A WAG Abroad

‘Yes,’ says Dean, hugging me tightly. ‘Isn’t this great, doll? I’m working in a brand, spanking new club with loads of money and loads of potential.’

‘That’s right,’ says Chuck, wandering over to join us with a smile on his face. ‘Always remember – we’re selling the sizzle, not the sausage.’

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.