A WAG Abroad

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‘Oh my God, yes!’ I cry, leaping up and almost breaking my ribs on the seat belt. ‘Yes, yes, yes. Oh God, yes.’

I take a huge swig from the Cristal bottle wedged between my orange thighs and smile happily. Meeting Victoria is the one remaining goal in my life. For years I’ve dreamt of meeting her. I mean, I’ve seen her before … there was that time when I almost got arrested after following her from Beckingham Palace. I don’t think I’ll tell Muscley Jamie about that, though, in case he thinks I’m mad.

‘Right. This is Beverly Hills. What did you say the name of the road was? I’ve forgotten.’

I read out the address to him as we drive past magnificent double-fronted detached houses. They’re all imposing, square buildings, very new-looking with squeaky-clean windows and perfect gardens. There’s something pleasant about that, but something a bit odd, too, because it makes the place feel sterile and unreal. It’s as if all the houses are too perfect to be real and that they’ll blow away in the first gust of wind. Where Dean and I live in a posh part of Luton there are loads of different types of houses on the same street. Some look like large cottages, others like mansions. They’re all massive, impressive and eye-wateringly expensive, but each house has its own little history. They’re all unique. Not like here where they all look the same. Aaaaahhhhhh … except for that one.

‘This is it!’ I scream, making poor Jamie jump out of his skin. ‘Oh, look. It’s just like all the pictures I’ve seen – only bigger, obviously, or it would be a tiny house that I could fit in my handbag.’

I leap out of the car with considerable athleticism for a woman in bone-crunchingly high heels and walk towards the Beckhams’ large white mansion. You can’t see it properly from the outside because there’s a huge wooden fence protecting it from prying eyes. I have to get nearer.

‘Where are you going?’ asks Jamie, alarmed.

‘I want to get as close as possible,’ I say, breathing deeply. ‘You can sense her presence, can’t you?’

Jamie parks and runs after me. By the time he reaches me I’m standing by the gate with my body pushed up against it, sniffing deeply. I can see that the other side of the gate there’s a driveway up to a more substantial metal gate, controlled by a security guard.

‘Can I help you guys?’ asks a uniformed officer.

They have two security guards? Wow, that’s impressive.

‘We’re just going,’ says Jamie. ‘Sorry, we were lost. We’re just off now.’

‘What’s she doing?’ asks the guard, pointing at me as I stand completely flat against the gate, inhaling deeply and trying not to squeal with excitement.

‘I’m a gate inspector,’ I say.

‘Gate inspector? I’ve never met one before. What do you do?’

‘I inspect gates,’ I tell him. ‘On behalf of the government. I just need to stand here a moment longer.’

‘Do you have a pass or anything?’ asks the man.

‘I do,’ I tell him, ‘but I’ve left it in my Marc Jacobs bag. I wasn’t thinking when I came out, and I brought the Prada by mistake.’

The security guard glances at Jamie with a look which says ‘take her away now or I’ll have her sectioned’.

‘We’re going,’ says Jamie, leading me back to the car.

‘Sir, I’m glad to tell you that your gate has passed the test. Everything is fine. Thank you for your time,’ I shout.

The security officer looks alarmed, as well he might, but not quite as shocked as Jamie, who is now driving away as fast as he can.

‘I touched the gate,’ I tell him. ‘And look at this …’

While I was standing there I dragged my fingernails down the gate and filled them with splinters of wood. I pick it all out and hold it in my hand. A look of astonishment has crept across Jamie’s handsome features.

‘What will you do with that?’ he asks.

‘Keep it forever,’ I say. ‘Forever and ever and ever.’

He looks at me as if I’m stark staring mad. ‘I just think she’s brilliant,’ I say, almost shyly. ‘Brilliant.’

‘I’m going to help you meet her,’ he says. ‘I promise you. Stick with me and I’ll get you an introduction to the Beckhams. Just don’t pull any more stunts like that or we’ll get arrested. OK?’

‘OK.’

LA is brilliant. The City of Angels, it’s called, according to Jamie. Well, I’ve definitely found one in him.