A WAG Abroad. Alison Kervin

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       Monday 26 May 9 a.m.

      I feel like I’ve been in a major car crash, and when I glance in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors situated just outside my dressing area I can see that my feelings are entirely matched by my physical appearance. Seriously. My hair is standing up on end and three days of makeup have layered on top of each other, papier-mâché style, to form a thick mask.

      I wipe away most of the black from round my panda bear eyes, add a little lipstick, then a little more, a shed load of foundation and streaks of blusher. Happily, I’m still dressed, so that’s handy, though my jacket has sick all down the front, which isn’t ideal – it’s ruined half the feathers, and my hotpants don’t have much in common with the colour white any more. They are slightly greying at the front from where I was crawling over the floor looking for alcohol when we got back from the Beckhams’ last night.

      I turn away from the dressing area (did I mention I had a dressing area? Honestly, it’s perfect. You must get one. Wardrobes are sooo yesterday!) and wander downstairs and into the garden where Dean’s sitting at our long garden table, teaching Gareth, Peter and Mark to sing football songs.

      ‘Luton, Luton.

      Sing along for Luton.

      The greatest damn club in the land.

      You should always sing for Luton.

      Luton, Luton, Luton.

      Give the boys a helping hand.’

      Honestly, it’s poetry. I can’t believe the guys have learnt all the words so quickly.

      ‘Where’s Jamie?’ I ask. I don’t remember much about last night. We got back from our Beckham trip, I drank bottles of champagne and I woke up in bed still wearing my clothes.

      ‘Gone,’ says Dean. ‘He left after I put you to bed. I think he had to get up early to return the car to the club.’

      Dean reaches forward and takes a bread roll from the table. Bread? Where the hell did bread come from? I stand, rooted to the spot, scared to move any closer to the table in case the carbs jump up and attack me. You have to watch carbs very closely indeed. I know a great deal about this subject, having kept my weight below that of the average six-year-old for my entire adult life.

      I was on the Bacardi and bay leaf diet at one stage but that didn’t seem to be a healthy way to live, so I tried the raw potato and whisky diet, which was hopeless. In the end I realized that the only way to look good is to eat sensibly and healthily, so these days I’m determined to eat properly and set a good example to my daughter. The only rule I follow is to avoid all fats, carbohydrate, protein and vitamins. Besides that I eat absolutely everything. As long as it’s alcoholic.

      ‘He left you this note,’ says Pask kindly, handing me a folded piece of paper.

      ‘Thanks, angel,’ I say, blowing her a kiss, but she misses my spontaneous gesture because she has turned her attentions to Dean.

      ‘Daaad,’ she says in her ‘I want something and I want it now’ voice that she knows is so effective on her father. ‘Pleeeeaaaasee can we go to the club today?’ Her cheeks are stained red from the exertion of whacking a football against a wall relentlessly in the sun. She looks all bright-eyed and freckly and not for the first time I’m drawn to thinking that with a little makeup and a little weight loss she could be a really attractive girl. I want to cuddle her and hold her tightly and show her how to apply eyeliner and what foods to avoid, but she shows no interest in such things. ‘Can we? Can we, Dad? You know – go to the club. Can we?’

      Pask’s a real tomboy. It breaks my heart to say that, but it’s true. I know she might well grow out of it but right now she’s more male than female in her clothing and actions. She’s dressed in the Luton Town kit, and she’s pushed the football between her great white thighs while she leans in to Dean.

      ‘Of course, love,’ he says, and they do a high five thing. Dean’s big gold signet rings glint in the early morning sunshine as his hand smacks against Paskia’s, and the two of them smile warmly at one another. I glance down at the note. It’s got Jamie’s number on it. Hoorah! He says he’s going to spend the day at the club, trying to change their minds about the job. ‘Pop in and see me if you’re there, and we’ll arrange a time to go and see Victoria,’ it says.

      ‘I’m coming to the club too, I’m coming too,’ I squeal.

      Dean spins round, alarm springing from every pore. ‘Don’t you want to spend the day doing your nails or shopping or something?’ he says, spraying bits of bread around as he speaks. I duck, dodge and dive to avoid them. If that carbohydrate so much as touches my skin, I’ll be three stone heavier tomorrow.

      ‘I can do all that later,’ I tell Dean. ‘Right now I’d rather be with you and Pask.’

      I know that if I go I’ll get to see Jamie again, and further develop our relationship, and I’ll also be able to make a better case for the club employing him which will keep him on my radar. Dean’s rubbish at doing things like that. He’s too understated about things. This needs an approach that is unsullied by subtlety. In short, it needs the Tracie touch.

       2 p.m.

      We’re here. This is it – LA City Raiders. It’s an impressive-looking, ultra-modern, shiny grey building, with a big sign outside and a long track leading up to the offices at the front. The pitch looks perfect, according to Dean and Pask.

      ‘Come on, love,’ I say. ‘Let’s go and find a bar for a quick one before we meet up with the geezer in charge.’