The WAG’s Diary. Alison Kervin

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       Tuesday, 28 August

       8 p.m.

      My mother and Dean are staring at me, utter confusion registering on their familiar faces. I’m not really listening to them any more. I’m peeling off the small rose tattoos that Mallory fixed onto my fingernails on Saturday morning as an apology for not having her tanning system with her. God, Saturday seems like a long time ago—before I was arrested for causing criminal damage…

      ‘Are you listening?’ Mum says. ‘I asked you what on earth you thought you were doing?’

      Mum had turned up at the house as soon as she heard the news. She was dressed in a cream Lanvin dress that she’d had specially altered for the occasion. It was so short I could see that she’d had her bikini line specially done for the occasion, too. She wore the dress with sky-high Christian Louboutin shoes and looked fantastic, with her make-up professionally applied and her hair styled like Farrah Fawcett Majors’. She’d obviously feared there would be photographers camped out in the driveway. Luckily she was wrong. When I came home in the taxi at lunchtime the place was deserted and I had just Mum and Dean to contend with. Neither can quite believe the turn of events.

      ‘I mean, what possessed you?’ Mum is asking.

      ‘I was trying to help,’ I say.

      ‘Help?’ says Dean. ‘Help? Tell me how causing over two thousand pounds’ worth of damage in Faux Fur in Bishop’s Stortford helped anyone.’

      Mum puts her arm round Dean’s shoulder and hugs him into her massive bosoms. ‘What possessed you today?’ she asks, turning to face me aggressively, while stroking his thinning hair affectionately.

      ‘Nothing possessed me,’ I answer, and I feel like screaming. You see, it was all her fault. It was Mum telling me that you should just go and bump into someone if you want to befriend them that started me off on all this in the first place.

      It was after the call with Mum that I started to think about the ways in which I could help Dean, and I became convinced that if he were to become friends with some of the England players, he’d be more likely to get a good transfer deal. I knew Dean would never go and knock on Beckham’s door so I thought, I know, I’ll befriend Victoria. She’ll understand after all she went through when Becks kicked that bloke in the Argentina game, and the Daily Mirror did a David Beckham dartboard in the paper the next day; she’ll know what it’s like to live life as a piranha, or was that a pariah?

      I knew she was in England because I’d seen her in the Daily Mail yesterday, and I knew where she lived because when they had their World Cup party there were pictures of the house (which I cut out and kept in a scrapbook) and it said that the house was in Sawbridgeshire. So I woke up at 7 a.m. this morning, dressed, and left the house to head for Beckingham Palace…

       Flashback to 9 a.m.

      Shit. The gates are opening. Fuck. What do I do? Perhaps I should have thought this through a bit more carefully first. I’m sitting in a tiny orange car in the middle of Essex, outside an enormous mansion belonging to David and Victoria Beckham, wondering what to do next. I should be at home, looking after my daughter and my husband, and preparing for a morning at the hairdresser’s with Mich. She’s agreed to have just a few blonde highlights weaved in at the front of her hair because we’re now ten days into the season and she still hasn’t bagged a footballer. Andre’s shown some interest but there’s no real sign of commitment. It must be her hair. It’s just so…dark. I feel awful for abandoning her to face the bleach alone, but I think she’ll be able to cope. She knows it’s the right thing to do. She knows that blonde hair is the key to unlocking the heart of a footballer.

      I’m paranoid that someone’s going to see me and realise I’m hanging around, so I drop myself down in the driver’s seat and peer up over the windscreen—all that can be seen ofme now is the black headscarf wound tightly around my head and the top halfmoon of my massive sunglasses. To be honest, I’d look far less suspicious if I just sat there, smiling, but I’m so determined not to be seen that I opt for this ridiculous semi-reclining position that just screams ‘Stalker!’. I hear the gates start to close behind me and I ease myself up a little, just as a fabulous car glides out and sweeps majestically onto the road in front of me. There are two women sitting in the back. I am absolutely sure that one of them is Victoria Beckham. My heart starts pounding and my hands are shaking a little, sweating inside the leather driving gloves that I am wearing so as not to leave fingerprints anywhere.

      I start up the engine and drive up behind them, still reclining a little but able—just—to see over the steering wheel. I’m in a rented car (I’m having horrific problems getting my car back. I went to the Croydon place on Sunday and was told it was shut. Great! So it’s fine for them to come and steal my car off the road but they can’t be bothered to stay open on Sundays for me to pick it up. It’s almost enough to make me want to park properly in future. I could see the car through the railings on Sunday. It was like I was visiting it in jail. As I walked away I swear I heard it sobbing). Anyway, I went for the plainest rental car I could find—just so I wouldn’t be easily spotted by Vic. This fabulous yellow Lamborghini was screaming at me in the showroom last night, but even I realised some musclehead driver, bouncer or security guard would notice if a banana-coloured sports car tailed him for more than a couple of minutes. I don’t think I realised, at the time, just how orange this car is, though. It looks like a little tangerine rolling down the road after them.

      Victoria’s car is moving at a nice gentle pace, so obviously they don’t realise they’re being followed. Great. The fact that the Mercedes is not going very fast means that I can keep up with it in my little Fiat Punto. I’m better at this stalking lark than I thought I’d be.

      The car is heading towards Bishop’s Stortford. I know this not because of any prior knowledge of the backstreets of Hertfordshire, but because there are great big road signs everywhere. Eventually, the driver pulls over and out he gets—fucking brilliant!—it’s Victoria, and—double fucking brilliant!—she’s with Geri Halliwell, who is clutching an extraordinary-looking basket containing two tiny poodles. This is sooo much better than I thought it would be.

      I dump the car on the side of the road and jump out, crossing over to where V & G are, so that I’m in the slipstream of the two most famous Spice Girls. They stop and peer into a window. I do, too. They continue. I follow. On we go, down the road in procession, until Geri suddenly spins round with a terribly aggressive look on her face.

      Is she looking at me? I’m not sure. I immediately dive into the nearest shop, just in case…It’s a butcher’s…fuck, what the hell am I supposed to do in a butcher’s shop? I can hardly browse through the chops.

      ‘Tracie?’

      Oh god, please tell me it’s not Mindy. I couldn’t bear it if she saw me out stalking. Bad enough that she should see me buying baskets full of lard, but this is a whole different level of madness.

      ‘Tracie Smegglesworth?’ repeats the voice, louder this time.

      Shit. СКАЧАТЬ