Thursday 29 May
Oh God, oh God. Head bad, bad head. Not good head. Phone ringing, head hurting. Bad drinking has happened. Phone ringing. Need staff. Ooooh … hurting.
‘Mmmm,’ I slobber into the mouthpiece.
‘Morning, darling. How are you?’ comes a bright and breezy voice. ‘Wondered whether you fancied coming jogging?’
‘No. Fuck off,’ I say, throwing the phone down. What sort of weirdo makes crank calls like that at this time in the morning?
The phone rings again and I lift the receiver angrily, but before I have chance to howl abuse the same perky voice insists, ‘Darling, it’s Sian. Don’t hang up.’
‘Sian,’ I say. ‘Oh. Sorry. What are you doing up at this time in the morning after the party last night?’
‘It’s 11 a.m.,’ she says, as if that makes it all right. ‘Come on, up you get. You’re in LA now. Time for a jog.’
‘Sian,’ I say patiently, ‘my feet were made for slipping into colossally high shoes. They were made for staggering out of nightclubs at 4 a.m. They were made for pedicures and toe rings. They were not, I repeat not, made for jogging.’
The pain and fear at the mere thought of putting on trainers, let alone jogging in them, runs through me like money through my hands, like Cristal through a Wag.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Deary me, are you always like this in the morning? Are you an evening jogger? Have you taken your supplements yet?’
‘Yes, no, no,’ I say, and she laughs so loudly I almost drop the phone. What is it with these enthusiastic Californians? Why are they all so cheery and full of life? It must be the weather.
‘Well, I’ve been for a run along the beach and a swim If you don’t fancy coming out I may just warm down, get a stretch and some yoga done, then come over and see you. How about that?’
‘As long as you do it quietly,’ I say, and she’s gone … off to throw her legs round her neck and push her shoulders between her knees. God, I need a drink.
Noon
Sian’s enthusiasm, healthy glow and general positive attitude are starting to make me feel quite queasy. She’s sitting bolt upright, legs crossed, beautiful soft blonde hair falling down her back and hands upturned. As she breathes she emphasizes every breath out. ‘It’s pilates breathing,’ she says. ‘It makes you feel centred. Would you like me to show you?’
‘No thanks,’ I say sulkily.
‘It was so lovely to have a little drink last night. I haven’t had a drink for years, but I measured three whole teaspoons of vodka into my fresh cranberry and Goji Berry drink.’
Ah, that’s how she looks so much more healthy than me – she was using a teaspoon to measure out her alcohol while I was using a bucket.
‘I hope I wasn’t too drunk,’ I say. I’m being polite. The truth is that I don’t think there’s any such thing as ‘too drunk’.
‘Not at all. You were fabulous, Tracie,’ she enthuses. ‘You really made the party swing.’
Oh, good. I didn’t make a fool of myself. That’s a relief, and a pleasant change.
‘Were you OK after the fall?’ she asks.
Oh, no.
‘Fall?’
‘Yes, you know – when you went flying across the kitchen floor while showing us your Pussy Cat Dolls impression.’
‘I did what?’
‘Do you not remember? I guess you must have tripped on one of your shoes when you got up after the back spin.’
Oh God. Back spin. Why?
The news of my little performance certainly helps me to understand why my hair’s so matted. I don’t remember anything after about 11 p.m. It was all one big, happy blur as far as I was concerned.
I move my hand to my hair, and subconsciously comb my fingers through as Sian chats on, reminding me of the ‘fun’ party guest that I was. ‘Then you climbed onto his shoulders and started singing a Kylie Minogue song!’
A large clump of hair comes off in my hand.
‘Oh my God,’ shrieks Sian. ‘Do you have alopecia or something?’
‘No. Just the extensions,’ I say. ‘I must have been sick in my hair last night. I do that quite a lot, then the acid eats through the glue holding them in, and they start to come loose. No big deal.’
‘Oh my God. You were sick? Have you taken supplements? Why were you sick? Let’s take you to the ER.’
‘Because I was off my trolley,’ I say gaily, adding, ‘A champagne chuck. The very worst kind of sick!’
‘You drank so much last night that it made you sick? You need to be more careful,’ she says, stretching so far backwards I think she’s going to topple off the chair.
‘Whooah,’ I say, leaping up to save her.
‘I am totally balanced. I have a strong core.’
And I think, Sian, I really, really like you, but you don’t half talk some bollocks at times. I mean, if she lived anywhere but LA they’d be locking her up.
‘Do you not ever think, Sod it, I’m just going to drink all night and sleep all day, and sod the exercise?’
‘No!’ she says. ‘Your physical and spiritual well-being must be your primary concern as a responsible adult. If you don’t look after yourself, no one will.’
I kind of see what she means, but it’s all so boring having to exercise and take herbs and stuff. This whole hippy world reminds me of Mum too much. She went off to live in LA for ten years, but even before that she was obsessed with anti-ageing remedies and covering herself in absurd potions. I grew up in a house with a kitchen that had thousands of pounds worth of supplements in the cupboards, and no bread. There were all sorts of lotions and potions in the fridge, but no milk. I’d wake up to the sound of chanting and go to sleep at night to the sound of the treadmill. Mum’s spiritual and physical well-being was perfect. Trouble is, she never smiled. I’d take a bundle of good times and loads of happy drinking over daily yoga and soya bean soufflé any day.
3 p.m.
Paskia-Rose has gone out all excited because she’s meeting up with the LA City Raiders Ladies team for the first time. Meanwhile, Dean’s come back in from the club and he’s all fed up. He says that everything’s going really well, and he’s confident that he can turn around their fortunes very quickly with some simple adjustments (don’t ask me what they are – I have neither interest in nor understanding of what he does), but what he’s finding hard is the fact that everyone drives in LA. Everything’s so far away from everywhere else that there isn’t even the same cab mentality that you get in London or New York. Or Luton. For Dean, who can’t drive and has never driven, it’s proving a bit of a strain.
‘You’ve got Gareth,’ I remind him.
‘I know, but I wanted him to take Paskia-Rose to the Ladies’ training session, and there’ll be times when you need him. No, the truth is that I need to be able to drive myself, then I can just come and go as I please.’
‘OK,’ I say, reaching for my keys. ‘Then, my lover, I shall teach you.’
5 p.m.
Ladies and gentlemen, praise be to God, for I am not the worst driver in the world. Oh, no – that honour goes to my dear husband. He’s useless! In fact he’s so useless that I’m in fits of laughter all the time, and that, of course, is not making things go any more smoothly.
‘I’d