A WAG Abroad. Alison Kervin
away? How do I go about explaining that?
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘He’s a good guy. The best. After Dean.’ It almost feels as if any attempt to explain our relationship will somehow diminish it.
‘Well, then, I need to make the most of you before he comes and takes up all your time, don’t I?’ she says. ‘We can do yoga together and go for runs and swim and …’
‘Are you mad?’ I say. ‘What do we want to do all that shit for when we could just be getting pissed?’
‘Oh, Tracie, you don’t drink alcohol, do you? You know it’s terribly bad for you.’
‘Drinking’s just great. I hate being sober, to be honest.’
Sian almost chokes with laughter.
‘You’re so funny. Look, anything you want – you just call me. I want you to feel at home here in our lovely country.’
‘Oooo,’ I say, seizing the moment. ‘One thing I’d really like would be if you could re-employ Jamie at the club. I met him yesterday and he seems such a nice guy. I know he’s worried about where he’s going to work. I’d love it if you could keep him on.’
Sian looks quite taken aback. ‘Well, he just helped out from time to time when we needed a driver but in the end we had to let him go,’ she says.
‘Oh, that’s a shame. Can’t you offer him more work?’
‘No, Tracie, I’m sorry. There are reasons why the club can’t employ him.’
‘Is this about money?’ I say.
‘Absolutely,’ she says, nodding.
So the club has no money. Shit! I thought it was all looking too good to be true. Poor Deany, he’s not going to be given the budget to buy any good players. He’ll be heartbroken. He’s been picking out players he wants since he got the job – a bit like me when the catalogue from Cricket comes through. I think, Oooh, I’d love those patent-leather slingbacks from Dolce & Gabbana, and he thinks, Oooh, I’d love that big, powerful striker from the Ivory Coast. Probably not much difference in the cost, the way the pricing strategy at Cricket works.
I feel as if we were lied to about these money problems. How can there be money problems? I’m a Wag, for heaven’s sake. I don’t do money problems; I do reckless spending and hedonistic nights out. We were told this was a rich club in a posh area, hoping to make it big time. We were told that money wasn’t an issue, that they wanted success and would pay for it.
‘Please don’t say anything to anyone. Not at the moment, anyway,’ says Sian, coyly.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I won’t say anything, but I have to say that I feel totally conned.’
‘Yes,’ she says, nodding. ‘We all were.’
How awful. Sian’s the chairman’s wife and she didn’t know about the financial problems either. Her words have got me desperately worried about our future here. I’ll have to see whether there’s any way I can make some money while I’m out here. I certainly can’t cut back. I don’t do cheap.
‘Hey, come and see this, doll,’ shouts Dean, breaking our moment of female solidarity and beckoning me to follow him into the bowels of the club. ‘Look,’ he says proudly, sweeping his skinny arms before him and indicating the most magnificent spa ever.
‘Bloody hell, is this for the players?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ says Dean, hugging me tightly. ‘Isn’t this great, doll? I’m working in a brand, spanking new club with loads of money and loads of potential.’
‘That’s right,’ says Chuck, wandering over to join us with a smile on his face. ‘Always remember – we’re selling the sizzle, not the sausage.’
Tuesday 27 May 10 a.m. New car just arrived.
OK. How do I put this? It’s huge!!! I mean, not huge compared to the other cars on the road over here, but a damn sight wider than anything I’ve driven before. The advantage, of course, is that the width of the seats makes my thighs look much thinner. The only disadvantage is that I don’t think I’m going to be able to drive it without crashing. A minor disadvantage really, considering the thigh benefit.
I really wanted a pink Cadillac (of course!) and it had to be manual because I get really confused by the pedal shortage in the automatic ones, but we couldn’t find one in the right shade. As far as I’m concerned, cars should be bubblegum pink, not sugary pink, so I said I’d go for the Cadillac wedding car which looked a lovely shade in the picture, but now it’s here it’s kind of, well, it’s way bigger than I was expecting.
It’s also all set up wrongly. I’m sitting here and there’s no steering wheel in front of me. Next to me, on the passenger side, there’s a steering wheel. Now, you tell me how this works. Do passengers have to drive over here? And what if you’re a passenger because you can’t drive? Do you then have to sit in the driving seat?
‘Well, hello there,’ says a familiar voice, making me jump and clatter my acrylic nails against the dash board. I look up into big brown eyes staring from beneath small, lightly tinted sunglasses, then glance down at big brown thighs beneath small, tight shorts. Ding-dong!
‘Jamie!’ I manage to say, delighted by the arrival of my knight in shining leisure wear. ‘Have you spoken to Victoria this morning?’
‘Er … no,’ he says. ‘I don’t necessarily call her every day.’
If I had her number I’d always be on the phone to her. She’d have to take out a restraining order to stop me calling and texting a hundred times a day.
‘What are you doing here, just sitting in the car?’ he asks.
‘I can’t work it out,’ I confess. ‘They’ve gone and sold me one that’s all back to front.’
Jamie doesn’t stop jogging for so much as a second as he pulls his earplugs out and switches off his iPod. The sun is glaring through the window and I’m having to move my head up and down as I explain the situation with the car, keeping in time with his bouncing frame.
‘Say it again, little British lady.’
‘This car is broken. Look!’
‘No,’ he replies, smiling at me. ‘It’s American. We drive on the other side of the road here, remember.’
He pushes his sunglasses up onto the top of his head and smiles. His eyes sparkle and dance as he looks at me. He has no wrinkles. No sign of age. His skin remains taut and his brow as smooth as a Chloe handbag.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Well, how do I drive it? I can’t reach that side.’
He’s just smiling at me, so I smile back, and I can feel myself going bright red beneath my tangerine skin. I must look like a blood orange.
‘You need to move over,’ he says, and as I slide across the long pink leather seat that runs the width of the car he jumps into my vacated place and looks straight into my eyes.
‘Have you ever been a cheerleader?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I squeal. Then I think, Is that a compliment? I mean, cheerleaders are pretty, young and heavily made up. Then I think, Gosh, is that the greatest compliment a man can pay a woman in LA? Are we talking here about the nicest thing anyone ever said to me? I can feel myself going scarlet, both from the heat of this gorgeous morning in sunny LA, and from sheer embarrassment at having a terrifyingly fit and attractive man telling me that I should be a cheerleader. It’s like Simon all over again – only he used to tell me that I’m clever and bright and funny. It’s so much nicer to be told you look like a cheerleader.
‘Why are you all dressed up like that?’ he asks, taking in my simple daywear. (I’ve gone for head-to-toe Burberry. I’m channelling Daniella