The WAG’s Diary
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While my swiss roll is roasting in two bottles of olive oil (is that roasting or deep-fat frying? Must be roasting if it’s in the oven), I decide to make custard to go with it. I have a sachet of powder, so I read down the instructions. Not fattening enough, so instead of using milk I decide to use melted cheese and I shove three blocks of cheese into the microwave.
Next thing to happen is the smell—kind of sickly and pungent, like car tyres, sort of rubbery. In the microwave nothing untoward is happening—just cheese melting everywhere. It strikes me that I probably should have put it on a plate or in a bowl first, but besides that everything is going according to plan. No, the smell is definitely coming from the oven.
I peel open the door and look inside. Shit. The handle of the saucepan has completely melted off and is dripping onto the bottom of the oven. Fuck. I slam the door shut and try to waft away the acrid smells with the skirt of Magda’s apron, which thankfully I put on to protect my skinny jeans. I switch the whole thing off at the mains, indiscriminately pulling out plugs until the lights on the cooker go off.
Right. Breathe. Relax. Take a chill pill, as my mother’s always saying. I take a deep breath and look across the kitchen at the utter devastation I’ve caused. It looks like a war zone—as if the paratroopers have just left. Thank god I’ve got plenty of staff to help me clear up.
‘All right, Mum?’ comes a voice from the doorway.
‘I’m fine, darling,’ I start to say. Then I see melted cheese running out from underneath the door of the microwave. Oh god. Oh no. Why do bad things always happen to me?
Midnight
We had a takeaway for supper in the end. I hate take-aways. I always think that someone will see the pizza man arriving, which would be awful (although after my experiences in M&S today, I think I’ll have to redefine ‘awful’), so I get him to pull up outside the house next door, then I give Magda the money and get her to go out and collect them. ‘Do NOT let anyone see you,’ I instruct.
Comparatively, pizza boxes are just mildly embarrassing. I hate the smell in the house (mind you, one of the happy consequences of the saucepan and the red-hot cooker incident earlier today was that it left a strong smell in the house that has disguised odour d’American Hot, odour de garlic bread and all the nasty side-order odours). I also hate the food itself, because I know that pizza is about 300 calories a mouthful, so I can’t have any of it. Not one slice. Not so much as a sliver of pepperoni has passed my lips tonight.
Now I’m lying in bed feeling deflated and useless. I’m starving, of course, but nothing new there. I also feel like a complete failure. I’ve not been as utterly useless at anything since I took up ballet classes, aged twelve, to please Mum. I hated being in the limelight back then because I disliked the way I looked so much. I was terribly overweight—like a little Buddha with a big round tummy, chubby thighs and a fat face. Everyone took the mickey out of me, especially Mum. I had little round glasses and brown hair that bushed out at the ends. It just never hung properly like other girls’ hair did. It had this awful frizz that lasted until I was around sixteen. I think the main reason I became a hairdresser was because I spent my youth experimenting with different ways to control my unruly hair. These were the days before hair straighteners and hair extensions! Can you imagine? What was the point in living?
The fact that I was so desperately shy and insecure meant that I hated dancing with anyone except my mother. It was lovely to be twirled round the kitchen by her. She smelled of Ma Griffe and was all soft and perfect-looking. Standing in a line at a bar with a dozen other girls, all much skinnier than me, and being made to bend, stretch, bend, stretch for an hour—that was no fun. But, still, I went to the classes to please Mum.
Then there were the performances. My abiding memory was of sitting on the number 11 bus on the way there, whacking my legs with my fist, hoping to break them into pieces so I wouldn’t have to perform. I didn’t manage to injure myself, of course, so I went on stage every time, looking out for Mum. But Mum didn’t even turn up. She never came to watch me in anything.
When Mum went away to LA to live, I started to lose weight. It sounds odd, and no one understood it at the time, but Jean, my psycho woman, says that I was eating to cushion myself from all the abuse my mother was giving me. By the time Mum came back to live in England I was about to get married to Dean and felt settled and happy, so her comments didn’t get to me in quite the same way. In fact, the only time she’s managed to upset me since was in relation to the wedding.
I really wanted a pink coach pulled by Palomino horses with pink manes. I wanted Dean’s nan, Nell, to give me away because she’d welcomed me into Dean’s family like I’d never been welcomed anywhere before. I wanted all my old friends to be there. I wanted a big fairytale, I wanted the whole thing to be perfect.
Mum, however, was really keen for it all to be lowkey. I remember that when I phoned her in Los Angeles to tell her about the wedding and that we were thinking of letting the magazines have pictures and making it a big occasion, she went nuts and got the first plane over here. She never went back. She was so keen to be involved in the wedding—and it was good, just more like Mum’s wedding than mine. It was odd because it was really glitzy and we had loads of fab people there, but Mum made a real fuss about it not being in the paper under any circumstances and even stopped Arsenal from putting out a press release.
‘Let’s just keep this low-key,’ she kept muttering, while flying in designers from Paris to measure her for her dress (which was way more spectacular than mine). Mum’s been like that since she got back here—really keen for me never to be high-profile and always keep myself to myself. I suppose that’s just the way she is. She’s had a hard life, so I can’t be too tough on her. My dad was a real monster—just the most evil person ever. He was horrible and he badly hurt Mum and would have nothing to do with us after I was born. I really, really hate him for the way he treated her. Thank god I found a diamond like Dean. Poor Mum.
IT HAS ARRIVED…
Saturday, 11 August—the season starts
10.30 a.m.
‘Just try to relax,’ says Mallory, examining the gleaming, silver-coloured butterflies glittering magnificently on my vibrant-pink acrylic fingernails and my matching pink toenails. She’s been painting, filing and pushing back wayward cuticles for two hours. Now we’re at the end of our morning of beautification. ‘Just sit still for fifteen minutes while the paint dries. That’s all you’ve got to do.’
I find myself nodding like a small child while Mallory packs away her things into what looks like a toolbox.
‘Can’t you find something prettier than that?’ I ask, indicating the large metal container with a stretch of my new nail.
Mallory catches sight of the butterfly wings as they flit past. She draws a giant breath and clutches her hands to her chest.
‘Be careful, Tracie,’ she says. ‘You don’t want to smudge them.’
‘But that box. It’s not very ladylike, is it? It looks like the sort of thing that you keep nails, screws and chisels in.’
Mallory smiles to herself and continues to pack everything away, managing to stop herself commenting that, increasingly, nails and screws are exactly what are needed to keep Wags like me together. ‘I’ll look for something prettier,’ she says. ‘Same time next week?’
‘Yes. I’ll need some waxing this week, too, but I’ll call you about that—my diary’s hectic. Now, would you be a darling and see yourself out?’ I offer her a heavily made-up cheek for a kiss. ‘I would come with you, but I don’t want to smudge these beautiful nails.’
‘Sure.’ Mallory smiles indulgently and heads for the door, stepping over the fluffy rug in the hallway that she says always reminds her of a dead lamb. ‘Every time I step on it I expect it to start bleating imploringly,’ she told me once, adding that when she wears her long cream coat she fears the rug might run after her, thinking she’s its mother.
I know Mallory thinks the rug’s a death trap on the shiny floor. Magda polishes the wood daily because I do like a tidy house, but I accept that it makes walking a bit tricky. I have lost count of the number of times that Mallory has put a foot on it only for it to fly away from underneath her, tipping her up and backwards and landing her on her back in a most unladylike fashion, with her legs in the air and the tools of her trade scattered liberally around the vast marble-pillared entrance hall.
I listen from the conservatory with my feet up on a cushion, cotton wool threaded through my toes and varnish still wet on my nails. No thud? Well done, Mallory! I feel like applauding. The silly girl has finally worked out that you have to step round the mat and not go galumphing over the top of it!
The door closes behind her and I know it’s time to get going. I have so much to do. My make-up needs topping up, I have to get dressed, and Doug, the driver, is coming for me at midday. I must remember to collect the car from the clamping place next week. I got a letter telling me that it’s at a vehicle recovery centre in Croydon.
It’s the pre-match lunch at 12.30 p.m. and I really can’t be late—not again. I must try to get there before pudding is served at least once this year. I ease myself off the chaise longue and place my feet carefully on the floor—walking like a duck with my toes curled up to stop them catching in the thick pile of the cream carpet.
I waddle towards the bedroom. My dressing table is neatly stacked with all the latest beauty products—lined up in descending order of size thanks to the organisational skills of my various European staff members. I attempt to push them to one side with the back of my hand, ensuring my nails don’t smudge. Christ, being a Wag is so much more difficult than people realise.
Okay, so now I have some space. I just need to sit down in front of the mirror. I place my hands flat on the dressing table and lean my weight onto them, while I hook my foot round the dressing-table stool and push it backwards. Shit! I’ve bumped my big toenail against the carved leg of the stool. Shit, shit, shit. I hop to the bed, howling as if I’ve broken my toe rather than chipped my nail, and try to examine the damage without making things worse. I feel like crying—there’s a mark right in the middle of my big toenail. There’s no way on earth I can go to the first match of the season like this! I’m just not one of those Wags who can appear in public looking like a scruff. No one would ever speak to me again, and I couldn’t bear that.
I reach for my mobile phone and dial Mallory’s number. ‘Turn round,’ I beg, tears now coursing down my face, leaving greasy tracks in my orange foundation. ‘Pleeeeease turn round straightaway. It’s an emergency.’
Outside, Mallory opens the car door and crunches across the gravel towards the house. She hasn’t left. She still has her toolbox in her hand. She confesses later that she always sits in the car for twenty minutes after visiting me before she starts the engine, because every time in the five years she’s been visiting me, I’ve called her back in near hysterics after spotting a smudge on some nail or other. ‘Don’t worry, I’m coming,’ says Mallory, as if she were talking to a four-year-old. ‘Mallory’s coming.’
I collapse onto the bed in pure relief. My shocking-pink fingernails hit the snow-white duvet and stick immediately. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’
3.10 p.m.—the season has just started
‘Why’s he doing that?’ asks Helen.
I don’t have a clue.
‘Why did the referee blow the whistle?’ asks Helen seconds later.
I don’t have a clue.
‘Who’s winning?’
I don’t have a clue.
‘Who’s playing?’
I don’t have a clue.
‘How long did you say you’d been coming to these matches?’
Ladies and gentlemen, I have a confession to make—I know nothing about football. I’ve been coming to games since I got married a couple of years ago (sshhh) but I still don’t know what they’re all doing out there. I suspect that if I were to spend the rest of my life devoted to watching football I’d still be no more able to identify a goal-scoring opportunity than I could walk past Gucci without going in.
Someone called Trevor once tried to explain the offside rule to me by saying it was like shoe-shopping. Apparently, it’s all got something to do with the fact that you’re at the back of the shop with your husband and the shoes you want to buy are at the till. When you walk up to the counter to pay for them, if you forget to bring your bag, your husband has to bring it to you—he can’t kick it to you or you’d be offside.
‘I’d be offside? If he started kicking my handbag around, he’d be offside, out of the house, divorced, and paying an eye-watering amount of maintenance, thank you very much.’
‘No, I’m just trying to explain,’ Trevor had said. ‘He couldn’t kick your handbag.’
‘No, he bloody couldn’t!’ I was starting to grasp why offside is so important. Kick my handbag? Who would ever do that? I’d rather he kicked me, to be honest.
‘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
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.