A WAG Abroad. Alison Kervin

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СКАЧАТЬ and gentlemen, praise be to God, for I am not the worst driver in the world. Oh, no – that honour goes to my dear husband. He’s useless! In fact he’s so useless that I’m in fits of laughter all the time, and that, of course, is not making things go any more smoothly.

      ‘I’d be able to do it if you weren’t here,’ he says angrily. I try desperately to choke back the laughter as the car hops down the street like a great metal bunny rabbit. I’m doing that terrible schoolgirl thing of trying not to laugh and thus snorting and crying and jamming my fist into my mouth, which makes me laugh all the more.

      ‘I don’t understand why it’s bouncing like that,’ he says, looking all confused.

      ‘Are you in the right gear?’ I manage to say, leaning over to check.

      ‘Tracie, it’s got nothing to do with clothes,’ he says. ‘The gear I’m wearing is fine.’

      ‘The gear that the car’s in, you doughnut. Look, it’s in third, that’s why it’s bouncing around like a fucking kangaroo.’

      I tell him to pull over, and he kind of lurches to a stop, right in the middle of the road.

      ‘You can’t stop here. Go to the side,’ I instruct. I want to run through the gear thing with him again.

      He turns the key and the car pounces forward like it’s on springs.

      ‘It’s in third,’ I squeal.

      ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he howls back. ‘I don’t even know what ‘it’s in third’ means.’

      I move the gear stick for him and he turns the key in the ignition. Then, for reasons that I’ll never understand, he slams his foot down on the accelerator and zooms across the street faster than Michael Schumacher. The car mounts the kerb the other side and, just when I’m thinking that things can’t get any worse, it heads onto the plush green lawn in front of us, accompanied by screams from Dean, who is by now entirely out of control. Eventually I manage to do the only practical thing I’ve done in my life, and I yank on the handbrake, forcing the car to skid and come to a stop just before hitting the small fountain in the middle of the grass.

      ‘Phew, that was close,’ he says, as we stare up into the genitals of a little boy who is fashioned entirely from marble. He’s weeing into the fountain as we sit there.

      ‘Don’t worry,’ I say to my depressed-looking husband. ‘We’ll get you some lessons.’

      ‘Yes,’ he says despondently, and we decide that’s enough for one day, and I’ll drive back. We slip out of our seats and walk silently past one another on the grass. Then, as I’m approaching the driver’s seat, the sprinkler system kicks into operation, showering us both with a gentle spray of water containing some sort of foul-smelling weedkiller.

      It’s all too much for Dean.

      ‘This is not meant to be,’ he says, his spiky hair horribly flat and wet. He has an unfortunate mixture of weedkiller and Brylcreem sliding down his forehead and dripping into his eyes, and I feel like running round to the other side of the car and wrapping him up in my arms and holding him tightly. But I also feel like jumping into the car, out of the wet, and driving away as quickly as possible before the owners of this house come out and arrest me.

      ‘Let’s go,’ I say, starting the engine and reversing off the grass. I zoom down the road at top speed, with Dean mumbling, ‘It looks so easy when you do it, but I just couldn’t stop it jumping.’

       9 p.m.

      ‘Wake up, doll. Wake up,’ says Dean.

      ‘Mmmmm …’

      ‘You’re asleep on the sofa love,’ he says, as I lift my head and look around. I was dreaming of Spangles – my favourite nightclub in Luton. It was karaoke night, and me and Michaela had just been singing ‘I will survive’ at the tops of our voices. Now I open my eyes I can see that I’m in LA – a whole new country that isn’t Luton at all. A feeling of homesickness washes over me. ‘How was training this evening?’ I ask.

      Raiders have started doing extra training sessions in the evening because Dean wants them to spend more time on the pitch and less time in the spa. They must think he’s a right miserable sod. ‘Oh my God, training was perfect!’ he says. ‘Let me get a soya milk, banana and walnut smoothie and I’ll tell you all about it.’

      ‘A what? Bloody hell, Dean. Are you pissed?’

      ‘No,’ he says, mashing up banana into this glass bowl and sprinkling nuts on. ‘I told you, I’m not drinking any more.’

      ‘Loser,’ I say, making an ‘L’ sign with my fingers.

      ‘I’m going to get fit and healthy and I’m going to turn this club round. I’ve got my first game in charge on Saturday and we’re gonna win it. I swear. Everyone says we’re set to come bottom, but we won’t, love. You wait till we play Galaxy. We’ll beat them hands down.’

      OK, now he’s got me.

      ‘Galaxy?’ I enquire. ‘You mean LA Galaxy? David Beckham’s team?’

      ‘That’s right, Candyfloss,’ he says, tipping sunflower seeds and goat’s milk yoghurt into a bowl. ‘Where are the pumpkin seeds?’ he asks.

      ‘Pumpkin seeds? How the hell do I know? I didn’t know pumpkins had seeds. What’s going on, Dean? Where did all the food come from?’ I’ve not been near the kitchen except to get glasses for champagne.

      ‘I bought it,’ he says, and I think to myself how remarkable my man is. Most of all, though, I think, When are they playing LA Galaxy? When will I meet David? Will Posh be there?

      ‘When are the matches against LA Galaxy?’ I ask. I’m only vaguely aware of how this American soccer thing works (you can’t call it football here, or they automatically think you’re talking about a game like rugby in which they wear helmets). I know that the Raiders are new into the league, which contains fourteen other teams, so now there are fifteen of them, and they play each other team twice during the season. That’s all I know. That’s all I want to know. The only really interesting thing about any of it is that David Beckham plays for LA Galaxy. I think that Dean should be calling David and making friends with him, but he thinks that would be too ‘gay’ and that we’ll bump into them eventually. I think that this approach, to steal Dean’s language, is thoroughly ‘gay’.

      ‘When do you play LA Galaxy?’ I ask.

      ‘I’ve marked them on the calendar in the kitchen,’ he says.

      We have nuts, seeds, yoghurt and a calendar? Who knew? I jump up and rush into the kitchen.

      ‘There we are, dear,’ he says, pointing out the dates over my shoulder. ‘We play them at home on 21 June, then on 9 August, away. Both MLS games.’

      ‘MSL?’

      ‘Major League Soccer. That’s what we’re playing in.’

      Oh, right. I’m guessing that’s the American equivalent of the Premiership, and what it means is that there are two formal occasions on which I’ll meet Victoria, and all the possibilities СКАЧАТЬ