A WAG Abroad

‘A little juice?’ asks Sian, picking up a glass, inspecting it, and handing it to one of the women on drinks patrol. ‘How does celery and carrot suit you?’

I laugh madly at this. Why the holy fuck would I want a glass full of mashed-up celery? ‘You’re funny!’ I say, minutes before realizing that she isn’t joking. I glance around the room. Dean’s right. No one appears to be drinking alcohol.

‘I’d prefer something a bit stronger … if you don’t mind.’

‘Wheat grass?’ she suggests, and I realize that it’s time to stop being subtle.

‘Alcohol, please,’ I say. ‘I’d prefer champagne, vodka or Bacardi, but really any alcohol at all would be great. Absolutely anything. I’ve even got my own bottle with me – it’s hidden in the cloakroom if you want me to go and get it.’

‘No, no, I’ve got some somewhere,’ she says, looking quite thrown by my confession. ‘And you’re right. We should allow ourselves a little taste tonight, shouldn’t we? We are celebrating, after all. Goodness, I should have thought of that – let’s have a little treat.’

Weird, weird, weird. I have alcohol because it’s Wednesday, because it’s 8.40 p.m., because my name is Tracie, because the sky is blue. Who needs an excuse to get mullered?

‘Right, take a seat,’ she says, handing me a glass that’s got so little in it, it’ll probably all evaporate before I get to it. ‘Now, tell me all about your screen test. Dean mentioned it to Chuck. Sounds very exciting.’

Oh God. Do we have to talk about this?

‘I decided not to do it,’ I say. ‘I don’t really have the time for it right now. I told them to give the role to Nicole Kidman or J-Lo or someone. Just one second.’ Sian looks on all confused as I clip-clop across to the kitchen, pull out a large beaker and fill it with champagne, then I tip vodka in the top and walk back to my seat with the glass in one hand and the bottle of champagne in the other. ‘Cheers,’ I say, and ‘Cheers,’ she replies. But her eyes don’t say cheers; her eyes say, ‘Your body is a temple. How could you do this to yourself?’ My eyes say, ‘How I’d love to take you out in Luton for the night.’

‘Tracie, I’m sorry you didn’t do the audition. You’d have been great as a film star. What was the role? Did they tell you?’

‘They didn’t,’ I lie. ‘They just said it was about life in the city.’

‘You’d be great in that,’ says Sian. ‘Look at you! You were made to be a film star. Can’t you call them and tell them you can do it after all?’

I feel I ought to tell her the truth but what if she says, ‘Yes, I can see their point. You do look like a bloke.’

‘I didn’t do it because I thought I might not be attractive enough,’ I say.

‘What are you talking about?’ she says. ‘Tracie, you’re stunning. You’d look better without so much makeup, but you’re very attractive indeed. Why would you think otherwise?’

‘So you don’t think I look like a man?’

‘You don’t look a bit like a man, Tracie. I’d never realized you were so self-critical. Promise me that every morning you will look in the mirror and say, “My name is Tracie Martin and I am a beautiful person, inside and out.”’

‘Yeah, right,’ I say.

‘This is important,’ says Sian, deadly serious now. ‘Our thoughts define our actions. Self-love is vital for a happy life, and affirmations are part of that. Maybe you should think about seeing someone. My psychoanalyst is very good.’

She hands me a card and I take it gratefully, but I don’t think the woman will be getting my business. As long as people keep reassuring me that I don’t look like a transvestite, everything will be fine.

10.30 p.m.

I’m off my tiny trolley. Whey-hey! Bring it on. I just wanna dance, but the music isn’t really dancing music. It’s all whale sounds and seagulls and shit like that – the sort of stuff they play while you’re having a massage that drives you up the bloody wall.

‘Someone shoot that dolphin!’ I shout, and Dean falls about laughing. He’s not drinking very much, but at least he’s entering into the spirit of things. Any minute now he’s going to start singing ‘Ingerland, Ingerland, Ingerland’.

To be fair to the other guests, they’ve had a few, too. I don’t think they wanted to, but in the end I just went round and poured vodka into their drinks, and they all thought it would be easier to get pissed than to keep saying no. Pester power! The thing is, cos they don’t normally drink very much, just a couple of half pints of neat vodka and some of them have really let their hair down. Three have vomited in the garden, which is always nice to see at a party. Even Chuck’s managed to take his phone away from his ear, which is a clear sign that he’s pissed. There’s some terribly respectable, middle-aged director of the club shagging one of the cheerleaders in the corner.

‘This is more like it!’ I cry, full of genuine enthusiasm for the happy turn that the party has taken. ‘Let’s all dance!’

‘Yehhhhh!!!’ they all chorus back. Trouble is, none of us is sober enough to use the stereo, so I start them off on a sing-song.

‘There’s only one Deany Martin … There’s only one Deany Ma-a-artin,’ I shout punching up into the air. Soon they’re all joining in. We’re in a circle in this lovely, sophisticated house, knocking back the champers and punching the air like we were in the Bobbers stand back at Luton. ‘Deany, Deany, Deany, Deany …’

Fucking marvellous. Now we’re having a party.

Thursday 29 May

Oh God, oh God. Head bad, bad head. Not good head. Phone ringing, head hurting. Bad drinking has happened. Phone ringing. Need staff. Ooooh … hurting.

‘Mmmm,’ I slobber into the mouthpiece.

‘Morning, darling. How are you?’ comes a bright and breezy voice. ‘Wondered whether you fancied coming jogging?’

‘No. Fuck off,’ I say, throwing the phone down. What sort of weirdo makes crank calls like that at this time in the morning?

The phone rings again and I lift the receiver angrily, but before I have chance to howl abuse the same perky voice insists, ‘Darling, it’s Sian. Don’t hang up.’

‘Sian,’ I say. ‘Oh. Sorry. What are you doing up at this time in the morning after the party last night?’

‘It’s 11 a.m.,’ she says, as if that makes it all right. ‘Come on, up you get. You’re in LA now. Time for a jog.’

‘Sian,’ I say patiently, ‘my feet were made for slipping into colossally high shoes. They were made for staggering out of nightclubs at 4 a.m. They were made for pedicures and toe rings. They were not, I repeat not, made for jogging.’

The pain and fear at the mere thought of putting on trainers, let alone jogging in them, runs through me like money through my hands, like Cristal through a Wag.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Deary me, are you always like this in the morning? Are you an evening jogger? Have you taken your supplements yet?’

‘Yes, no, no,’ I say, and she laughs so loudly I almost drop the phone. What is it with these enthusiastic Californians? Why are they all so cheery and full of life? It must be the weather.

‘Well, I’ve been for a run along the beach and a swim If you don’t fancy coming out I may just warm down, get a stretch and some yoga done, then come over and see you. How about that?’

‘As long as you do it quietly,’ I say, and she’s gone … off to throw her legs round her neck and push her shoulders between her knees. God, I need a drink.

Noon

Sian’s enthusiasm, healthy glow and general positive attitude are starting to make me feel quite queasy. She’s sitting bolt upright, legs crossed, beautiful soft blonde hair falling down her back and hands upturned. As she breathes she emphasizes every breath out. ‘It’s pilates breathing,’ she says. ‘It makes you feel centred. Would you like me to show you?’

‘No thanks,’ I say sulkily.

‘It was so lovely to have a little drink last night. I haven’t had a drink for years, but I measured three whole teaspoons of vodka into my fresh cranberry and Goji Berry drink.’

Ah, that’s how she looks so much more healthy than me – she was using a teaspoon to measure out her alcohol while I was using a bucket.

‘I hope I wasn’t too drunk,’ I say. I’m being polite. The truth is that I don’t think there’s any such thing as ‘too drunk’.

‘Not at all. You were fabulous, Tracie,’ she enthuses. ‘You really made the party swing.’