Alison Kervin - A WAG Abroad

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. He doesn’t look like any sort of cab driver that I’ve ever seen before. The man ought to be in the movies.

‘I’m a photographer really,’ he says. ‘I’m driving while I get my portfolio together. My dream is to work for a British newspaper – something like the Daily Mail . Do you know 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.