Alison Kervin - A WAG Abroad

‘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 now,’ he says, and all three of us say ‘Oh’, without realizing.

‘Sorry, guys, but I can’t get up into the hills without going inland. We’ll take the Santa Monica Freeway. Along here are a few of the biggest museums in the area – see that, over there? That’s the Museum of Contemporary Art. The area’s known as Downtown, and you’ve got your Performing Arts Center and loads of theatres there. It’s the arty part of town.’

‘Oh, is it?’ I say. ‘Is that where your friend the artist lives then?’

‘No, she doesn’t live here but she hangs out here a bit. Now then, we’re heading up into Hollywood.’

‘Ooooh,’ I say, hoping we’ll see Tom and Kate or Angelina and Brad. Perhaps Julia Roberts and Catherine Zeta-Jones will be out shopping.

‘On the left is the Egyptian Theatre. That’s a great old place. The very first Hollywood première took place there.’

‘ Legally Blonde ?’ I ask.

‘No, it was a bit before that. It was back in 1922.’

‘Really? I didn’t know they had films then.’

‘If you’re interested, you should go down there. They show documentaries every day about the history of Hollywood, and how it became a movie town.’

‘Mum, look over there,’ squeals Paskia. ‘Look!’

‘Woooooah!!’ I shriek back. ‘It’s the Hollywood sign. Look, Sugar Lump. Look. Oh my God. I can’t believe we’re here. Dean, we’re in Hollywood.’

And the truth is, I really can’t believe we’re finally here after the year we’ve just had. You see, there’s one thing I haven’t told you about me yet and that’s that my mum, Angie, is horrible. I mean really horrible. I had a miserable childhood with her because she hated me. ‘Nothing personal, I just don’t like kids,’ she used to say, as she got dressed up in chiffon and diamonds for another glamorous night on the tiles, leaving me in the house, alone and scared. But it all got worse last year when I became famous. Mum tried to sabotage me – selling articles about me to the newspapers about how horrible I was, and trying to frame Dean and make it look like he was being unfaithful. I thought that was bad enough, but I was even more heart-broken when I discovered that my father, who Mum said hated me and wanted nothing to do with me from the day I was born, was actually sending regular letters and money which Mum never handed over to me. It turns out that my dad lives in LA, so if I’m ever feeling strong enough I’ll get in touch with him. Right now, though, it’s the last thing I can face doing.

‘Now this is the most important landmark in LA,’ says Jamie, interrupting my thoughts.

‘What is?’

‘This,’ he says, pointing to a very grand house in front of us. It’s a buttery-coloured mansion with large turrets and a wrought-iron gate. It looks like a fairytale palace. ‘Your staff are here waiting for you,’ he says.

‘Our home!’ I squeal. ‘Oh, we’re here!’

‘Wow!’ says Paskia-Rose. ‘It’s like something out of a movie set.’