A WAG Abroad. Alison Kervin

course!’ she cries innocently, looking at me. ‘I’m doing all I can.’

      Jamie walks over and stands right next to me, draping his arm across my shoulders.

      ‘This is Victoria Beckham’s sister,’ he says. ‘Be very, very nice to her.’

      Oh. My. God. I am no longer Shitty Woman.

      The shop assistant’s face registers all the amazement it can, given the buckets of Botox that have been injected into it.

      ‘I’ll go and get all your things from in the changing room, shall I, Madam?’ says hair at the nape of the neck woman.

      ‘Yes please. Thank you very much.’

      ‘You look adorable, by the way,’ she says, as she scuttles past me. I look at Jamie and he winks. I’ll never forget this moment, and how special he’s making me feel. I knew my life would change completely if I lost two dress sizes.

      ‘Thank you so much,’ I say, as we walk up the road together, Jamie carrying my bags and me recalling the terrified looks on their faces when they thought I might be Victoria Beckham’s sister.

      ‘Imagine if I were,’ I say. ‘Imagine that! I used to fantasize, when I was younger, that I was part of a nice, normal family – you know, with a mum and dad who loved me and maybe a brother or sister. I used to go to bed and dream that there’d be a knock on the door and someone would say, “I’m sorry, there’s been a terrible mistake. Tracie Martin, you shouldn’t be with your mad mother who leaves you on your own all the time and really hates you, you should be with this kind and loving family where there’s a mum and a dad and they both like you.” Well, imagine if that family was Victoria’s? Imagine!’

      Jamie’s looking at me, his head tilted sideways. ‘So – bad childhood, hey?’

      ‘Not great,’ I confess.

      ‘I’m a good listener,’ he says.

      ‘Thanks. I’m OK, though. I keep going. This trip to LA is a fresh start for us all. Things are going to be good from now on, I can just feel it.’

      ‘I hope so,’ says Jamie. ‘LA’s a fun place. I’m sure you’ll love it when you get to know it. Now, would you like to shop?’

      ‘Like to shop? Me? Jamie, you have no idea. I live to shop.’

      We wander in and out of shops all morning – me spending, Jamie carrying.

      Versace is my favourite visit of the day. It’s bustling with the most fabulous dresses, including one made entirely from lime green goose feathers, with large ostrich feathers trailing down the back.

      ‘Look!’ I cry. ‘Isn’t it adorable?’

      ‘It’s different,’ says Jamie. ‘Where on earth would you wear something like that?’

      ‘Everywhere!’ I say as I spin and twirl in the mirror. It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. I have to have it.

      We bundle out of the shop with my flamboyant purchase carefully wrapped in tissue paper and nestling in the bottom of a shiny new black carrier bag. I swing the bag by my side, just like the girls in Sex and the City do whenever they’ve bought anything. I’m excited and delighted and … oh, shit. ‘Sorry.’

      I’ve whacked some poor guy and sent the stash of leaflets in his hand flying into the air. Jamie drops down to pick them up while the man stares at me.

      ‘Wow!’ he says. ‘You’d be perfect. We’re looking for people for a film being shot by Sunset-Naidoo Pictures. Have you ever done any acting?’

      All my life, I think. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’d like to, though.’

      ‘Well, we’d have to give you a screen test, but if you could come along on Wednesday – say 1.30 – we could do it then. How does that sound? Do you wanna be in a film? You could make a bit of money if things go well.’

      ‘Yeah!’ I say, looking over at Jamie, who’s nodding his encouragement. The idea of making money is appealing, given that Raiders are practically bankrupt and could stop paying my husband at any time, and I’ve just spent more on clothes than most people earn in a year.

      They take my details and the guy hands me a card. ‘See you Wednesday,’ he says. ‘Come to the main reception desk at 1224 Sunset Boulevard. The details are all on the card.’

      ‘Wow. Thanks!’ I say, and inside I’m thinking … if only Mum could see me now.

       3 p.m., K oi

      My 550 bags of shopping are safely stored away in a cloakroom, taken away by a meaty bouncer with the unusual distinction of having a small bolt of lightning tattooed on his knuckles, I have a glass of champagne in my hand, and if it weren’t for the scary wooden carvings of snakes all over the walls I’d be feeling quite relaxed about everything.

      ‘I’m going to be in a film!’ I blurt out. ‘Imagine having a screen test! Dean will piss himself.’

      ‘You’d make a great film star. I bet you get spotted and become the next Catherine Zeta-Jones,’ says Jamie.

      ‘Oooh, imagine that!’ I say. Though I’d rather be Marilyn Monroe. She was the very first Wag ever and my ultimate icon. Apart from Victoria and Jordan who are better role models because they are thinner, have longer hair, breast implants and children with daft names – all the attributes one looks for in an icon.

      ‘Cheers,’ says Jamie, raising his glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

      ‘Cheers!’ I raise my champagne flute and we clink them together. He catches my eye, and I swear a huge electric shock just ran through me.

      ‘You know what you should do? If you’re going to be an international superstar actress you should log your credit card details here, then you’ll be given a password and you can phone up any time you want and get priority booking.’

      It’s a great idea, but I’m not sure.

      ‘Dean doesn’t like me doing things like that,’ I say, flinching as I catch sight of the snakes. Are they really necessary?

      Jamie clicks his fingers to call the waiter. ‘I know that a lot of journalists do it, then whenever someone famous comes in, they get a call from the doorman. All part of the LA service. Victoria comes here, you know.’

      ‘Really?’ Maybe that’s something I should consider. Would they really call me and tell me?

      The waiter hasn’t responded to Jamie’s clicking fingers, so he claps loudly and, if I’m honest, quite embarrassingly. A waiter scurries across and my credit card’s handed over in the blink of an eye. They log the details and ask me for a password to quote when I call.

      ‘Paskia-Rose,’ I say. That’s a password I’ll never forget.

      ‘Certainly,’ says the waiter.

      ‘I’ll order for both of us,’ Jamie declares, pointing out various items on the menu. The waiter smiles and bows away from us. He returns minutes later with a collection of candles for the middle of the table. Jamie’s face is immediately lit up so he looks like a model from one of the billboards liberally dotted down Rodeo Drive.

      ‘Sushi,’ he says, when the food arrives. ‘Go on. Try it.’

      He gives me these little sticks to eat with. You know the ones. Dean always sends them straight back, saying, ‘We’re in England, love. Give us a couple of knives and forks.’

      As I try to pick up the rice with the sticks I realize why Dean’s never taken to them. It’s virtually impossible. If I don’t push hard enough the rice doesn’t lift off the plate at all, and if I push too hard the small bundle breaks and the rice falls away, leaving me gripping with all my might onto one lonely little grain.

      Meanwhile