A WAG Abroad

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., Koi

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.