A WAG Abroad

‘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