ALISON KERVIN

A WAG Abroad

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,

characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of

the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

A Paperback Original 2008

Copyright © Alison Kervin 2008

Alison Kervin asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

FSC is a non-profit international organisation established to promote the

responsible management of the world’s forests. Products carrying the FSC

label are independently certified to assure consumers that they come

from forests that are managed to meet the social, economic and

ecological needs of present and future generations.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright

Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted

the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of

this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced,

transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored

in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in

any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now

known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission

of HarperCollins ebooks.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847560551

Ebook edition © August 2008 ISBN: 9780007281152

Version: 2018-05-23

For Gorgeous George – the little boy who finds

it sooo embarrassing when I dedicate books to him.

Also for my brother, Gareth, whose knowledge of hair

extensions and spray tanning were a real help to me in

the writing, and to my sister Susan for her indepth

knowledge of football.

First of all a big thank you to the fabulous MaxineHitchcock,editor par excellence, for her advice, suggestionsand patience as we took Tracie on an action-packedadventure to LA. Also to Keshini Naidoo and SammiaRafique at Avon for being such stars and so supportive.Indeed many thanks to everyone at Avon for theirunfailing help, you’ve been a joy to work with on twobooks now – that’s more than any writer can hope for!An enormous thank you to Sheila Crowley, super agentand super friend, for all her support and encouragement.Thanks to Mum and Dad, as ever, though dad doesn’thave time to read my books now, since he became a starof the letters page of The Times. Finally a special mentionfor Charlie Bronks and everyone on the Linda UttleyCommittee who put on a magnificent display of whatreal friendship is all about when faced with illness to oneof their number. You should be desperately proud ofyourselves for all you did for Linda. I’m honoured to callyou friends …

Featured in today’s Daily Mail – the LAST column by Tracie Martin, Luton Town Super Wag, and our most popular columnist, as she prepares for her new life as a Wag Abroad…

HOW SHOULD A WAG PACK FOR A LONG

JOURNEY TO LA?

It’s a question to trouble even the most confident and committed of Wags. How much stuff should you take on a trip to LA? The right answer is… take it ALL!! Pack the bloody lot – from your light-bulb-covered dressing-table mirror to the glittery, tassely, shimmering, skimpy dresses that would make you look overdressed at the Oscars, let alone on the terraces. Take the shiny long pink PVC lace-up boots and the barely-there, marabou-fringed knickers. Obviously take the home spray tan kit complete with portable tanning studio. (This should be in your hand luggage just in case your tan starts fading to yellow during the flight. Always remember – a Wag should be far more chicken tikka masala than chicken korma.)

Take the machine that glues in hair extensions that you bought but can’t use because every time you try to glue the extensions back in yourself you manage to get glue in your hair, on your clothes and all over the furniture, you burn your thumbs and stick your fingers together.

Take the collection of twenty-nine skin-tight white lycra dresses that show every cellulite-free inch of your orange thighs. Take the leather dresses, the ridiculous jackets, the huge handbags that cost more than most people’s cars, and the tiny handbags that cost more than most people’s houses.

What about the huge leopardskin-patterned fake fur coat and the impractical cream-coloured Ugg boots? Yes, yes and thrice yes! But what about the fact that you’re going to a boiling hot country and there’s no way on God’s Earth that you could possibly wear them? Take them anyway. Just in case it cools down – who knows? What with global warming and all that stuff, perhaps the warm countries will experience global cooling. Maybe the smoking ban in Europe will hasten the melting of the ice caps which will cause polar bears to develop webbed feet and gills and swim to LA to live. All I’m saying is – it’s possible. So take everything with you.

Take the earrings that are so heavy you can barely lift your head and the gold necklaces that are so chunky they give you whiplash every time you turn round. Take it all, then buy loads more at the airport while you’re waiting for the flight that you will inevitably miss because you’re too caught up in a shopping frenzy to even think about silly things like gate numbers or departure times.

There. I hope that advice is clear and concise enough. That’s certainly what I intend to do. This is Tracie Martin bidding au revoir to Luton Town as I head off to my new life in LA. Welcome to my world …

Contents

Title Page Copyright Dedication Sunday 25 May 3 p.m. - I think. Los Angeles Sunday 25 May 10.30 a.m. (LA time) Monday 26 May 9 a.m. Tuesday 27 May 10 a.m. New car just arrived. Wednesday 28 May 8 a.m. Thursday 29 May Friday 30 May (22 days until LA Galaxy game) 6 a.m. Saturday 31 May (21 days to go) 6 p.m. Sunday 1 June (20 days to go) Monday 2 June (19 days to go) Tuesday 3 June Wednesday 4 June (17 days to go) 11 a.m. Thursday 5 June (16 days to go) Friday 6 June (15 days to go) Saturday 7 June (Two weeks to go!) 10 a.m. Sunday 8 June Monday 9 June (12 days to go) 8 a.m. Wednesday 11 June Thursday 12 June (9 days to go!!!) Friday 13 June (8 days to go) Saturday 14 June (One week to go!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) Sunday 15 June Monday 16 June 8 a.m. Tuesday 17 June Wednesday 18 June Thursday 19 June 8.30 a.m. Friday 20 June 8 a.m. Saturday 21 June 9 a.m. Sunday 22 June 8 a.m. Monday 23 June Tuesday 24 June Wednesday 25 June Sunday 29 June Tuesday 1 July Friday 4 July Sunday 6 July Monday 7 July Tuesday 8 July Thursday 10 July Sunday 13 July Monday 14 July Thursday 17 July 6 p.m. Friday 18 July Saturday 19 July Sunday 20 July 9 a.m. Monday 21 July Tuesday 22 July Wednesday 23 July Thursday 24 July Sunday 27 July Wednesday 30 July Saturday 2 August (my wedding anniversary) Wednesday 6 August Thursday 7 August Friday 8 August Saturday 9 August. LA City Raiders against LA Galaxy!! LAX Airport TRACIE MARTIN’S GUIDE TO LA - what to see, eat, and visit in the city of Angels . . . About the Author About the Publisher

Sunday 25 May 3 p.m. – I think. Los Angeles

Good heavens, doesn’t it take a long time to get from Luton to Los Angeles? I mean, a really long time. I left on Thursday, for God’s sake. Thursday! Can you believe that?

One of the cleverer footballers at the club told me that it would be a twelve-hour journey, but he was clearly lying through his pearly white, dentally reconstructed, gold-capped teeth. The flight may have been twelve hours, but the journey sure as hell wasn’t, it took days!

Now I’m finally here – lying on a plump white leather sofa in my gorgeous new, bright and airy Hollywood home, surrounded by my family and a large collection of brightly coloured airport shopping bags.

Right now it’s midnight in Luton and I know that all my mates will be enjoying the last few drops of their Bacardi Breezers in Spangles wine bar, singing footie songs and snogging the face off the nearest bloke. Hovering over them will be a tired barman and an angry landlord ready to wrestle them out of the door and onto the cold, hard, vomit-coated pavement of Luton High Street. Ahhhh … what fun. It’s strange to be so far away from it all, lying here without a care in the world, with the blistering LA sun streaming through the windows and warming me from head to toe. What a journey I’ve just been through. Honestly – it’s been such a traumatic few days. As I lie back, relaxed for the first time in ages, I feel myself drifting slowly off to sleep … What a journey, what a journey, what a journey …

The day before

Heathrow Terminal Four

I confess that I’m not much of a traveller. You’d look at me with my fabulous clothes and my sophisticated air and think, ‘Gosh, she’s cosmopolitan!’ but the truth is that I start to get the shakes whenever I leave the Luton postcode area. As far as I’m concerned, travel is all about getting on the train to Liverpool, going into Cricket and buying a vast amount of tight pink clothing, glittery accessories and must-have handbags, then getting back on a Luton-bound train as quickly as possible.

So I’m not all that used to airports, and I certainly had no idea how many things there are to do there, like rushing into Boots and buying more miniature toiletry items than you can reasonably get through in a decade, as well as stocking up on medical supplies for the flight in such quantities that you could open a small on-board hospital.

Then there’s queueing. Oh, yes, you wait in queues for all sorts of things at airports – for people to check your ticket, your passport, your bags, coats, pockets and even your shoes.

Yes … your shoes!

I kid you not. And they don’t just check to see whether the shoes are genuine Louboutin or this year’s Gucci. No, get this – these people are looking for an altogether more crazy concept in shoe wear … they are checking to see whether anyone’s shoes have bombs in them.

‘Can you get shoes with bombs in?’ I ask, all excited. I mean, if anyone knows shoes, I do. I’ve seen shoes with buckles, bows, glitter and sequins … but never bombs. Imagine that! I’ve always fancied myself as a blonde bombshell and now I could do the look head to toe.

‘Have you ever found any shoe-bombs?’ I ask, but the uniformed lady just shakes her head mournfully, and I’m overcome with a feeling of total admiration for the way she fearlessly continues to search for the perfect pair of shoes – making everyone in the airport remove theirs and causing utter turmoil in the process.

‘Good luck!’ I say, blowing a kiss as she pushes my shoes through the machine. ‘Really hope you find some.’

Her brave battle reminds me of my own search for Marc Jacobs pink-and-white diamond-encrusted wedges a few years ago. I found them eventually, after hiring a team of crack shoppers and personal stylists. I turn to tell the shoe-bomb lady about this, in the hope that it will encourage her, but as I do she emits a loud scream, four people dive to the floor and someone falls to his knees and starts reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

‘Seize that woman,’ says a small burly man in an ill-fitting jumper, rushing to the lady’s side and pointing right at me. He hits a big red button on the machine and screams for assistance.

‘Help! Help!’ he cries, in a not altogether masculine fashion. It reminds me of my husband Dean when I last took him to the dentist.

Shoe-bomb woman howls as a major alarm wails through the airport, and people in uniform come tearing across from all directions, many of them armed.

‘Oooo … how exciting,’ I say, looking up at Dean and giving my daughter Paskia-Rose an entirely unwelcome hug. Three policemen with vicious-looking dogs are sprinting towards me. I feel like I’m on a movie set or something. Dean’s not quite as impressed.

‘What the fuck have you got in your bag?’ he asks, as the alarms grow louder and the panic in the airport rises to fever pitch.

But I can’t answer above the sound of screaming and shrieking. Those who are still standing hurl themselves onto the floor. Suddenly I’m being thrown down next to them in the most undignified and unladylike fashion.

‘I’m wearing next season’s Chloe,’ I scream, trying to pull my teeny-weeny, pink mini-skirt across my lady place as I fly backwards through the dirt and dust.

There’s not a flicker of compassion or concern on the man’s face. Does he have no idea how hard it is to get hold of Chloe four months before it hits the catwalk?

‘Get up!’ he growls. ‘Follow me!’ He speaks in a real Arnold Swarzenegger-type voice that, despite everything, makes me want to giggle.

I turn to Dean and say, ‘I’ll be back,’ in a similarly stern fashion, but realize immediately that this is a big mistake.

‘Ah, funny girl,’ he says, leading me towards a severe-looking woman with tightly cropped brown hair who is snapping on latex gloves. ‘Let’s see just how funny you’re feeling after this.’

An hour later

Not funny at all, actually. Not in the least. My sense of humour deserted me entirely as I was forced to endure the horror of a strip search conducted by a woman with no highlights and bad taste in knitwear.

‘What is the problem?’ I asked, as she ordered me to remove my clothing.

‘I think you know what the problem is,’ she said before searching everywhere you can imagine. Finally, when she was happy that I wasn’t concealing anything that might constitute a threat to national security she told me to get dressed, and sat down in the chair opposite me.

‘You look tired,’ I said because she did, poor love. ‘Have you been working too hard?’

‘Something like that,’ she said, as I slipped on my skirt. Then she sat upright. ‘Can I ask you something personal?’

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘Would you mind telling me where you get your bikini line done? I think the stars and stripes flag looks great.’

Oh, so she’s human after all. I gave her the name of the beautician whose handiwork with sequins, glitter and jewels she was admiring, and continued to dress.

‘Does it hurt?’ she asked.

‘It doesn’t hurt a bit,’ I reassured her. ‘It itches though, and you find jewels in the strangest of places, but it’s worth it. Is it for a special occasion?’

The woman smiled and took off the gloves, flicking the glitter off them as she did so and removing an electric blue star from one of the fingers. ‘A date. Tomorrow night,’ she confided as she led me through the door.

‘Wow. Have fun,’ I said. ‘Make sure you ask for Mallory when you call that number. She’s the best.’

‘Thanks,’ she replied warmly, then she switched on her more formal self. ‘I’ll leave you with Mr Matthews.’

‘Tracie Martin?’ asked a tall, cross-looking man who wouldn’t know a fashionable bikini line if it jumped up and bit him.

‘Yes.’

‘Take a seat, please.’

On the table in front of us were a small replica gun, dagger and hand grenade.

‘Do these belong to you?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘I’m going to Los Angeles. It’s quite a dangerous place. Have you not seen all the films? Everyone carries a gun out there.’

‘Not everyone,’ he said. ‘And certainly not anyone who doesn’t have a licence for one. Even if you have a licence, you can’t take them on a flight.’

‘But they’re only pretend ones. They’re only to scare people away if they try to attack me. What if a baddie is on the flight and tries to take control of the plane and crash it into Disneyland or something? If none of us has any weapons, what are we supposed to do? Let him fly us to certain death? I don’t know about you but I don’t want to die in a head-on collision with Minnie Mouse or some other fanciful Disney character.’

I was rubbing the tips of my fingers together as I spoke. I do that when I’m nervous. It helps to calm me down. I thought Mr Matthews could do with trying it, the poor bloke looked as if he was going to explode.

‘I can’t let you take these on the flight,’ he said.

‘Just the one?’ I suggested.

‘No.’

‘OK, I’ll leave them here then,’ I said, but I have to say I was mightily disappointed. The gun was a beautiful accessory. It had an exquisitely carved wooden handle.

‘You’re free to go, Mrs Martin. Enjoy your flight.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, and I walked back out to Dean feeling wholly deflated by the experience. What a bloody fuss! If I was going to start bringing down aeroplanes, would I have put the weapons in my hand luggage? No, I’d have put them somewhere altogether more discreet.

‘You awright love?’ said Dean, rushing over to hug me.

‘I’m fine,’ I replied. ‘They just fussed a bit about my weapons, but it’s OK now.’ I looked over at Paskia-Rose who had gone all pale. ‘I thought they were going to throw you into jail,’ she whimpered. ‘We’ve been really worried.’

‘There’s nothing to be concerned about,’ I said. ‘I’m back, and we’re all off to LA.’

‘If we haven’t missed the flight,’ said Dean. ‘Come on, we’re gonna have to run like the clappers to get there in time.’

Dean and Pask went tearing through to the departure gate in their comfy flat shoes and matching Luton tracksuits. I did more sliding than dashing as I teeter, teeter, clatter, clattered across the shiny slippy floor in my 10-inch high heels.

I was tripping along like a baby giraffe when I caught sight of the others ahead, standing still next to a TV.

‘We’ve missed the flight,’ said Dean, pointing to the display screen. ‘Look, it’s gone.’

‘Oh, no,’ I sighed, dropping my head. I really wanted to get going. I didn’t want to have to hang around the airport for bloody hours waiting for the next one. I looked up at the screen again to see whether there was a later flight listed, but as I was scrutinizing the board, my eye was caught by something altogether more entrancing – twinkling next to me, pulling me towards it in a sweet, magnetic way … a shop! Glittering. I looked up. There were more! There were loads of them, everywhere! I was not sure whether I took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in heaven, but this place was toooo wonderful for words. Have you seen what it’s like in the departure lounge? Every type of shop you can imagine is there. It’s my personal paradise.

I knew right there and then that I had to shop.

We missed the next flight.

I had to shop some more.

We missed the one after that, too.

I had to do more shopping.

We missed another, and another, and another … I couldn’t help it! I couldn’t – seriously. I spent a fortune. I don’t remember when I was last that happy.

Eventually Dean decided that enough was enough, so, with me hanging onto the Chanel lipstick display in desperation, as if clinging to a dying lover, two passing airport security guards, a drunk looking for loose change and one businessman shopping for perfume for his wife and inadvertently caught up in the drama dragged me away. ‘Tracie, come on – let go. There’ll be other makeup counters,’ said Dean as I sobbed pitifully.

Through tears I watched the jewel-coloured eye shadows, gorgeous nail varnishes, perfumes and sparkly powders fade into the distance as a security guy gave me a fireman’s lift to the plane, plonking me down in my seat.

‘Right – there won’t be any more trouble now, will there?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘No more trouble.’

And I honestly don’t believe there would have been. I think the journey would have passed entirely without further drama … if it hadn’t been for the ladies wheeling their alcohol-laden trolleys up and down the aisles and offering booze to everyone.

‘More champagne, madam?’

‘OK then.’

‘Shall I give you two bottles this time, madam? Just to save me coming back every three and a half minutes?’

‘Good idea,’ I said with a happy little smile.

‘Have a few,’ she insisted, passing a handful over to me.

By the time we left mainland Europe my seat looked like a bottle bank. Now I know where the term ‘off your trolley’ comes from.

The only bad thing about the flight was trying to get to the bathroom to redo my makeup while hideously drunk and with the plane bobbing through the air. Have you ever tried that? The combination of alcohol and a moving floor provides an experience not dissimilar to that of walking across a bouncy castle.

Still, it’s by getting out of your seat and staggering around that you get to meet people, and that’s how I came to meet the pilot, after falling into the cockpit clutching my make-up bag and a change of clothing. He let me lie on the floor there for a while, and he even joined in some of the football songs I was singing though he didn’t know the Luton words. Then there was Flavio, an Italian architect who’s moving to LA. I met him when we both found ourselves waiting in line for the bathroom. He invited me to join his club.

‘I’d love to!’ I said, and rushed back to tell Dean, bouncing off every seat and every passenger en route.

‘What club?’ asked my husband, wondering whether this guy was going to the LA City Raiders too.

‘No, his club’s called the Mile High,’ I explained. ‘He wanted to know whether I fancied joining it with him.’

Sunday 25 May 10.30 a.m. (LA time)

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be arriving in Los Angeles.’

It’s really weird waking up on a plane with the sun shining brightly through the windows. I haven’t woken anywhere but the bedroom in Luton for so long that I look up expecting to see my lovely murals painted onto the ceiling, like they are at home. Those paintings show Dean striding across a brightly painted football pitch, shooting for goals with a finesse and degree of accuracy that is wholly reserved for the world of art. Dean was a fabulous footballer in his day – he had the hair, the baggy trousers, the heavy jewellery and the attitude – but he was always a hopeless player. While his swagger into a nightclub screamed ‘Drop your knickers, there’s a footballer in the room,’ his staggers across the pitch screamed ‘Drop your hopes of victory, I’m about to score an own goal.’ Yes, the truth is that whenever he got near a ball you’d hear a collective intake of breath ricochet round the stadium followed by complete silence, not because anyone truly believed that something magnificent was about to happen, but because they knew it was all over for Luton.

Happily, over the last year we discovered Dean was a far better coach than he ever was a footballer. No one was more surprised than I to see the astonishing result produced by his fledgling attempts at coaching. He trained my daughter Paskia-Rose’s side (I know, girls playing football – what’s that all about?) until they were so brilliant that they thumped a visiting Los Angeles team, and Dean was offered a job as head coach of the Los Angeles Raiders, with Pask invited to attend St Benedict’s, the school associated with the team, and join the ladies’ side as its premier striker.

To watch Dean coaching those girls was to watch the work of a genius. He had them fitness training every day with the sort of devotion that I reserve for tending to my cuticles. Honestly, their fitness training sessions were like those undertaken by the Royal Marines, and the way he had them marching around during the training drills put me in mind of the SS. My greatest fear was not that the team would lose, but that my husband would be arrested for child cruelty.

I was the only one excluded from the crazy LA offer, and I think Dean was a bit worried about whether I’d want to come because I became something of a minor superstar in England last year. I started writing this blog online which became a newspaper column, giving lifestyle advice to wannabe Wags. It got so popular that I ended up going onto all sorts of TV programmes, and was recognized in the streets and everything.

‘Are you really sure you want to give all that up to come to LA?’ Dean had asked me. ‘You won’t miss being famous?’

‘No, of course not,’ I had said, and I’m sure I won’t, because I plan to be busy partying and drinking till dawn with the crazy LA Wags. I am going to find a shop like Cricket on Rodeo Drive, meet glamorous film stars, get an open-top car and chew gum all the time. I’ll definitely start to talk in a way that is, like, soooo American, and I’ll be getting stuck into some serious cosmetic surgery. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I told him. ‘Abso-bloody-lutely fine!’ and I will be, no question. I’m Tracie Martin and I’m in LA. Bring it on!

Arrivals Hall, LAX Airport, 11 a.m.

I’m still feeling sleepy after the flight as I walk into the terminal after the longest journey in the history of modern aviation. I come staggering out, struggling to put one white patent-leather foot in front of the other, and then I see him – the world’s most beautiful man. Just standing there, brooding, dark and handsome. The male equivalent of Barbie. Perfection.

Everything and everyone else in the building seems to melt away as I watch him. He’s like a movie star. He’s spectacular. He’s … holy fuck, he’s walking towards me, he’s walking right towards me. Oh my God. I swear I’m going to faint.

‘Are you OK, Mum?’ asks Paskia.

‘Yes,’ I say, as I look up into big brown eyes. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Hi. I’m Jamie. I’m your driver. Welcome to LA,’ he says, relieving me of all my bags and taking a handful off one of the porters next to me.

I love this country already.

‘I hear you’re a bit of a celebrity in England.’ He winks at me as he speaks, and I feel myself flush hot from the black roots of my blonde hair to their extended, plastic ends.

‘No, not really, I’m just, um, me,’ I reply modestly, smiling up at him, while inside I’m going ‘Phooooaarr!’

Dean is walking ahead, pulling several of the cases behind him and moaning about how much stuff there is, and, how heavy the bags are. ‘I’m a football manager, not a bloody air hostess,’ he moans. ‘Men shouldn’t pull cases on wheels – it’s gay.’

Jamie laughs. ‘I’ll take them if you like, mate,’ he says. ‘I’m Jamie – the driver.’

‘No, you’re fine,’ replies Dean, seeing how much Jamie is already carrying. There are also three guys from the airport staff pushing two trolleys each.

‘Are you feeling tired?’ Jamie asks, and I find myself unable to do anything but bat my heavily mascaraed, false eyelashes in reply.

‘Here’s the car,’ he says, opening the door. ‘For you, beautiful lady.’

‘That’s fine. I can get that.’ Dean appears by my side. ‘You just look after the bags. I’ll look after Tracie and Paskia-Rose, thank you,’ he says primly. He seems almost jealous, which is strange. It’s not like I’m going to run off with Jamie, is it? Dean’s the only serious boyfriend I’ve ever had, and the only man I ever want. Me and Dean were made to be together. I’d never leave him, not even for David Beckham … well, not for Wayne Rooney, anyway.

‘How long have you been a cab driver?’ I ask Jamie. He doesn’t look like any sort of cab driver that I’ve ever seen before. The man ought to be in the movies.

‘I’m a photographer really,’ he says. ‘I’m driving while I get my portfolio together. My dream is to work for a British newspaper – something like the Daily Mail. Do you know it?’

‘Do I? That’s the paper I used to write my columns for!’ I say.

‘Really? I’d love to pick your brains about how it all works there.’

‘Don’t pick too hard,’ says Dean with a loud guffaw. ‘There’s not much there!’

Jamie looks horrified. ‘Sir,’ he says to Dean, ‘your wife is a world-famous writer. You should be very proud.’

‘Hmmph,’ says Dean, jumping in the back of the car next to me and Paskia. ‘I’m not sure she’s world famous. Does this car have air conditioning?’

‘Yes,’ says Jamie, tipping his cap to me in the mirror. ‘Of course it has. You’re in LA now. Most people’s handbags have air conditioning.’

‘Ooooo …’ I’m wide-eyed with excitement. I’m on the other side of the world in a country where they have air-conditioned handbags. But then Dean lays his hand on my leg and says that Jamie’s joking. Probably a good thing. I’m going to be spending enough time looking for shoes with bombs over the coming weeks, without having to search for handbags with air conditioning as well.

‘LA is home to more bars, cars and movie stars than anywhere else in the world,’ says Jamie proudly, as he eases the big black Chevrolet onto the road… on the wrong side.

‘Would you like me to point out some landmarks as we go?’

‘That would be lovely,’ I say, ‘but maybe I should point out that you’re on the wrong side of the road!’

Paskia smirks as if I’m batty, and Dean shakes his head. It turns out that they drive on this side of the road in LA. Er … hello. How was I suppose to know that? How do people know these things? It’s an English-speaking country. If they want our language they should have to put up with our road systems too.

I look into the mirror and Jamie smiles. Not a smirk, but a proper ‘Don’t worry, everything’s fine’ sort of smile. I watch as his eyes drop down to take in my outfit and I smile back. I’m wearing tight white hotpants that I changed into before the plane landed. Well, as the plane was landing, to be accurate. I ended up having to get changed in the aisle, which upset the other passengers, of course, and led to a formal warning from the hostess lady, but what choice did I have? Once Dean had told me all about the Mile High Club I was scared to go to the loo on my own.

The lovely thing about the hotpants, except for the fact that they’re white and tight, which is in itself the very epitome of lovely, is that they have ‘Wag’ written in large, bright pink rhinestones across the bum. I’ve got bare legs, naturally (well, not naturally at all, because they’re coated in fake tan, but you know what I mean) and cowboy boots in pink. On top I’ve got a tight-fitting jacket made out of about five million cerise ostrich feathers. I’m boiling to death in it, but nothing is going to make me take it off.

‘Look, I’ve got a present for you, Candyfloss,’ says Dean, and he hands me a slim gold wallet. I feel myself blush as he calls me by my pet name. When we were first married he called me Candyfloss and I called him Sugar Lump all the time.

‘Oh, what is it? What is it?’ I squeal, mentally running through all the things I can think of that would fit in there. A diamond necklace might, if the diamonds were small – but what would be the point in that?

On the outside of it there’s my name and address. ‘Ah,’ I say, cooing. ‘Our new address.’

I put the tips of my fingers into the wallet and pull out … oh, a map. There must be some mistake here.

‘All it’s got in it is a map,’ I say.

‘Yes. So you don’t get lost.’

‘Oh.’

‘I thought you’d like it,’ he says. ‘You know how you used to get lost every time you stepped out of the house in Luton. Remember that time you drove to the postbox on the corner of the road and ended up going through Watford to get back?’

Paskia and Dean howl with laughter at the memory of my 200-mile round trip, while all I can think is, When did giving a map to a Wag become appropriate?

‘Sweetheart, it’s just so you know where you’re going,’ explains Dean gently. ‘There are some little gold stars in there. I thought you could mark our house on, and where your favourite shops are, where the Beckhams live, and things like that.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, tucking it into the top of my hotpants. ‘Lovely, thanks.’

What Dean doesn’t realize is that our house is right next to the Beckhams’. Once I knew we were going to be moving to LA I set about finding us a house near theirs in the Hollywood Hills. I called House Hunters, this terribly American, enthusiastic and upbeat firm who promise to find you the house of your dreams.

‘We have a great house in Malibu,’ they said.

‘Nope. Has to be the Hollywood Hills.’

‘Bel Air?’

‘Nope. Has to be the Hills.’

The reason for this? Well, as you’ll soon realize, I’m completely obsessed with Victoria. I love her with all my heart and want to be just like her.

‘Mum, why don’t you follow the route home on the map as we’re driving?’ says Paskia-Rose. ‘You can look out for all the landmarks on it, as Jamie says them.’

‘I think I’ll look at it later,’ I say. What does she think I am – a bloody five-year-old doing a project on a school trip?

‘Here on the left is Venice Beach,’ says Jamie. ‘Ever heard of it?’

Neither Dean nor I have. In fact, the only landmarks I’m interested in are the ones that sell clothes or champagne.

‘I’ve heard of Venice Beach,’ says Pask. ‘Don’t they do sports and stuff on there?’

‘That’s right,’ says Jamie. ‘They play volleyball and basketball, also softball. It’s well worth heading down to the boardwalk if you get the chance. It’s great. There are fire eaters, jugglers, roller-skating performers and loads of carnivals, fairs and markets. It’s a fun place just to hang out. There are loads of artists, if you’re into that sort of thing. A friend of mine sells her pictures there.’

‘Oh, let’s go there,’ says Pask. ‘Can we?’

‘Of course we can, love,’ I say, looking up into the mirror where Jamie looks back at me. He has beautiful, thick, glossy hair, so dark it’s almost black. He has a square jaw that reminds me of Action Man every time I glance it in the mirror. His body … well, his body is simply perfect. He’s like a gladiator. I find myself feeling irrationally jealous of his artist friend. I don’t want him to have female friends – just me.

‘When can we go?’ asks Pask.

‘Really soon,’ I promise.

‘This area here is Santa Monica,’ Jamie says. ‘And that’s Santa Monica pier, which is fun. It has old-fashioned funfairs, and an aquarium. There’s a carnival there most days. It starts at the pier and goes all the way along the front to Venice Beach. It’s well worth having a look. People all get dressed up and just clown around.’

Everything about LA looks so clean and bright, with its beautiful, sun-tanned people in their brightly coloured clothes. I haven’t seen any Wags yet, or any women with Wag tendencies, but it’s early days; plenty of time.

The sea is the most gorgeous sapphire blue, sparkling and dazzling as we drive along the front. The white sand looks so warm, soft and inviting, like the lovely big Stella McCartney fur coat Dean bought for me last Christmas. There are people everywhere, enjoying the sun and relaxing in the cafés, smiling as we pass. ‘Are they on happy drugs or something?’ I ask.

Jamie just laughs. ‘OK, we’re moving away from the seafront now,’ he says, and all three of us say ‘Oh’, without realizing.

‘Sorry, guys, but I can’t get up into the hills without going inland. We’ll take the Santa Monica Freeway. Along here are a few of the biggest museums in the area – see that, over there? That’s the Museum of Contemporary Art. The area’s known as Downtown, and you’ve got your Performing Arts Center and loads of theatres there. It’s the arty part of town.’

‘Oh, is it?’ I say. ‘Is that where your friend the artist lives then?’

‘No, she doesn’t live here but she hangs out here a bit. Now then, we’re heading up into Hollywood.’

‘Ooooh,’ I say, hoping we’ll see Tom and Kate or Angelina and Brad. Perhaps Julia Roberts and Catherine Zeta-Jones will be out shopping.

‘On the left is the Egyptian Theatre. That’s a great old place. The very first Hollywood première took place there.’

‘Legally Blonde?’ I ask.

‘No, it was a bit before that. It was back in 1922.’

‘Really? I didn’t know they had films then.’

‘If you’re interested, you should go down there. They show documentaries every day about the history of Hollywood, and how it became a movie town.’

‘Mum, look over there,’ squeals Paskia. ‘Look!’

‘Woooooah!!’ I shriek back. ‘It’s the Hollywood sign. Look, Sugar Lump. Look. Oh my God. I can’t believe we’re here. Dean, we’re in Hollywood.’

And the truth is, I really can’t believe we’re finally here after the year we’ve just had. You see, there’s one thing I haven’t told you about me yet and that’s that my mum, Angie, is horrible. I mean really horrible. I had a miserable childhood with her because she hated me. ‘Nothing personal, I just don’t like kids,’ she used to say, as she got dressed up in chiffon and diamonds for another glamorous night on the tiles, leaving me in the house, alone and scared. But it all got worse last year when I became famous. Mum tried to sabotage me – selling articles about me to the newspapers about how horrible I was, and trying to frame Dean and make it look like he was being unfaithful. I thought that was bad enough, but I was even more heart-broken when I discovered that my father, who Mum said hated me and wanted nothing to do with me from the day I was born, was actually sending regular letters and money which Mum never handed over to me. It turns out that my dad lives in LA, so if I’m ever feeling strong enough I’ll get in touch with him. Right now, though, it’s the last thing I can face doing.

‘Now this is the most important landmark in LA,’ says Jamie, interrupting my thoughts.

‘What is?’

‘This,’ he says, pointing to a very grand house in front of us. It’s a buttery-coloured mansion with large turrets and a wrought-iron gate. It looks like a fairytale palace. ‘Your staff are here waiting for you,’ he says.

‘Our home!’ I squeal. ‘Oh, we’re here!’

‘Wow!’ says Paskia-Rose. ‘It’s like something out of a movie set.’

She’s right, it is, and it has been in the movies. The house has been used as a location in several films. It used to belong to some bloke called Liberace who played the piano and had fantastic, though slightly understated, tastes in clothing and décor. All I had to do to the outside of the house was add a few flamboyant Tracie touches, like gold leaf to the fountain and statues next to the marble pillars, and it was sorted. Work needed to be done inside to Lutonize the place, but not that much – this Liberace chap may well have had a bit of Luton in him, because the pictures and mirrors on the ceiling are just my style.

While Jamie goes to the boot to get the bags and organize all the other cars following behind, the three of us rush inside, crashing into three men, neatly lined up just inside the doorway.

‘Welcome. I’m Gareth,’ says the first man. He’s the youngest of the three, with receding sandy blond hair and pale green eyes that have a ruthlessness to them. If he weren’t smiling I could easily mistake him for a serial killer, such is the intensity of that stare. He wears a small diamond earring in his left earlobe, and in his hands he carries a huge bouquet of flowers.

‘Thank you so much,’ I say, taking the floral arrangement from him. This is the guy who’s going to be our driver.

‘I’m Mark,’ says a man with ginger hair and glasses. He’s the DIY expert. He’s supposed to be the best carpenter in LA, and has been busy for the past couple of weeks creating my dream home, here in the Hollywood Hills.

‘I’m Peter,’ says the final man. He’s smaller than the other two and slightly older with dark hair and a considerable twitch that sends his head flicking from one side to the other every couple of minutes. I remember that he’s the one who’s absolutely brilliant at gardening. I got them all from a staffing agency called Buff Butlers & Weed Whackers and they couldn’t have recommended this guy more highly.

Inside the house is a great, huge white palace of a place with six bedrooms and a truly awesome kitchen that leads to a major sitting room with white floors and three enormous white leather sofas.

‘It’s exactly the same as the house in Luton!’ squeals Paskia-Rose, who’s trailing along behind us. ‘I don’t believe it.’

I’m determined to create my own little piece of Luton wherever I go.

‘I’ll show you round, shall I?’ says Mark, and we wander through the house ooohing and ahhhing over how lovely it is. It is just beautiful – utterly spectacular. A house fit for a Wag in every respect, from the leopardskin-covered dressing table (made by Mark himself) to the large, multi-roomed dressing area. Oh, yes, let me repeat that I have a collection of dressing rooms, all linked together to form a dressing area.

The house has magnificent patio doors that open right up so you’re in this great LA garden, designed and maintained by Peter. The lovely thing about the garden is that there’s nothing wild or unkempt about it – it’s staggeringly well manicured, making it look like another room in the house. I’ve kept the concrete piano left by Liberace at the bottom of the garden and had it painted pink and brought up to the top.

It’s all even more perfect than I remember from the pictures and design templates. Employing Lisaa, my favourite interior designer from Luton and flying her over to LA, has worked a treat, and these guys have transformed all my dreams and her plans into reality.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ I say. ‘There’s nothing I don’t like about it. It’s absolutely perfect.’

The three men smile proudly. I think I’m going to like them very much.

‘There we are,’ says Jamie, as he indicates that all my luggage has been brought in. ‘Is there anything else I can get you?’

‘No thanks,’ I say, lying down on one of the beautiful white sofas and feeling the sun on my face. I’m so glad to finally be here. It’s been a hell of a journey. What a journey, what a journey, what a journey …

3 p.m.

‘Tracie, love, wake up, wake up,’ says Dean. I look at his watch. It’s 3 p.m.

‘What do I have to wake up for?’ I ask.

‘You haven’t had a drink in ages. Don’t you want one? You’ll be dehydrated!’

‘Ooooh, yes,’ I cry, leaping up. ‘I’m dying for a drink!’

There are stains the colour of marmalade on the sofa where the fake tan’s rubbed off a little, and a clump of hair extensions where my head once lay.

Jamie is still with us. He laughs at my eagerness for a drink, shaking his head and saying that everything he’s heard about English women is true.

‘Pass my handbag, would you?’ I say. It’s full of alcohol. I watch as Jamie bends over to pick it up for me. He has buns of steel.

‘I’ve never known a girl have alcohol in her handbag before,’ he says.

‘Well, I guess you’ve never met a girl from Luton before then.’

Now he’s beginning to understand why I was so excited about the idea of air conditioning in handbags. Chilled Bacardi Breezers. Wicked!

With that, I pull out a couple of bottles of Cristal and we’re off.

‘You staying for a drink?’

‘I really shouldn’t,’ Jamie says, turning serious all of a sudden. ‘I should be out looking for a job.’

‘As a photographer?’

‘Now that would be nice. Sadly, no. I need to find myself work as a driver while building my portfolio.’

‘I thought you worked for the club.’

‘I used to,’ he explains, ‘then they terminated my contract. This is my last job for them – picking you guys up from the airport. The club has a policy of using lots of different drivers. They never re-employ the same ones once their twelve-month contract is up, so – I’m off.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ I cry. ‘We must get Dean to have a word with them. He’s going to be very important at the club. He’ll make them change their mind. Won’t you, dear?’

There’s no sound from Dean because he has his head down and is rummaging through my bags in search of lager. When he emerges with a big grin and a four-pack of Stella I ask him again.

‘I’ll try, Candyfloss,’ he says, distracted by his new find, ‘but I can’t make any promises.’

‘There you go. Dean’s definitely going to get you a job, so you don’t have to worry,’ I say. ‘Have a little drink with us.’

‘I’ll just have a softie,’ he says. ‘I haven’t drunk for years. I’m just not keen on alcohol and what it does to the body.’

‘What? You don’t drink at all?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘Never touch it. Lots of people in LA don’t.’

I knock back my champagne in shock and watch Dean as he plonks himself down on the other sofa, facing the 60-inch wall-mounted plasma TV. He pours half of his can down his neck before switching on the telly and giving his balls a right good scratch. Ahhh … now it feels like home.

‘You all right, love?’ I ask, and he looks round with a contented smile on his face.

‘Just like Luton but with more TV stations,’ he says, and I can hear the emotion in his voice.

‘Come and sit here,’ I say to Jamie, patting the sofa next to me. He sits down unnecessarily close and looks straight into my eyes. I feel strange inside, as if every major organ in my body is involved in a trampoline display. I can’t breathe. I’m sure I’m going to have a coronary at any moment. My heart’s thumping so hard, it’s like it’s going to smash its way through my chest and dance across the floor.

What’s wrong with me? I never feel like this around men. I need to get away.

‘I’m just going to check on my dressing area, then I’ll be back for a chat,’ I say in a peculiar high-pitched voice, staggering up the stairs.

My dressing area is still there, with its cerise-coloured walls and leopardskin carpet, and the hangers and drawers lined in velvet. There’s loads of space in there and little velvet, leopardskin pouches for shoes, and stands for boots and handbags. I’m still trying to catch my breath after sitting so close to Jamie, so I sit down heavily on the bed and pull out the little gold map case from my hotpants.

I open it up and try to work out where our house is. There! I put a gold star right on top of us, then I pull out my piece of paper with Victoria and David’s address on. OK… Beverly Hills, Beverly Hills. Whaaaaattt? Hollywood Hills and Beverly Hills are two completely different places. They’re separate hills entirely. Holy fuck. We’re living on the wrong hill. I drop the map and jump up.

‘Dean,’ I say, shrieking through the house as I hobble down the stairs, taking them three at a time and moving with reckless speed. ‘Dean!’

‘What is it?’ he says, coming out to meet me.

‘This house is all wrong,’ I say.

‘No it’s not. It’s lovely.’

‘Dean, it’s all wrong. We can’t live here, we have to move. Immediately. We have to, Sugar Lump.’

‘I don’t understand, love. It’s all done out just like the Luton house was. What’s the problem? If you don’t like something, can’t you just call Lisaa and get it changed, like you did when the chandeliers in the hallway weren’t sparkly enough? Do you remember that, love? You sent the poor woman back to India to get more jewels. Then there was the time you wanted pink marble benches and Lisaa managed to find them in China.’

‘No, Dean, the problem isn’t the house. It’s the place. I got my hills muddled up. I thought Victoria and David lived in Hollywood Hills but they live in Beverly Hills. Oh, Dean, it was my dream to live next to them and to see them every day. I can’t believe it. It’s too awful for words.’

‘How far away is Beverly Hills?’ asks Dean. ‘I bet it’s just round the corner.’

‘It’s four and a half acrylic nails away. I measured it, Dean. How many miles to a nail, do you think?’

‘I don’t really know,’ he says. ‘Jamie might.’

Jamie! Of course, he’s bound to know.

‘Jamie, Jamie,’ I start howling, as I run into the sitting room. ‘How far’s Beverly Hills from here?’

‘About half an hour’s drive,’ he says. ‘Why? Do you want to go there?’

‘Yes, urgently,’ I say. ‘I need to go now. Quickly. As soon as possible. I need to see where the Beckhams live. It’s of the utmost importance. If they don’t live where they should live, we’re going to have to move. Unless they will move instead … No, I think it’s going to have to be us. They were here first. I’m not an unreasonable woman.’

‘OK,’ he says, a little confused, but getting to his feet nonetheless.

‘See you later,’ I say to Dean. ‘Keep your fingers crossed that it’s not too far because if it is we’re moving the whole damn house, and I have a feeling that this big house is going to be hellishly difficult to shift.’

I’m in the car, next to Jamie, and even though he’s gorgeous and I could hardly take my eyes off him before, I’m concentrating on nothing but Victoria now. How could this have happened? It’s unbelievable.

‘I know the Beckhams well, you know,’ says Jamie.

‘What did you just say? Pull over!’

He looks at me. ‘I know them well. I didn’t say anything earlier in case you thought I was being showy or something, but, yeah. You know – me and Victoria, we’re pals.’

‘Pals? My God. I think she’s the most wonderful person on earth. I’d die if I could meet her. I think she’s perfect.’

I’m struggling to breathe all over again. This is so exciting.

‘I used to be her driver.’

‘No!’

‘Yep,’ he replies. ‘Their personal chauffeur. I’ll introduce you some day, if you like. Not today – it would be rude to go barging in there – but someday soon.’

‘Oh my God, yes!’ I cry, leaping up and almost breaking my ribs on the seat belt. ‘Yes, yes, yes. Oh God, yes.’

I take a huge swig from the Cristal bottle wedged between my orange thighs and smile happily. Meeting Victoria is the one remaining goal in my life. For years I’ve dreamt of meeting her. I mean, I’ve seen her before … there was that time when I almost got arrested after following her from Beckingham Palace. I don’t think I’ll tell Muscley Jamie about that, though, in case he thinks I’m mad.

‘Right. This is Beverly Hills. What did you say the name of the road was? I’ve forgotten.’

I read out the address to him as we drive past magnificent double-fronted detached houses. They’re all imposing, square buildings, very new-looking with squeaky-clean windows and perfect gardens. There’s something pleasant about that, but something a bit odd, too, because it makes the place feel sterile and unreal. It’s as if all the houses are too perfect to be real and that they’ll blow away in the first gust of wind. Where Dean and I live in a posh part of Luton there are loads of different types of houses on the same street. Some look like large cottages, others like mansions. They’re all massive, impressive and eye-wateringly expensive, but each house has its own little history. They’re all unique. Not like here where they all look the same. Aaaaahhhhhh … except for that one.

‘This is it!’ I scream, making poor Jamie jump out of his skin. ‘Oh, look. It’s just like all the pictures I’ve seen – only bigger, obviously, or it would be a tiny house that I could fit in my handbag.’

I leap out of the car with considerable athleticism for a woman in bone-crunchingly high heels and walk towards the Beckhams’ large white mansion. You can’t see it properly from the outside because there’s a huge wooden fence protecting it from prying eyes. I have to get nearer.

‘Where are you going?’ asks Jamie, alarmed.

‘I want to get as close as possible,’ I say, breathing deeply. ‘You can sense her presence, can’t you?’

Jamie parks and runs after me. By the time he reaches me I’m standing by the gate with my body pushed up against it, sniffing deeply. I can see that the other side of the gate there’s a driveway up to a more substantial metal gate, controlled by a security guard.

‘Can I help you guys?’ asks a uniformed officer.

They have two security guards? Wow, that’s impressive.

‘We’re just going,’ says Jamie. ‘Sorry, we were lost. We’re just off now.’

‘What’s she doing?’ asks the guard, pointing at me as I stand completely flat against the gate, inhaling deeply and trying not to squeal with excitement.

‘I’m a gate inspector,’ I say.

‘Gate inspector? I’ve never met one before. What do you do?’

‘I inspect gates,’ I tell him. ‘On behalf of the government. I just need to stand here a moment longer.’

‘Do you have a pass or anything?’ asks the man.

‘I do,’ I tell him, ‘but I’ve left it in my Marc Jacobs bag. I wasn’t thinking when I came out, and I brought the Prada by mistake.’

The security guard glances at Jamie with a look which says ‘take her away now or I’ll have her sectioned’.

‘We’re going,’ says Jamie, leading me back to the car.

‘Sir, I’m glad to tell you that your gate has passed the test. Everything is fine. Thank you for your time,’ I shout.

The security officer looks alarmed, as well he might, but not quite as shocked as Jamie, who is now driving away as fast as he can.

‘I touched the gate,’ I tell him. ‘And look at this …’

While I was standing there I dragged my fingernails down the gate and filled them with splinters of wood. I pick it all out and hold it in my hand. A look of astonishment has crept across Jamie’s handsome features.

‘What will you do with that?’ he asks.

‘Keep it forever,’ I say. ‘Forever and ever and ever.’

He looks at me as if I’m stark staring mad. ‘I just think she’s brilliant,’ I say, almost shyly. ‘Brilliant.’

‘I’m going to help you meet her,’ he says. ‘I promise you. Stick with me and I’ll get you an introduction to the Beckhams. Just don’t pull any more stunts like that or we’ll get arrested. OK?’

‘OK.’

LA is brilliant. The City of Angels, it’s called, according to Jamie. Well, I’ve definitely found one in him.