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‘Anyway, Dean never goes shoe-shopping with me, Trev.’
‘No, but if he did—that’s how offside would work.’
‘But Dean wouldn’t come, and he’d never kick my handbag, so offside doesn’t really apply to me.’
‘But, say he did…’
‘He wouldn’t go shoe-shopping with me ever. End of story. End of offside rule.’
Trevor, in common with every other man I’ve met, never tried to explain anything about football to me again.
Helen leans over. ‘I’m confused,’ she says.
‘I’ve been confused for over a decade,’ I reply. Then I realise what I’ve confessed to. ‘Since I was about ten,’ I say quickly. ‘Yes, I’ve been confused since I was at school.’
‘Do you know what the offside rule is?’ she asks, scared now.
‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘It’s all about getting your boyfriend to go shoe-shopping with you. But I wouldn’t if I were you.’
5.30 p.m.—the season has just got off to the worst start imaginable
‘Three-nil,’ says Suzzi, shaking her head. ‘Three-nil to them. I can’t believe it.’
‘No, it can’t be three-nil to them,’ says Helen, who has been very quiet and wearing a rather bemused expression since the offside conversation. ‘Dean scored twice, so I know we got some goals.’
I just smile and back away so I don’t have to explain. There’s very, very little that I know about football, but I do know that you have to get the ball in the right net.
‘Oh,’ I hear Helen say, when my husband’s double faux pas are explained to her by a gleeful Mindy. ‘Is that why he decided not to come out and play any more after the interval?’
‘No,’ says Mindy, her voice rising so she can be sure that I can hear her. ‘That’s because he was subbed off. You see, he wasn’t very good today. Captains never get subbed off.’
‘Oh,’ I hear Helen say as she looks around for me. She walks over. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks me.
I nod and tell her that I’m fine. Dean had an ‘off match’ but he’ll be fine soon and back on song.
‘Oh good,’ says Helen. ‘Look—I’ve got a massive favour to ask you. When are you going to write your handbook? You know—the one you said you’d write. I’ve been asked to be a promotions girl at a posh race course—you know, with horses and that. I just don’t know how I should behave there as a Wag. I don’t want to get it wrong and let my man down. I’ve also been asked to be a topless waitress at a stag party that’s being held in a private room at the opera. I’ve never been to such posh places before, Tracie. You have to help me.’
‘The first thing is not to worry,’ I tell her. Then I promise to think about this difficult dilemma and let her have my thoughts. ‘One thing I want you to remember, though, is that you can take a Wag out of a football club, but you can’t take the football club out of a Wag. Not a true Wag. You need to be clear about who you are, Helen, even if you’re surrounded by posh people.’
‘That’s great advice, Trace,’ she says. ‘I’ll try to remember that.’
‘Yes, always remember that,’ I declare, and I promise that I’ll have a proper think about her tricky situation. ‘Now, I must find my husband.’
7 p.m.
Dean has never looked sadder or more dejected than he does this evening. We’re sitting in the players’ bar with all the guys and their Wags, but my Deany is too distressed to get involved with anyone. His head has dropped right forward and his chin is resting on his chest, while his big blue eyes are shutting, trying to block out the pain and misery…the sheer horror of what happened today. His hands lay over his heart and I watch his shoulders start to heave forwards gently. He’s silently sobbing inside. I drop to my knees next to him, appalled that this strong man is crumbling before me.
I’m devastated that this should happen to him—my beautiful, talented husband. I see his hands rubbing his chest, as if trying to mend his broken heart. Then his shoulders heave again. He’s obviously going to start crying. I don’t think I can bear it.
He throws his head back and, just as I think he might start wailing in pain and misery, he emits the loudest, most disgusting belch I’ve ever heard.
‘Oooo, that’s better,’ he declares, sitting up properly and smiling at me. ‘Way too much lager.’
Sunday, 12 August (#ulink_cf2eb53a-6708-572a-b0b9-e1b293fd5e0a)
10 a.m.
Helen’s dilemma has been on my mind all night. We have an early-season party at the club this afternoon, and I know Helen will be eager to have answers to her questions. Her turning to me for advice in this way has made me realise more keenly than ever just how valuable, how essential, my Wags’ Handbook will be. I will write out an answer to Helen’s question and it will be the start of my book. This afternoon, when I hand the piece of paper over to Helen, I will tell her that she is making history by being the first person to see a piece of advice that will one day change the Wag world.
‘Paskia,’I shout, walking up to my daughter’s bedroom and knocking on her door. I ease it open and peer in. She lifts her head off the pillow and squints at me. Her short brown hair is all messed up. (I know, I know—it’s such a giveaway. Children should be born with hair the colour that you’ve dyed your own, not the colour your own hair is naturally.) I switch on the light and she throws her head under the pillow rather dramatically.
‘I need you to show me how to use the computer,’ I say, while looking around at the football posters all over the wall. It’s heartbreaking. She should have pictures of pop stars on her wall by now and have a comprehensive plan in place for becoming a groupie. She’s never going to be in a position to sleep with one, sell her story and pose topless for a national newspaper if she doesn’t start to identify some potential targets now. From what I can gather, becoming famous through kissing and telling is a sure-fire route to a night with a footballer. It’s unconventional but it works. It’s all any mother could want for her daughter.
Paskia lifts her head up. She such a big girl, with her large shoulders and chunky thighs, but she’s pretty…in her own way. She has so many freckles on her face that they’re almost touching each other. It’s a shame that they don’t—then she’d look permanently spray-tanned. I’ve thought about sneaking into her room one night while she’s sleeping and joining them all up. Perhaps if she was a nice colour it would distract from the big metal braces running across the front of her teeth.
‘Pask, I need you to show me how to work the computer thing.’
She crawls out of bed, very unwillingly, and shuffles towards the computer. Her Luton Town pyjamas are too tight. She’s obviously putting on weight again. I’m desperately hoping that she won’t develop issues with food like the ones I had when I was younger.
Pask presses a series of buttons and the whole screen lights up. ‘Whoooaahhh…’I say, jumping back from it. ‘What’s it doing?’
‘It’s just coming on, Mum. Relax.’
Finally, the machine is running and Pask ‘opens Word’—whatever that means.
‘There. Just type,’ she says. ‘Next time, use Dad’s laptop instead of waking me up.’
‘I’m not using your father as a lapdog,’ I retort. She’s getting so cheeky.
Right. Here we go.
My advice for Helen, by Tracie Martin.
I can’t work out how to do a little heart above the ‘i’ in Tracie, so I’ll have to write that on by hand afterwards.
Rules for a Wag forced to endure events that are not really very Wag-friendly. Specificalorie—the opera and the horse racing.
Opera can be a trial for any human being to endure, let alone a Wag who will find herself feeling particularly uncomfortable at the sight of very overweight women screaming at each other in Italian. Once the bunch of fat tarts have finished their screeching, with a bit of luck you’ll get a half-tasty bloke on to sing, but nine times out of ten he’ll be fat too, and probably sweat a lot and have a beard. In fact, I think there is really only one male opera singer and he’s called Perverted-hottie, or something like that, and he’s not very good because he just sings the song that he nicked from Italia ‘90 when Gazza cried. It’s called ‘Nests on Dormouse’, which is clearly nonsense.
If you are forced to go to the opera, obviously make sure it’s being performed in a theatre. This may sound like rather an obvious thing to say, but it is important to remember that some people go to watch opera in parks and fields. Fields?! You should avoid fields at the best of times in case you get foot and mouth disease, and I’m sure it goes without saying that you should particularly avoid them when there are fat people singing in them.
Now, as well as opera, another posh social event is horse racing. The nice thing about this is that it does have quite a ‘chavvy’ edge to it—what with the links with gambling and drinking—so it’s not quite as ‘otherworldly’ as opera is, and there’s no reason why a properly dressed Wag should not fit in perfectly. So—how to dress. Obviously, having a ridiculous hat with loads of feathers poking out of it so you look like a bleedin’ budgie is a good start, as is making sure that you’ve got your hemlines exactly right. I think that, because it’s quite a posh occasion, you should have your dress covering your knickers, but only just! A little flash of gusset is always nice (if you’re going to adopt this style of dress, remember not to wear crotchless knickers!).
Obviously, when it comes to choosing colours, baby pink is always nice. Making sure the outfit is expensive is vital, and in manmade fibres where possible. If you can find a top for £500 made entirely of nylon—snap it up. They’re hard to come by. If you don’t fancy pink (and if you don’t, you need to ask yourself why not?) then just go for colours unknown to Nature.
Picking the right size for your outfit is crucial. You know how it is when you see someone in clothes that fit properly—they look so dull and plain. Always dress at least a size too small, making sure as much flesh as possible is on display. This strategy works particularly well with bigger girls.
You need to make sure your skin has been heavily spray-tanned (again—the colour you’re aiming for is one that can safely be described as ‘unknown to Nature’). If you haven’t had a spray tan (and, again, if not WHY NOT), then make sure your skin has been turned bright lobster-pink by the sun. Certainly, you don’t want white flesh on display. That would be like having natural hair or small sunglasses or a small handbag—no, no, no, no. If you have a small dog, take him in a silly little basket and put a ribbon round his neck to match your outfit.
There. That’s good. That should really help Helen.
2 p.m.
‘Oh my god,’ shrieks Helen. ‘You are a complete genius.’
I’ve just handed her the sheet of paper with my advice for Wags in compromising (i.e. posh) social situations on it, and she is delighting in the words as if they were made of diamonds.
‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ she says, while I stand back, a little embarrassed at how loudly she’s speaking, and a little frustrated that there’s no one near enough to hear it all. Half of me wants to say, ‘Oh please, Helen, do be quiet’, while the other half wants to say, ‘Speak up, love, Mindy can’t hear you.’
Dean really didn’t want to come to this party today. ‘They’re always crap and there are three old episodes of Minder on UK Gold this afternoon,’ he said. But I know it’s because he’s embarrassed about yesterday, and doesn’t want to face everyone. I asked him but he said, ‘No, it’s just Minder, sweetheart. I love it. It really cracks me up.’ Admittedly, he does love his Minder, so perhaps it’s a combination of the two things. I managed to get him here by promising that we wouldn’t stay long, but now he’s here he seems to be really enjoying himself. That’s the thing with my Dean—he’s a bit like a seven-year-old. Once you get him away from the television he has a really good time, but while he’s watching the box, peeling him away from it is almost impossible—like peeling the skin from a potato with your teeth.
‘Awright, babes,’ he says, coming up to me. ‘What was that bird saying?’
I tell him about the help I’ve given Helen and how grateful she was and Dean gives me a big hug. ‘You’re a doll,’ he says.
Dean’s looking great today. He’s got his mirror shades on and low-slung jeans with a white T-shirt and loads of bling. He’s got all his rings on together, which I think looks really cool. He’s carrying his jacket over his shoulder. I was trying to show him how to carry it with just one finger, but after the incident when someone pulled the jacket and almost broke his finger he clenches it in the palm of his hand these days.
‘I’m gonna get a lager,’ he says, turning and walking towards the bar in a manner that reminds me of Happy Days and that bloke called The Fonz. It was on the telly when I was really little and they keep re-showing it on UK Gold. I think Dean’s watching too much of that channel. As he gets to the bar, he moves to run both hands through his mousy brown hair, forgetting that he’s got his jacket in one of them. He almost takes out the Luton Town directors as his jacket swings wildly. I can see him apologising, mopping up drinks and throwing his jacket down on a nearby table. Bless him. He’s so cool is my Dean.
He saunters back over and I find myself becoming obsessed with the miracle that his trousers are staying on at all. They are so low-slung that his Ralph Lauren pants are showing (he finds the Calvin Klein ones too loose). How does he do that? They’re barely over his hips yet they manage to stay there.
‘Mich is over there,’ he says, pointing towards the other side of the bar.
We’re in the Luton clubhouse and it stinks of alcohol from last night. I preferred it when people smoked in here, at least it hid the smell of sick and beer. The other side of the bar smells worse than this side, but it’s where most of the single players are, so I can see why Mich would be over there.
On this side it’s all coupley. I wave over at Suze as she waddles in wearing great multicoloured hot-pants and matching high-heeled shoes.
‘Wow!’ I say. ‘Are they Pucci?’
‘Yes,’ she answers, pulling out a cigarette and reaching for her lighter. She’s so heavily pregnant now that her stomach gets in the way when she bends down, so she has to sort of crouch with her legs open, allowing her enormous stomach to drop between her knees. It’s at this point that I’m reminded of an important lesson: never open your legs really wide while wearing hot-pants and being heavily pregnant if you have not had a bikini wax.
‘You shouldn’t be smoking that, should you?’ asks Mindy, striding in behind her. Mindy looks like a goddess. She’s wearing a tight satin basque and…well, that’s all she’s wearing, really. She’s done that thing that Sienna Miller did, and come out in her knickers. Luckily, Mindy—like Sienna—has the body for it.
‘I’ll smoke if I want to. Just because I’m pregnant doesn’t mean you can tell me what to do.’
‘No—I don’t mean because you’re up the duff, I mean because of the no-smoking laws. I know it’s fine to smoke when you’re pregnant. Christ—I’d take it up if I got pregnant, even though I don’t normally touch cigarettes—it keeps the baby small.’
Sunday, 19 August (#ulink_8b276a3a-af99-55f6-9be3-7b107f92e23e)
Midday
‘Darling, darling, darling. It’s Angie here,’ says Mum. She’s talking into the answer-phone because I can’t face picking up. ‘I’ve heard the news…I’ve been trying to call all morning. I was going to pop round, but I’ve been in your house every day this week and I simply couldn’t bear to come round again. How’s Dean? Tell him to call me if he needs anything. Maybe I should bring him some of my tea made from mud taken from the claws of African spider monkeys. Or there are some tablets containing the resin from the Umbaka tree. It’s collected by tribesmen who keep it in their nose for ten days before it’s dried in the sun.’
Luton Town lost again. Dean was subbed off again. Two weeks, two defeats. No own goals for Dean yesterday, which obviously made a pleasant change, but he was, in the words of the fans that I followed out of the stadium, ‘fucking crap’.
I reach for the handset.‘I’m here, Mum,’I say, adding, ‘Dean will be fine’ with more conviction than I feel.
‘How many times do I have to say don’t call me “Mum”,’ she huffs. ‘Call me Angie.’
Dean is sure that she wants me to call her Angie instead of Mum because she is labouring under the misapprehension that if I do, no one will realise how old she is. I spent years thinking she didn’t want me to call her Mum because she didn’t like me very much and didn’t want to be associated with me. I suspect that the real reason is an unflattering mixture of the two.
‘That’s three matches in a row that he’s been subbed off. Darling, you have to do something,’ Mum implores. ‘You could try giving him vienow juice.’
‘What’s that?’ I ask, but I’m not sure I really want to know.
‘It comes from the berries of the vienow tree…’
‘Oh.’ How nice. A simple, straightforward answer.
‘…and they collect it by sucking the juice through large vine leaves that have been soaked in the Nile.’
‘Of course they do.’
‘Three matches. It’s looking like the end, darling.’
‘Well, it’s two actually, and what can I do? Run on there and kick the ball for him? Take out the goalkeeper when he’s about to score?’
‘Humour is entirely overrated as a communication tool,’ she says sniffily. ‘And I don’t think it should be used at all when you’re talking about something as serious as your husband’s career…your entire lifestyle depends on him playing kick-ball well. It’s really not a laughing matter. Now—is he eating properly? Does he take enough supplements? Wild yam cream? Maybe he should be taking human growth hormones. A lot of these athletes do.’
‘Yes, and then they are banned for life,’ I say.
‘Such negativity,’ she replies, spitting out the word ‘negativity’ at me. I know she’s rubbing her temples as she says it, and lifting her chin to the skies. ‘Breathe deeply, through the nostrils,’ she is saying. ‘Take three drops of mimosa flower extract every hour. Think happy thoughts…always.’
The trouble with Mum is that she lived in Los Angeles for ten years. Once I was old enough to look after myself, she headed for the bright lights, convinced that she could make it as a film star. The major movie career never materialised, but she returned with the face of a thirty-year-old, the breasts of a sixteen-year-old and a nauseatingly positive attitude. Now it’s the gym every morning, pilates every afternoon, and 257 different supplements in between. She’s painfully thin and looks permanently surprised. Her hair is the colour of corn and her eyes have gone from hazel to sapphire. She took some getting used to—especially the body shape, with the tiny, tiny waist and the enormous breasts. I kept thinking she was going to fall over. I’ve had my breasts done recently, but they’re nothing like as large, full or youthful as my fifty-three-year-old mother’s are.
‘Darling, I need to know the gossip while I’m on the phone—is that delectable Andre Howchenski going out with that dope Michaela? Did I hear that correctly?’
‘Well, I’m hoping so. She met him after the game yesterday and really likes him. I think they’d make a lovely couple.’
‘He’s too good for her,’ she says. ‘It won’t last.’
I don’t want to debate this with my mother because I want so much for it to work out for my lovely friend that I can’t bear to consider that it might not. I can hear bells ringing in the background on the phone. ‘Where are you, Mum?’
‘At church,’she replies in her singsong voice.‘Praying for Dean. Praying for both of you. Praying that this phase will pass and that I won’t be the mother of a woman who’s married to the bad player from Luton. I’m praying for you, too. Marrying a footballer’s the only decent thing you’ve ever done. Let’s hope it doesn’t end. You do understand how bad this is, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, because I do know how bad it is. I’m no Bobby Charleston but I know that the captain’s supposed to stay on the pitch and, ideally, contribute to the match in some way other than scoring own goals.
Dean realises it too. ‘They’ll probably sell me,’ he said last night, as if he were an old car or an unwanted sofa. ‘Free transfer to some god-forsaken place.’ It had made me shudder. What if the new place was somewhere dreadful like Sunderland?
‘I don’t think prayers are what he needs right now,’ I say, slightly unkindly, but I hate the way she insists on making a huge drama out of everything. ‘Anyway, I didn’t know you were religious.’
‘I’m not, silly. I’m not here to pray, though I did light a candle for poor, poor Dean. No, I’m here because there’s a woman who comes to church who I want to befriend because she runs the best pilates classes in the area and is booked up for twelve months. I thought I would bump into her and become her best friend.’
‘What? You went to church to befriend some woman?’
‘Not some woman—the pilates teacher to end all pilates teachers. If you want to befriend someone, you just follow him or her and start talking to them. I learned that in LA. She went to church, and so did I.’
If you want to befriend someone, you just follow him or her…I find myself thinking. Just follow them.
