A WAG Abroad. Alison Kervin
along behind them all on tippy-toes, hoping that I don’t fall over but being self-aware enough to realize that it will be a miracle if I don’t.
‘Over there is the baseball pitch,’ explains Chuck with an accompanying swing of his arm which narrowly misses Paskia’s head, while Dean nods and looks around, and I try to do faster tippy-toe running to catch up with them. ‘You guys ever heard of baseball?’ he asks. ‘It’s different from your damned cricket. They manage to finish on the same day as they started, and they never blame the weather! Ha ha.’
‘And what’s that?’ I ask when I arrive next to them, elated that I’m still upright. I’m pointing to a large concrete outhouse tucked in behind the row of trees that separate the baseball and soccer areas.
‘This was part of the old club, before we had the major renovation installation completion,’ explains Chuck, opening the unlocked outer door and taking a key from a small hook near a shelf on the right. He opens the white inner door and leads us inside. The place is set out like a small office with an old-fashioned typewriter on an ancient wooden desk. ‘Ah,’ he says, wistfully. ‘This is how things were.’
Paskia hovers in the doorway, still looking longingly at the football pitches while Chuck walks round, mumbling to himself. ‘There is simply no point working to a launch and then finding a house of cards, is there?’ he says.
‘No, no point at all,’ says Dean, out of politeness more than agreement.
We walk back to the main building and Chuck starts telling Dean how he made his fortune in the canned food business.
‘Once I’d got all my ducks in a row it was fairly smooth running to my first mill,’ he’s saying. ‘I’m not claiming it was easy – there were some major cows on the line which could have derailed the whole project, but I did it. I mean, if anyone can put a pig in a dress and call it grandma, I can!’
What the fuck is he on about? I’m listening to his talk of how he had to do a lot of blue-sky thinking, while picking my way through the mud, feeling a lot like Margo out of The Good Life (Dean loves that programme) only better-dressed, obviously.
‘So what do you actually do, Chuck?’ Dean asks. ‘Is it the cans you make, or the food that goes in them?’
‘That’s right,’ says Chuck. ‘Bang on.’
‘Oh, OK,’ says Dean. ‘So is it all canned food or just particular sorts of food, like fruit or vegetables or meat or something?’
‘Dean, I’ve done them all and I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I’ve had to jump through a few hoops along the way. Luncheon-meat-related issues are particularly tough right now, whereas corned beef is just an exercise in box ticking. Personally I sense that a great future in cans is set to cascade down, then we can all play in the corporate waterfall.’
‘Yeah, cool,’ says Dean.
We arrive back and I’m so busy thinking about waterfalls and cans cascading down that I simply don’t see the boot scraper that the others have stepped so elegantly over, and I clatter into it, completely lose my balance and squeal pathetically for the duration of my fall to the floor.
I’m lying flat on my face, half in and half out of the door. My dress is up by my waist, giving the Raiders Club chairman and LA’s hottest canned foods magnate a bird’s eye view of the ‘Other Way Round’ tattoo on my bottom. Why do things like this always happen?
‘Whoops. Cheeky,’ says Chuck, lifting me up and putting me onto me feet. Dean has his head in his hands and Pask doesn’t know where to look. Honestly, it’s not that bad – it’s only a bottom.
‘Are you trying to embarrass me?’ asks Dean quietly.
‘No,’ I assure him. I’m not trying; I’m managing to do it with no effort whatsoever. If I tried, imagine how embarrassing I could be!
Dean, Paskia and Chuck have gone up the metal spiral staircase leading to the side entrance to the main club room. I follow them, clinging onto the handrails and hoping that no one comes in below me.
‘Here comes the lovely little lady,’ says Chuck when I appear at the top. I have mud on my legs, covering my boots and smeared across my face, but other than that I’ve survived the walk perfectly well.
‘Ah, darling, you’re here!’ trills a voice from a distant room, then in walks an astonishingly thin woman – all bones, huge unblinking eyes and a smile that stretches the width of her face. She has long blonde hair with a thick, almost child-like fringe.
‘Woooah,’ says Chuck, flailing his arms around as the woman gives him a kiss. ‘I’ve never seen you before. Who are you?’
Both Chuck and the woman collapse into hysterical fits of laughter.
‘Isn’t he a card? God, twelve years of marriage and he still makes me howl with laughter every day. I’m Sian.’
Goodness. She’s so thin it’s scary. I never realized before that it was possible to be too thin, but here we are – proof that it is. ‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, putting out my heavily bejewelled hand, but instead of shaking it she clutches me in a massive bear-hug and squeezes me into her skeleton. I’m terrified she’s going to snap in half. Then she pushes herself away and scrutinizes me closely.
‘Wow, but look at you!’ she squeals. ‘Wow, wow, wow. Why do you have such a funny outfit on?’
Funny? Jeeeezz … The lady’s got a nerve. Sian, let me tell you, gentle readers, appears to be wearing no makeup at all! None! I know – it’s offensive. She has great skin but, really, no makeup? I do my makeup before getting in the shower, before I go to bed, washing my hair or putting on a face mask. How could she leave the house without makeup?
‘Let’s get juice,’ she says, still staring me up and down.
‘Pask, are you coming?’ I ask, but when I look round my daughter is staring wistfully out of the window.
‘Come on, Dean,’ says Chuck. ‘Let’s brainstorm the dynamics and interpersonal relationships in this team. We need to look behind the power curve and throw up some thought showers that we can circle back on next week.’
‘Yeah, OK,’ says Dean. ‘But it would be quite handy to have a chat with you about coaching.’
‘Yes,’ says Chuck, patting my husband on the back. ‘That’s what I just said.’
Sian marches me towards a room further away, as fast as my mud-covered platform stiletto boots can take me. I know I’m going to like her, even though she’s thinner than me. I don’t normally take to people who are thinner than I am. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who’s skinnier than me before.
‘I have a couple of questions for you,’ she says. ‘First up, will you let me host a party for you on Wednesday night? Please say I can. There’ll just be a few of us there.’
‘Oh, thanks, that would be lovely,’ I say, meaning it. I love a good party.
‘Great. You’ll meet Poppy and Macey – two girls from the club. Poppy’s going out with one of the players – Rock Lyon. Do you know him? He was a great player in his day. Macey’s lovely, too. She’s an artist who paints the best watercolours ever. You’ll love them. She’s been doing portraits of the players for an exhibition. She did a portrait of Van Dooley – do you know him? Great American writer.’
‘I know a writer!’ I exclaim, glad to be able to contribute something to the conversation. ‘He’s called Simon. He’s the guy who helped me write my columns in England. He’s coming over on Sunday and staying for a few weeks to do research for a novel he’s writing, set in LA.’
‘Wow, honey, I love English writers,’ she says. ‘Dickens, Austen, Archer. Is he a good guy?’
A good guy? I wonder to myself. I don’t know how to answer that. How do you explain the qualities of someone