the fact that I’m officially the oldest Wag who ever lived (well, not officially—but married for twelve years? I mean, that’s like—old—whichever way you look at it), and discovering my daughter is set to turn into a football-playing lesbian with really short hair and earrings all up her earlobe, but I feel like weeping like a baby.
‘Perhaps she’ll be good at darts too,’ Dean says opti-mistically, turning back to the television, adding a quick ‘ooo’ as Paul Gascoigne’s hairdresser prepares to take on a guy who nearly made it onto Big Brother. ‘The grand finale,’ he says breathlessly.
We watch the finale, in which neither participant appears to get their darts even remotely close to the dartboard, me thinking constantly about Paskia Rose’s problems. She’s just finished the prep school and next term will start at Lady Arabella Georgia School for Girls, THE poshest school in Luton. What if she can’t cope academically? Does it matter? I mean—does school have any bearing at all if you’re going to become a Wag one day, which, obviously, I hope with all my heart that Pask will. In fact, isn’t an education a disadvantage? Yeeesss! Now I feel like running around the room and doing strange mechanical dances myself. All that is happening here is that Paskia Rose is turning into a Wag! Perhaps when I write my Wags’ Handbook (which I will definitely start tomorrow—it’s been a busy day), I should have a section for young girls who hope someday to become Wags? Like career advice.
‘Deeeaaan,’ I say, and he does that thing where he drops his head forward and closes his eyes, as if to say, ‘Not now, woman.’ Obviously, I completely ignore him. ‘I’m going to write a handbook to help young Wags and make sure they know how to behave. What do you think?’
I’m asking him rhetorically—his views on this, as on most other things, are of no fundamental consequence. Even as I talk about it, I feel the pride bursting through my voice like a brilliant ray of sunshine.
He’s looking at me as if I’m insane but doesn’t answer the question in any way that could be described as helpful. ‘My fucking balls are going to explode in these,’ he says, standing up and walking towards the bedroom with the remote control still in his right hand and his left hand cupping himself in a rather obscene manner. ‘I’m gonna stick some old trackies on.’
‘Do you have to?’ I am absolutely sure that Frank Lampard and Steven Gerrard never wander around the house in ‘old trackies’. ‘Why don’t we go out somewhere special?’
‘Nah,’ he says.
‘How about doing some training or something, then? Why don’t I give you a lift to the gym?’
‘’S all right,’ says Dean, quickly disappearing into the bedroom with a look that screams, no way am I going to the gym and no way are you driving me.
Good job really, because Doug, our driver, has gone home, and I’ve no idea where my car is. It had clean disappeared by the time I came out of the restaurant on Wednesday and I haven’t had the time to look for it, contact the police, or do whatever else you’re supposed to do when your car vanishes into thin air. God, life is so stressful sometimes. I bet Posh never has these sorts of problems.
Saturday, 4 August—first day of OBUD
2 p.m.
Bollocks. Where do they keep the cakes in these places? I’m pushing a shopping trolley with the sort of precision that I normally reserve for driving, crashing into the fruit section, then into the cans of soup, and then thundering into the bread products. Bread? Bread’s fattening. I reach out for a couple of white loaves that look fat- and calorie-laden and hurl them into the trolley with unnecessary force. They land with a satisfying doughy thump at the bottom and sit there, looking up at me all misshapen and sad-looking. Then I spot something…something that looks all chocolatey and delicious…perfect for OBUD. Swiss roll. Outstanding! What a find! This shopping lark’s not so difficult after all. Perhaps I should do it more often. I always do my shopping on the net. Or, rather, Alba, the Spanish au pair, does. She orders the same things every week—they’re the only items that Magda—the housekeeper—can cook. I tried to get Magda to do the ordering herself, but she did something wrong, and that intimidating timebomb thing appeared on the screen. Then Alba threw herself on the floor, mumbling something about ETA, whatever that is, and sobbing all over the tiles. She refused to get up until Magda promised never to go near ‘the violent machine’ again.
It all got me so cross, especially since the only reason we employed Alba in the first place was because I wanted a Spanish member of staff. I kept thinking that Dean might be transferred to Real Madrid or something. You know—like Becks was.
For OBUD, though, I need to take full responsibility myself—no delegating the details to Barcelona’s finest. So that’s why I’m stumbling round Marks and Spencer’s food section on a Saturday afternoon, instead of going to pilates with Gisella and Sophie—mums from Pask’s school. Not that I’m bothered—bloody pilates bores me to tears—all that business with the stretching and breathing properly. I feel like shouting, ‘I’m here because I want to be as thin as Posh, not to prepare for childbirth.’ I read that Coleen does it—that’s why I registered for the twelve-week course. This is week ten. I’ve only been once.
Oil. Perfect. I’m not sure quite how I’m going to get him to drink it, but I stick four large bottles into the supermarket trolley. Lard!!! Eight blocks of it. Fairy cakes, chips, meat pies, jam, ice cream, chocolate, cream horns, rump steaks, filled potato skins, ready-made curries, pizzas, salami, cheese (six large blocks), twenty-four cans of beer…Out they all come onto the conveyor belt towards the cashier. I throw in handfuls of chocolate bars from the till point as I watch fruit-cake, a block of marzipan, nuts, syrup, spotted dick, bread and butter pudding, pasties and sausage rolls trundling along…
‘Tracie, Tracie? I thought it was you.’
Before me stands Mindy, clutching a wisp of silk in her dainty fingers as she watches the conveyor belt with undisguised horror. ‘I’m just underwear shopping,’ she says slowly, still observing the copious amounts of food being shoved into carrier bags.
‘Do you want all this oil and lard together?’ asks the assistant, holding up blocks of the stuff. ‘There’s a lot of it. Might break the bag.’
‘Two bags, please,’ I say, through gritted teeth, my eyes never leaving Mindy’s as she tries to stop herself looking down at the beer, pizza, cakes and steamed puddings passing before her eyes.
‘Well. You’re obviously busy here. I’ll leave you to it. Nice to see you. I’ll see you for the first fat—I mean, first game.’
I smile and she’s gone. She lets the silk underwear flutter onto a nearby clothes rack as she exits onto Luton High Street, and gets straight on her mobile phone, no doubt, to tell the world about my serious eating disorder…
Bugger, bugger, bugger.
5 p.m.
‘Mum!’ cries Paskia Rose in horror and amazement. ‘What the hell are you doing in here?’
‘Don’t use words like “hell”,’ I instruct, as I take the swiss roll out of its packaging and lay it on a plate.
‘But this is ridiculous,’ she continues. ‘You never, ever go in the kitchen. I’ve never seen you even touch food with your bare hands before. Why are you here?
