A WAG Abroad. Alison Kervin
– 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.