie, I’m sorry you didn’t do the audition. You’d have been great as a film star. What was the role? Did they tell you?’

‘They didn’t,’ I lie. ‘They just said it was about life in the city.’

‘You’d be great in that,’ says Sian. ‘Look at you! You were made to be a film star. Can’t you call them and tell them you can do it after all?’

I feel I ought to tell her the truth but what if she says, ‘Yes, I can see their point. You do look like a bloke.’

‘I didn’t do it because I thought I might not be attractive enough,’ I say.

‘What are you talking about?’ she says. ‘Tracie, you’re stunning. You’d look better without so much makeup, but you’re very attractive indeed. Why would you think otherwise?’

‘So you don’t think I look like a man?’

‘You don’t look a bit like a man, Tracie. I’d never realized you were so self-critical. Promise me that every morning you will look in the mirror and say, “My name is Tracie Martin and I am a beautiful person, inside and out.”’

‘Yeah, right,’ I say.

‘This is important,’ says Sian, deadly serious now. ‘Our thoughts define our actions. Self-love is vital for a happy life, and affirmations are part of that. Maybe you should think about seeing someone. My psychoanalyst is very good.’

She hands me a card and I take it gratefully, but I don’t think the woman will be getting my business. As long as people keep reassuring me that I don’t look like a transvestite, everything will be fine.

10.30 p.m.

I’m off my tiny trolley. Whey-hey! Bring it on. I just wanna dance, but the music isn’t really dancing music. It’s all whale sounds and seagulls and shit like that – the sort of stuff they play while you’re having a massage that drives you up the bloody wall.

‘Someone shoot that dolphin!’ I shout, and Dean falls about laughing. He’s not drinking very much, but at least he’s entering into the spirit of things. Any minute now he’s going to start singing ‘Ingerland, Ingerland, Ingerland’.

To be fair to the other guests, they’ve had a few, too. I don’t think they wanted to, but in the end I just went round and poured vodka into their drinks, and they all thought it would be easier to get pissed than to keep saying no. Pester power! The thing is, cos they don’t normally drink very much, just a couple of half pints of neat vodka and some of them have really let their hair down. Three have vomited in the garden, which is always nice to see at a party. Even Chuck’s managed to take his phone away from his ear, which is a clear sign that he’s pissed. There’s some terribly respectable, middle-aged director of the club shagging one of the cheerleaders in the corner.

‘This is more like it!’ I cry, full of genuine enthusiasm for the happy turn that the party has taken. ‘Let’s all dance!’

‘Yehhhhh!!!’ they all chorus back. Trouble is, none of us is sober enough to use the stereo, so I start them off on a sing-song.

‘There’s only one Deany Martin … There’s only one Deany Ma-a-artin,’ I shout punching up into the air. Soon they’re all joining in. We’re in a circle in this lovely, sophisticated house, knocking back the champers and punching the air like we were in the Bobbers stand back at Luton. ‘Deany, Deany, Deany, Deany …’

Fucking marvellous. Now we’re having a party.