A WAG Abroad. Alison Kervin

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ you so much,’ I say, taking the floral arrangement from him. This is the guy who’s going to be our driver.

      ‘I’m Mark,’ says a man with ginger hair and glasses. He’s the DIY expert. He’s supposed to be the best carpenter in LA, and has been busy for the past couple of weeks creating my dream home, here in the Hollywood Hills.

      ‘I’m Peter,’ says the final man. He’s smaller than the other two and slightly older with dark hair and a considerable twitch that sends his head flicking from one side to the other every couple of minutes. I remember that he’s the one who’s absolutely brilliant at gardening. I got them all from a staffing agency called Buff Butlers & Weed Whackers and they couldn’t have recommended this guy more highly.

      Inside the house is a great, huge white palace of a place with six bedrooms and a truly awesome kitchen that leads to a major sitting room with white floors and three enormous white leather sofas.

      ‘It’s exactly the same as the house in Luton!’ squeals Paskia-Rose, who’s trailing along behind us. ‘I don’t believe it.’

      I’m determined to create my own little piece of Luton wherever I go.

      ‘I’ll show you round, shall I?’ says Mark, and we wander through the house ooohing and ahhhing over how lovely it is. It is just beautiful – utterly spectacular. A house fit for a Wag in every respect, from the leopardskin-covered dressing table (made by Mark himself) to the large, multi-roomed dressing area. Oh, yes, let me repeat that I have a collection of dressing rooms, all linked together to form a dressing area.

      The house has magnificent patio doors that open right up so you’re in this great LA garden, designed and maintained by Peter. The lovely thing about the garden is that there’s nothing wild or unkempt about it – it’s staggeringly well manicured, making it look like another room in the house. I’ve kept the concrete piano left by Liberace at the bottom of the garden and had it painted pink and brought up to the top.

      It’s all even more perfect than I remember from the pictures and design templates. Employing Lisaa, my favourite interior designer from Luton and flying her over to LA, has worked a treat, and these guys have transformed all my dreams and her plans into reality.

      ‘Thank you, thank you,’ I say. ‘There’s nothing I don’t like about it. It’s absolutely perfect.’

      The three men smile proudly. I think I’m going to like them very much.

      ‘There we are,’ says Jamie, as he indicates that all my luggage has been brought in. ‘Is there anything else I can get you?’

      ‘No thanks,’ I say, lying down on one of the beautiful white sofas and feeling the sun on my face. I’m so glad to finally be here. It’s been a hell of a journey. What a journey, what a journey, what a journey …

       3 p.m.

      ‘Tracie, love, wake up, wake up,’ says Dean. I look at his watch. It’s 3 p.m.

      ‘What do I have to wake up for?’ I ask.

      ‘You haven’t had a drink in ages. Don’t you want one? You’ll be dehydrated!’

      ‘Ooooh, yes,’ I cry, leaping up. ‘I’m dying for a drink!’

      There are stains the colour of marmalade on the sofa where the fake tan’s rubbed off a little, and a clump of hair extensions where my head once lay.

      Jamie is still with us. He laughs at my eagerness for a drink, shaking his head and saying that everything he’s heard about English women is true.

      ‘Pass my handbag, would you?’ I say. It’s full of alcohol. I watch as Jamie bends over to pick it up for me. He has buns of steel.

      ‘I’ve never known a girl have alcohol in her handbag before,’ he says.

      ‘Well, I guess you’ve never met a girl from Luton before then.’

      Now he’s beginning to understand why I was so excited about the idea of air conditioning in handbags. Chilled Bacardi Breezers. Wicked!

      With that, I pull out a couple of bottles of Cristal and we’re off.

      ‘You staying for a drink?’

      ‘I really shouldn’t,’ Jamie says, turning serious all of a sudden. ‘I should be out looking for a job.’

      ‘As a photographer?’

      ‘Now that would be nice. Sadly, no. I need to find myself work as a driver while building my portfolio.’

      ‘I thought you worked for the club.’

      ‘I used to,’ he explains, ‘then they terminated my contract. This is my last job for them – picking you guys up from the airport. The club has a policy of using lots of different drivers. They never re-employ the same ones once their twelve-month contract is up, so – I’m off.’

      ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I cry. ‘We must get Dean to have a word with them. He’s going to be very important at the club. He’ll make them change their mind. Won’t you, dear?’

      There’s no sound from Dean because he has his head down and is rummaging through my bags in search of lager. When he emerges with a big grin and a four-pack of Stella I ask him again.

      ‘I’ll try, Candyfloss,’ he says, distracted by his new find, ‘but I can’t make any promises.’

      ‘There you go. Dean’s definitely going to get you a job, so you don’t have to worry,’ I say. ‘Have a little drink with us.’

      ‘I’ll just have a softie,’ he says. ‘I haven’t drunk for years. I’m just not keen on alcohol and what it does to the body.’

      ‘What? You don’t drink at all?’

      ‘No,’ he says. ‘Never touch it. Lots of people in LA don’t.’

      I knock back my champagne in shock and watch Dean as he plonks himself down on the other sofa, facing the 60-inch wall-mounted plasma TV. He pours half of his can down his neck before switching on the telly and giving his balls a right good scratch. Ahhh … now it feels like home.

      ‘You all right, love?’ I ask, and he looks round with a contented smile on his face.

      ‘Just like Luton but with more TV stations,’ he says, and I can hear the emotion in his voice.

      ‘Come and sit here,’ I say to Jamie, patting the sofa next to me. He sits down unnecessarily close and looks straight into my eyes. I feel strange inside, as if every major organ in my body is involved in a trampoline display. I can’t breathe. I’m sure I’m going to have a coronary at any moment. My heart’s thumping so hard, it’s like it’s going to smash its way through my chest and dance across the floor.

      What’s wrong with me? I never feel like this around men. I need to get away.

      ‘I’m just going to check on my dressing area, then I’ll be back for a chat,’ I say in a peculiar high-pitched voice, staggering up the stairs.

      My СКАЧАТЬ