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.
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.