A WAG Abroad. Alison Kervin
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