Читать книгу A WAG Abroad - Alison Kervin, Jason Leonard - Страница 9

Tuesday 27 May 10 a.m. New car just arrived.

OK. How do I put this? It’s huge!!! I mean, not huge compared to the other cars on the road over here, but a damn sight wider than anything I’ve driven before. The advantage, of course, is that the width of the seats makes my thighs look much thinner. The only disadvantage is that I don’t think I’m going to be able to drive it without crashing. A minor disadvantage really, considering the thigh benefit.

I really wanted a pink Cadillac (of course!) and it had to be manual because I get really confused by the pedal shortage in the automatic ones, but we couldn’t find one in the right shade. As far as I’m concerned, cars should be bubblegum pink, not sugary pink, so I said I’d go for the Cadillac wedding car which looked a lovely shade in the picture, but now it’s here it’s kind of, well, it’s way bigger than I was expecting.

It’s also all set up wrongly. I’m sitting here and there’s no steering wheel in front of me. Next to me, on the passenger side, there’s a steering wheel. Now, you tell me how this works. Do passengers have to drive over here? And what if you’re a passenger because you can’t drive? Do you then have to sit in the driving seat?

‘Well, hello there,’ says a familiar voice, making me jump and clatter my acrylic nails against the dash board. I look up into big brown eyes staring from beneath small, lightly tinted sunglasses, then glance down at big brown thighs beneath small, tight shorts. Ding-dong!

‘Jamie!’ I manage to say, delighted by the arrival of my knight in shining leisure wear. ‘Have you spoken to Victoria this morning?’

‘Er … no,’ he says. ‘I don’t necessarily call her every day.’

If I had her number I’d always be on the phone to her. She’d have to take out a restraining order to stop me calling and texting a hundred times a day.

‘What are you doing here, just sitting in the car?’ he asks.

‘I can’t work it out,’ I confess. ‘They’ve gone and sold me one that’s all back to front.’

Jamie doesn’t stop jogging for so much as a second as he pulls his earplugs out and switches off his iPod. The sun is glaring through the window and I’m having to move my head up and down as I explain the situation with the car, keeping in time with his bouncing frame.

‘Say it again, little British lady.’

‘This car is broken. Look!’

‘No,’ he replies, smiling at me. ‘It’s American. We drive on the other side of the road here, remember.’

He pushes his sunglasses up onto the top of his head and smiles. His eyes sparkle and dance as he looks at me. He has no wrinkles. No sign of age. His skin remains taut and his brow as smooth as a Chloe handbag.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Well, how do I drive it? I can’t reach that side.’

He’s just smiling at me, so I smile back, and I can feel myself going bright red beneath my tangerine skin. I must look like a blood orange.

‘You need to move over,’ he says, and as I slide across the long pink leather seat that runs the width of the car he jumps into my vacated place and looks straight into my eyes.

‘Have you ever been a cheerleader?’ he asks.

‘No,’ I squeal. Then I think, Is that a compliment? I mean, cheerleaders are pretty, young and heavily made up. Then I think, Gosh, is that the greatest compliment a man can pay a woman in LA? Are we talking here about the nicest thing anyone ever said to me? I can feel myself going scarlet, both from the heat of this gorgeous morning in sunny LA, and from sheer embarrassment at having a terrifyingly fit and attractive man telling me that I should be a cheerleader. It’s like Simon all over again – only he used to tell me that I’m clever and bright and funny. It’s so much nicer to be told you look like a cheerleader.

‘Why are you all dressed up like that?’ he asks, taking in my simple daywear. (I’ve gone for head-to-toe Burberry. I’m channelling Daniella Westbrook because I figure when a look’s as fabulous as hers is it bears repeating.)

I haven’t answered his question because I can’t. I’m so hot, flustered and excited that the roof of my mouth and my tongue are stuck together. I reach into my bag for a bottle of vodka and take a large slug of it.

‘Don’t make me guess,’ he says playfully. ‘Surely you’re not going to a party at this hour in the morning? I know you’re a bit of a party girl.’

I hear myself giggle stupidly. It’s a side of myself I’ve not met before. When did I turn into a girl who giggles at men?

‘I’m not going to a party,’ I laugh. ‘I’m going shopping.’

‘Shopping?’ he says wisely. ‘Spending all your millions, eh?’

I giggle stupidly again, then kind of grimace at myself because I don’t know where the giggles are coming from.

‘Would you like me to accompany you? You know – show you around.’

Shit. I feel a wave of panic rise inside me. The fact is that I take shopping very seriously, and don’t know whether I want the distraction of Mr Suntanned Legs when I’m doing something vital like trying on shoes.

‘It was just an idea. If you’d rather go on your own, that’s fine. I just thought you might fancy company. It’s up to you. I won’t be in the least offended if you’d prefer to go alone.’

‘No, I’d like that,’ I say, because he’s friends with the Beckhams, and I can easily shop another time if I don’t get it all done.

‘I have to shower first. Why don’t I meet you at a restaurant called Koi a bit later? Around 12?’

‘OK,’ I say.

‘It should be marked on your little LA map, but call me if you get lost. Do you still have my number?’

I’ve learnt it off by heart and written it down in three places. It’s logged into my home phone and it’s stored in my mobile. ‘Yep, I think I’ve got it here somewhere,’ I say.

‘See you later then,’ and off he goes, jogging down the street – his buttock cheeks moving behind him like two large grapefruits in the back of his Lycra shorts.

So, was that a wise thing to do? Arrange to have lunch with a strange and terrifyingly attractive man? I guess it was. I’m sure it’s fine because I’m happily married, no harm can come. Really … just fine … and even though I feel myself lean over and sniff the seat he’s just been sitting on without realizing quite what I’m doing, there’s no problem. Any minute now I’ll be able to get a grip on the dizzy feeling in my tummy, and drive this damn car.

12.29 p.m.

I’m a teensy bit late for meeting Jamie but, truly, it doesn’t matter because today is the greatest day of my life ever. This is better than my wedding day and more thrilling than the day I gave birth to Pask (I knew she was coming out eventually – but I never dreamt that this might happen). The feeling I have running through me is like liquid gold. ‘Yeeeeessssss!!!’ I squeal. I can’t help myself. ‘Yes, yes and yes again,’ almost crying with joy and relief; like the fans at Luton Town used to do whenever Dean was subbed off.

I’m in remarkably good cheer for a woman who is standing half naked in a ladies clothes shop on Rodeo Drive. And shall I tell you why I am in such good cheer? Shall I? OK – I have dropped two whole dress sizes. I was a size 6 in Luton sizing, and here, I’m size 2!!! Whooah!

‘I want to take everything in the shop,’ I squeal, thinking of my dressing area packed with clothes in a size 2. Imagine what Mum would say? Despite everything that’s happened between my mum and me in the past year I still feel a need to impress her – to show that I’m OK, and worthy, and that she might, yet, think about loving me.

I slip into a lovely gold dress. It’s skin-tight, and my heavily spray-tanned breasts are bursting out of the top of it. It looks as if I’ve shaved and boot-polished two large coconuts and shoved them down the front. In other words, it’s perfect. Outside, I can hear the assistants running around to help customers. I wish one of them would come and help me. I have tons of clothes that I want to buy. I remove the dress, slip back into the salmon pink Juicy playsuit and white ankle boots, the first thing I tried on in the shop, and wander back out.

‘I’ll take all the items in there, and I’ll wear this,’ I say, indicating my luxurious outfit.

They don’t even look up.

‘Excuse me,’ I try. ‘I want buy all those clothes in there.’

Still nothing. I feel like Julia Roberts in that film. She was Pretty Woman; right now I feel like Shitty Woman.

Eventually a woman dressed in subtle shades of cream and beige comes over to me and looks me up and down. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to shop somewhere else … somewhere less classy,’ she says. ‘I mean, this shop may not be right for you. That playsuit’s meant for a child, and I certainly wouldn’t wear it with those boots. It’s very tight, very short and very pink.’

‘But I like very tight, very short and very pink things. I’m a Wag!’ I declare. My voice comes out like a little girl’s and tears sting the backs of my eyes. Why do they have to be so nasty? It doesn’t make me a bad person that I want to look like Jordan’s little sister, not Hillary Clinton’s elder sister.

Two other members of staff have come over to join the soldier-like creature before me. They stand there in a line, like a mini Nazi regiment – all looking me up and down and smirking to themselves.

‘We have standards,’ says a woman who is so thin that she really looks as if she might crack. I think she’s thinner than Sian. Perhaps I’m too fat here? My heart almost stops. Is that why they don’t like me? I love thin, but I genuinely fear for these women. This shop assistant has such a big head for her body, I’m surprised her scrawny neck doesn’t snap under the weight. Her face is so heavily plumped out that it reminds me of a satellite dish. Her eyes don’t seem quite symmetrical, and I find it very hard not to stare at her.

‘Did you hear me?’ she asks, eventually, as I struggle to work out why it is that her lips look as if they have a life of their own. They move and shake on the front of her face as if they’re not quite connected and might slide and wriggle off at any time. Surely that’s not lip pumping? Mine are pumped out about as far as a UK surgeon will allow, but these are jelly-filled to an extraordinary new level. I’m slightly appalled, slightly impressed and ever so slightly jealous, all at the same time. I’ve never been out-Waged before, but these LA ladies are right up there. Except when it comes to clothes. In the wardrobe department they lag a long way behind.

A woman with her blonde hair tied at the nape of her neck, wearing simple black trousers and a black sleeveless top, steps forward.

‘Do you understand English?’ she asks me. ‘English?’

‘Yes,’ I say. They know very well that I’m English. Behind her I hear the door open and I hope that all three will rush off and attend to the next customer and stop being so horrible. Sadly, the only person to move is the ‘Do you understand English?’ lady.

In front of me the two remaining women have their hands on the parts of their body where most people have hips.

‘You need to change out of those clothes,’ says the first lady – she’s wearing a cream shirt and beige trousers with sunglasses and large earrings. I think her earrings may be wider than her torso, which makes me strangely predisposed to like her, but her manner nips any such feelings in the bud. ‘Now,’ she howls in a voice heavy with nastiness.

‘Is there a problem?’ a familiar male voice asks, and the two women spin round to see my extraordinarily handsome new friend in the doorway. He’s wearing a white shirt and his dark hair is glistening beautifully in the midday sun. It looks as if it’s still wet, and the very thought of Jamie in the shower makes me feel quite dizzy. As he walks in he removes his sunglasses and holds them while he stands there, glowering in front of us. I feel embarrassed that he’s seeing me being treated so badly. I hope he doesn’t think I’ve done anything to annoy them.

‘No problem at all,’ says huge earrings lady. ‘How can we help you?’

‘You could help me by treating this lady with a bit of respect.’

I feel my heart leap up so hard that it almost knocks itself out on my throat.

‘Of course!’ she cries innocently, looking at me. ‘I’m doing all I can.’

Jamie walks over and stands right next to me, draping his arm across my shoulders.

‘This is Victoria Beckham’s sister,’ he says. ‘Be very, very nice to her.’

Oh. My. God. I am no longer Shitty Woman.

The shop assistant’s face registers all the amazement it can, given the buckets of Botox that have been injected into it.

‘I’ll go and get all your things from in the changing room, shall I, Madam?’ says hair at the nape of the neck woman.

‘Yes please. Thank you very much.’

‘You look adorable, by the way,’ she says, as she scuttles past me. I look at Jamie and he winks. I’ll never forget this moment, and how special he’s making me feel. I knew my life would change completely if I lost two dress sizes.

‘Thank you so much,’ I say, as we walk up the road together, Jamie carrying my bags and me recalling the terrified looks on their faces when they thought I might be Victoria Beckham’s sister.

‘Imagine if I were,’ I say. ‘Imagine that! I used to fantasize, when I was younger, that I was part of a nice, normal family – you know, with a mum and dad who loved me and maybe a brother or sister. I used to go to bed and dream that there’d be a knock on the door and someone would say, “I’m sorry, there’s been a terrible mistake. Tracie Martin, you shouldn’t be with your mad mother who leaves you on your own all the time and really hates you, you should be with this kind and loving family where there’s a mum and a dad and they both like you.” Well, imagine if that family was Victoria’s? Imagine!’

Jamie’s looking at me, his head tilted sideways. ‘So – bad childhood, hey?’

‘Not great,’ I confess.

‘I’m a good listener,’ he says.

‘Thanks. I’m OK, though. I keep going. This trip to LA is a fresh start for us all. Things are going to be good from now on, I can just feel it.’

‘I hope so,’ says Jamie. ‘LA’s a fun place. I’m sure you’ll love it when you get to know it. Now, would you like to shop?’

‘Like to shop? Me? Jamie, you have no idea. I live to shop.’

We wander in and out of shops all morning – me spending, Jamie carrying.

Versace is my favourite visit of the day. It’s bustling with the most fabulous dresses, including one made entirely from lime green goose feathers, with large ostrich feathers trailing down the back.

‘Look!’ I cry. ‘Isn’t it adorable?’

‘It’s different,’ says Jamie. ‘Where on earth would you wear something like that?’

‘Everywhere!’ I say as I spin and twirl in the mirror. It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. I have to have it.

We bundle out of the shop with my flamboyant purchase carefully wrapped in tissue paper and nestling in the bottom of a shiny new black carrier bag. I swing the bag by my side, just like the girls in Sex and the City do whenever they’ve bought anything. I’m excited and delighted and … oh, shit. ‘Sorry.’

I’ve whacked some poor guy and sent the stash of leaflets in his hand flying into the air. Jamie drops down to pick them up while the man stares at me.

‘Wow!’ he says. ‘You’d be perfect. We’re looking for people for a film being shot by Sunset-Naidoo Pictures. Have you ever done any acting?’

All my life, I think. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’d like to, though.’

‘Well, we’d have to give you a screen test, but if you could come along on Wednesday – say 1.30 – we could do it then. How does that sound? Do you wanna be in a film? You could make a bit of money if things go well.’

‘Yeah!’ I say, looking over at Jamie, who’s nodding his encouragement. The idea of making money is appealing, given that Raiders are practically bankrupt and could stop paying my husband at any time, and I’ve just spent more on clothes than most people earn in a year.

They take my details and the guy hands me a card. ‘See you Wednesday,’ he says. ‘Come to the main reception desk at 1224 Sunset Boulevard. The details are all on the card.’

‘Wow. Thanks!’ I say, and inside I’m thinking … if only Mum could see me now.

3 p.m., K oi

My 550 bags of shopping are safely stored away in a cloakroom, taken away by a meaty bouncer with the unusual distinction of having a small bolt of lightning tattooed on his knuckles, I have a glass of champagne in my hand, and if it weren’t for the scary wooden carvings of snakes all over the walls I’d be feeling quite relaxed about everything.

‘I’m going to be in a film!’ I blurt out. ‘Imagine having a screen test! Dean will piss himself.’

‘You’d make a great film star. I bet you get spotted and become the next Catherine Zeta-Jones,’ says Jamie.

‘Oooh, imagine that!’ I say. Though I’d rather be Marilyn Monroe. She was the very first Wag ever and my ultimate icon. Apart from Victoria and Jordan who are better role models because they are thinner, have longer hair, breast implants and children with daft names – all the attributes one looks for in an icon.

‘Cheers,’ says Jamie, raising his glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

‘Cheers!’ I raise my champagne flute and we clink them together. He catches my eye, and I swear a huge electric shock just ran through me.

‘You know what you should do? If you’re going to be an international superstar actress you should log your credit card details here, then you’ll be given a password and you can phone up any time you want and get priority booking.’

It’s a great idea, but I’m not sure.

‘Dean doesn’t like me doing things like that,’ I say, flinching as I catch sight of the snakes. Are they really necessary?

Jamie clicks his fingers to call the waiter. ‘I know that a lot of journalists do it, then whenever someone famous comes in, they get a call from the doorman. All part of the LA service. Victoria comes here, you know.’

‘Really?’ Maybe that’s something I should consider. Would they really call me and tell me?

The waiter hasn’t responded to Jamie’s clicking fingers, so he claps loudly and, if I’m honest, quite embarrassingly. A waiter scurries across and my credit card’s handed over in the blink of an eye. They log the details and ask me for a password to quote when I call.

‘Paskia-Rose,’ I say. That’s a password I’ll never forget.

‘Certainly,’ says the waiter.

‘I’ll order for both of us,’ Jamie declares, pointing out various items on the menu. The waiter smiles and bows away from us. He returns minutes later with a collection of candles for the middle of the table. Jamie’s face is immediately lit up so he looks like a model from one of the billboards liberally dotted down Rodeo Drive.

‘Sushi,’ he says, when the food arrives. ‘Go on. Try it.’

He gives me these little sticks to eat with. You know the ones. Dean always sends them straight back, saying, ‘We’re in England, love. Give us a couple of knives and forks.’

As I try to pick up the rice with the sticks I realize why Dean’s never taken to them. It’s virtually impossible. If I don’t push hard enough the rice doesn’t lift off the plate at all, and if I push too hard the small bundle breaks and the rice falls away, leaving me gripping with all my might onto one lonely little grain.

Meanwhile Jamie, next to me, is having no problems at all. ‘Try the fish,’ he suggests, indicating the pink-coloured jellyfish thing in the centre of the rice bundle.

‘Good idea,’ I say, stabbing at the fish in an effort to spear it into my mouth. Yeeesss … finally I catch it and begin to chew. And chew. And chew. I try to eat it, I really do, but it’s like rubber.

‘Nice?’ asks Jamie, and I just smile back at him. ‘Is this your first time with sushi?’

‘Yes,’ I say, thinking – and the bloody last time. Eventually I have to take it out of my mouth. ‘I could do with it being cooked properly,’ I explain, and Jamie roars with laughter.

‘Very funny,’ he says. ‘Very, very funny. I’ll tell the waiter, shall I? “Make sure you cook your sushi properly for my friend in future.” Ha! Very good.’

I take a large gulp of champagne, then a larger one, and laugh back as if I know what the hell I’ve just said to cause such merriment.

‘Right, tell me something about you that I don’t know,’ he says.

Silence. Well, what am I supposed to tell him?

‘OK,’ he says, when the silence becomes unbearable. ‘You’re obviously not used to talking about yourself. People in LA tend to open up all the time because they’ve had so much therapy. Tell me a little bit about your dad. You mentioned your horrible mother, but you’ve not said anything about your dad.’

‘Well, I’ve never met my dad,’ I say. ‘Mum told me that he really hated me, then I discovered that Mum hadn’t passed on any of his letters or presents or anything over the years, and that he did like me after all, and was very keen to meet me. He’d sent loads of money for me that Mum kept for herself.’

There’s a silence as I tail off and just stare into the bottom of my empty glass.

‘That’s awful,’ says Jamie. ‘I am sorry, Tracie. Terrible.’

‘It’s not so bad,’ I say. ‘They’ll fill it up soon.’

‘No, not the empty glass, the thing with your mum and dad.’

‘Yes,’ I say, lifting my glass to my mouth and tapping the bottom to make sure I’m getting every last drop.

‘I don’t think they’re used to speed drinkers in here,’ says Jamie, seeing my plight. ‘I think perhaps LA women and Luton women have a different attitude to alcohol.’

‘I think they do,’ I reply, looking around for the waiter. He comes running over.

‘Why don’t you just leave the bottle where I can reach it?’ I suggest.

‘Would you like to meet your dad one day?’

This is a difficult question to answer. There’s no question that I do want to meet him, but I’m absolutely terrified that he won’t like me. That’s why I never made any effort to contact him while I was in England. I’m scared that he’ll take one look at me and run away, or that Mum was right all along. I try to tell Jamie this, but I don’t expect him to understand. How could he?

‘There’s no way he’s going to hate you,’ says Jamie. ‘No way on earth. If you can face it, go and visit him. It could change your whole outlook on life if you meet him and the two of you get on.’

‘Yes, you’re right,’ I say, and we sink into a companionable silence.

‘This is nice,’ says Jamie, leaning across and holding my hand. He’s right. It is nice.

9 p.m.

I can’t believe how late it is when Dean finally gets home.

‘You’re a football coach,’ I say when he comes through the door clutching piles of notes and folders. ‘Stop making like you’ve got a proper job.’

‘I can turn this team round, you know,’ he says, placing the notes down carefully and leaning casually against one of the furiously expensive leopardskin-covered bar stools in the kitchen. ‘You know Chuck made an interesting point. He was saying today that there’s no “I” in team.’

‘No, but there is in “Piss off!”,’ I say under my breath. Please God don’t let him start talking like Cheesy Chuck.

‘I can make them good,’ Dean is saying. ‘If they pull their fingers out they can get through to the play-offs, and then who knows what could happen.’

‘Drink?’ I say, in the absence of anything more helpful to contribute on the subject of skill improvement in American soccer.

‘Actually I won’t, love, thanks,’ he says. ‘I’ve got a few DVDs to watch and some player analyses to run through. I’ll be in my office if you need me.’

‘Dean, are you OK? Why don’t you want a drink? Is it something I said?’

‘No, love, I’ve just got quite a lot of work to do, and I’ve been thinking that I probably drink too much. You know, we should both cut back a bit. People out here don’t drink.’

‘People out here are mad!’ I exclaim. ‘Dean, don’t go all LA on me, will you?’

‘Of course not, babes. Look, give me a couple of hours to finish this work and give myself a bit of a stretch out, and I’ll be right with you.’

Stretch out? Stretch out? Oh God, Dean’s been infected by these people. It’s horrible.

‘You watch yourself,’ I say. ‘They’ll have you doing yoga positions if you’re not careful.’

Dean walks away to his office, with me shouting after him. ‘Lycra … they’ll have you in Lycra, doing dog to the moon and ankles in your ears and all that. You watch it, Deany …’

Email to: Michaela & Suzzi

From: Tracie

Hi girlies, how are you? It’s me – Tracie – speaking to you all the way from Los Angeles. Thanks so much for your email, Mich. It was so nice to hear from someone nice and normal after these mad, healthy and fit loonies over here, for ever worrying about what they put in their bodies and whether they’ve done their state minimum of 25 yoga classes every day. Hope you’re feeling better after the stomach pump. Great that it was the same doctor as last time. Perhaps they’ll give you one of those cards, like they hand out in coffee shops, and after your sixth pump you get one free!

Suz, thanks for your email too. I don’t think your tongue’s supposed to grow to twice its natural size when you have your lips plumped – mine never has. Perhaps they accidentally injected some of the plumper into your tongue? I can’t see how else it would happen. If I were you I’d get a truck load more filler chucked into your lips to compensate, then hopefully no one will notice that you’re tongue’s turned into a swollen nasty lump of gristle? Just a thought!

Life here is really peculiar because hardly anyone drinks. They’re just not interested in locking themselves away in dimly lit bars and getting off their faces. They want to run in the sunlight (is that even good for you?) and be all energetic all the time.

When I first got here and people talked about not drinking, I just pissed myself, obviously thinking they were joking, but I swear to God they just don’t get off their tits. They always wake up in the morning on first-name terms with the guy lying next to them (Mich … imagine that! Have you ever known the name of the guy whose bed you wake up in?) and they stretch and do pilates and all that crap. I’ve not seen a kebab shop since I’ve been here, they prefer raw food restaurants. (I know what you’re thinking Suz … that kebab shop on Luton High Street serves half-raw food anyway!)

All in all, it’s taking a bit of getting used to. The very worst part of it is that bloody Dean seems to be getting the bug! He was mumbling on about cutting back on alcohol. Can you believe it? My Deany. For the first five years of our marriage I hadn’t seen him sober. Now he’s saying we drink too much, and crap like ‘I’m going for a stretch.’ What’s that all about?

Anyway, the really good news is that I’m all set to become an international film star of staggeringly large proportions (not that my physical proportions will be staggeringly large – it’s the international star bit that will be staggeringly large proportion-wise. My proportions are smaller if anything because I’ve gone down two dress sizes!!!). Will write soon, Trace xx