A WAG Abroad. Alison Kervin

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      ‘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.’

СКАЧАТЬ