A WAG Abroad

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

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.’