A WAG Abroad. Alison Kervin
into my bag for a bottle of vodka and take a large slug of it.
‘Don’t make me guess,’ he says playfully. ‘Surely you’re not going to a party at this hour in the morning? I know you’re a bit of a party girl.’
I hear myself giggle stupidly. It’s a side of myself I’ve not met before. When did I turn into a girl who giggles at men?
‘I’m not going to a party,’ I laugh. ‘I’m going shopping.’
‘Shopping?’ he says wisely. ‘Spending all your millions, eh?’
I giggle stupidly again, then kind of grimace at myself because I don’t know where the giggles are coming from.
‘Would you like me to accompany you? You know – show you around.’
Shit. I feel a wave of panic rise inside me. The fact is that I take shopping very seriously, and don’t know whether I want the distraction of Mr Suntanned Legs when I’m doing something vital like trying on shoes.
‘It was just an idea. If you’d rather go on your own, that’s fine. I just thought you might fancy company. It’s up to you. I won’t be in the least offended if you’d prefer to go alone.’
‘No, I’d like that,’ I say, because he’s friends with the Beckhams, and I can easily shop another time if I don’t get it all done.
‘I have to shower first. Why don’t I meet you at a restaurant called Koi a bit later? Around 12?’
‘OK,’ I say.
‘It should be marked on your little LA map, but call me if you get lost. Do you still have my number?’
I’ve learnt it off by heart and written it down in three places. It’s logged into my home phone and it’s stored in my mobile. ‘Yep, I think I’ve got it here somewhere,’ I say.
‘See you later then,’ and off he goes, jogging down the street – his buttock cheeks moving behind him like two large grapefruits in the back of his Lycra shorts.
So, was that a wise thing to do? Arrange to have lunch with a strange and terrifyingly attractive man? I guess it was. I’m sure it’s fine because I’m happily married, no harm can come. Really … just fine … and even though I feel myself lean over and sniff the seat he’s just been sitting on without realizing quite what I’m doing, there’s no problem. Any minute now I’ll be able to get a grip on the dizzy feeling in my tummy, and drive this damn car.
12.29 p.m.
I’m a teensy bit late for meeting Jamie but, truly, it doesn’t matter because today is the greatest day of my life ever. This is better than my wedding day and more thrilling than the day I gave birth to Pask (I knew she was coming out eventually – but I never dreamt that this might happen). The feeling I have running through me is like liquid gold. ‘Yeeeeessssss!!!’ I squeal. I can’t help myself. ‘Yes, yes and yes again,’ almost crying with joy and relief; like the fans at Luton Town used to do whenever Dean was subbed off.
I’m in remarkably good cheer for a woman who is standing half naked in a ladies clothes shop on Rodeo Drive. And shall I tell you why I am in such good cheer? Shall I? OK – I have dropped two whole dress sizes. I was a size 6 in Luton sizing, and here, I’m size 2!!! Whooah!
‘I want to take everything in the shop,’ I squeal, thinking of my dressing area packed with clothes in a size 2. Imagine what Mum would say? Despite everything that’s happened between my mum and me in the past year I still feel a need to impress her – to show that I’m OK, and worthy, and that she might, yet, think about loving me.
I slip into a lovely gold dress. It’s skin-tight, and my heavily spray-tanned breasts are bursting out of the top of it. It looks as if I’ve shaved and boot-polished two large coconuts and shoved them down the front. In other words, it’s perfect. Outside, I can hear the assistants running around to help customers. I wish one of them would come and help me. I have tons of clothes that I want to buy. I remove the dress, slip back into the salmon pink Juicy playsuit and white ankle boots, the first thing I tried on in the shop, and wander back out.
‘I’ll take all the items in there, and I’ll wear this,’ I say, indicating my luxurious outfit.
They don’t even look up.
‘Excuse me,’ I try. ‘I want buy all those clothes in there.’
Still nothing. I feel like Julia Roberts in that film. She was Pretty Woman; right now I feel like Shitty Woman.
Eventually a woman dressed in subtle shades of cream and beige comes over to me and looks me up and down. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to shop somewhere else … somewhere less classy,’ she says. ‘I mean, this shop may not be right for you. That playsuit’s meant for a child, and I certainly wouldn’t wear it with those boots. It’s very tight, very short and very pink.’
‘But I like very tight, very short and very pink things. I’m a Wag!’ I declare. My voice comes out like a little girl’s and tears sting the backs of my eyes. Why do they have to be so nasty? It doesn’t make me a bad person that I want to look like Jordan’s little sister, not Hillary Clinton’s elder sister.
Two other members of staff have come over to join the soldier-like creature before me. They stand there in a line, like a mini Nazi regiment – all looking me up and down and smirking to themselves.
‘We have standards,’ says a woman who is so thin that she really looks as if she might crack. I think she’s thinner than Sian. Perhaps I’m too fat here? My heart almost stops. Is that why they don’t like me? I love thin, but I genuinely fear for these women. This shop assistant has such a big head for her body, I’m surprised her scrawny neck doesn’t snap under the weight. Her face is so heavily plumped out that it reminds me of a satellite dish. Her eyes don’t seem quite symmetrical, and I find it very hard not to stare at her.
‘Did you hear me?’ she asks, eventually, as I struggle to work out why it is that her lips look as if they have a life of their own. They move and shake on the front of her face as if they’re not quite connected and might slide and wriggle off at any time. Surely that’s not lip pumping? Mine are pumped out about as far as a UK surgeon will allow, but these are jelly-filled to an extraordinary new level. I’m slightly appalled, slightly impressed and ever so slightly jealous, all at the same time. I’ve never been out-Waged before, but these LA ladies are right up there. Except when it comes to clothes. In the wardrobe department they lag a long way behind.
A woman with her blonde hair tied at the nape of her neck, wearing simple black trousers and a black sleeveless top, steps forward.
‘Do you understand English?’ she asks me. ‘English?’
‘Yes,’ I say. They know very well that I’m English. Behind her I hear the door open and I hope that all three will rush off and attend to the next customer and stop being so horrible. Sadly, the only person to move is the ‘Do you understand English?’ lady.
In front of me the two remaining women have their hands on the parts of their body where most people have hips.
‘You need to change out of those clothes,’ says the first lady – she’s wearing a cream shirt and beige trousers with sunglasses and large earrings. I think her earrings may be wider than her torso, which makes me strangely predisposed to like her, but her manner nips any such feelings in the bud. ‘Now,’ she howls in a voice heavy with nastiness.
‘Is there a problem?’ a familiar male voice asks, and the two women spin round to see my extraordinarily handsome new friend in the doorway. He’s wearing a white shirt and his dark hair is glistening beautifully in the midday sun. It looks as if it’s still wet, and the very thought of Jamie in the shower makes me feel quite dizzy. As he walks in he removes his sunglasses and holds them while he stands there, glowering in front of us. I feel embarrassed that he’s seeing me being treated so badly. I hope he doesn’t think I’ve done anything to annoy them.
‘No