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of Contemporary Art. The area’s known as Downtown, and you’ve got your Performing Arts Center and loads of theatres there. It’s the arty part of town.’

      ‘Oh, is it?’ I say. ‘Is that where your friend the artist lives then?’

      ‘No, she doesn’t live here but she hangs out here a bit. Now then, we’re heading up into Hollywood.’

      ‘Ooooh,’ I say, hoping we’ll see Tom and Kate or Angelina and Brad. Perhaps Julia Roberts and Catherine Zeta-Jones will be out shopping.

      ‘On the left is the Egyptian Theatre. That’s a great old place. The very first Hollywood première took place there.’

      ‘Legally Blonde?’ I ask.

      ‘No, it was a bit before that. It was back in 1922.’

      ‘Really? I didn’t know they had films then.’

      ‘If you’re interested, you should go down there. They show documentaries every day about the history of Hollywood, and how it became a movie town.’

      ‘Mum, look over there,’ squeals Paskia. ‘Look!’

      ‘Woooooah!!’ I shriek back. ‘It’s the Hollywood sign. Look, Sugar Lump. Look. Oh my God. I can’t believe we’re here. Dean, we’re in Hollywood.’

      And the truth is, I really can’t believe we’re finally here after the year we’ve just had. You see, there’s one thing I haven’t told you about me yet and that’s that my mum, Angie, is horrible. I mean really horrible. I had a miserable childhood with her because she hated me. ‘Nothing personal, I just don’t like kids,’ she used to say, as she got dressed up in chiffon and diamonds for another glamorous night on the tiles, leaving me in the house, alone and scared. But it all got worse last year when I became famous. Mum tried to sabotage me – selling articles about me to the newspapers about how horrible I was, and trying to frame Dean and make it look like he was being unfaithful. I thought that was bad enough, but I was even more heart-broken when I discovered that my father, who Mum said hated me and wanted nothing to do with me from the day I was born, was actually sending regular letters and money which Mum never handed over to me. It turns out that my dad lives in LA, so if I’m ever feeling strong enough I’ll get in touch with him. Right now, though, it’s the last thing I can face doing.

      ‘Now this is the most important landmark in LA,’ says Jamie, interrupting my thoughts.

      ‘What is?’

      ‘This,’ he says, pointing to a very grand house in front of us. It’s a buttery-coloured mansion with large turrets and a wrought-iron gate. It looks like a fairytale palace. ‘Your staff are here waiting for you,’ he says.

      ‘Our home!’ I squeal. ‘Oh, we’re here!’

      ‘Wow!’ says Paskia-Rose. ‘It’s like something out of a movie set.’

      She’s right, it is, and it has been in the movies. The house has been used as a location in several films. It used to belong to some bloke called Liberace who played the piano and had fantastic, though slightly understated, tastes in clothing and décor. All I had to do to the outside of the house was add a few flamboyant Tracie touches, like gold leaf to the fountain and statues next to the marble pillars, and it was sorted. Work needed to be done inside to Lutonize the place, but not that much – this Liberace chap may well have had a bit of Luton in him, because the pictures and mirrors on the ceiling are just my style.

      While Jamie goes to the boot to get the bags and organize all the other cars following behind, the three of us rush inside, crashing into three men, neatly lined up just inside the doorway.

      ‘Welcome. I’m Gareth,’ says the first man. He’s the youngest of the three, with receding sandy blond hair and pale green eyes that have a ruthlessness to them. If he weren’t smiling I could easily mistake him for a serial killer, such is the intensity of that stare. He wears a small diamond earring in his left earlobe, and in his hands he carries a huge bouquet of flowers.

      ‘Thank you so much,’ I say, taking the floral arrangement from him. This is the guy who’s going to be our driver.

      ‘I’m Mark,’ says a man with ginger hair and glasses. He’s the DIY expert. He’s supposed to be the best carpenter in LA, and has been busy for the past couple of weeks creating my dream home, here in the Hollywood Hills.

      ‘I’m Peter,’ says the final man. He’s smaller than the other two and slightly older with dark hair and a considerable twitch that sends his head flicking from one side to the other every couple of minutes. I remember that he’s the one who’s absolutely brilliant at gardening. I got them all from a staffing agency called Buff Butlers & Weed Whackers and they couldn’t have recommended this guy more highly.

      Inside the house is a great, huge white palace of a place with six bedrooms and a truly awesome kitchen that leads to a major sitting room with white floors and three enormous white leather sofas.

      ‘It’s exactly the same as the house in Luton!’ squeals Paskia-Rose, who’s trailing along behind us. ‘I don’t believe it.’

      I’m determined to create my own little piece of Luton wherever I go.

      ‘I’ll show you round, shall I?’ says Mark, and we wander through the house ooohing and ahhhing over how lovely it is. It is just beautiful – utterly spectacular. A house fit for a Wag in every respect, from the leopardskin-covered dressing table (made by Mark himself) to the large, multi-roomed dressing area. Oh, yes, let me repeat that I have a collection of dressing rooms, all linked together to form a dressing area.

      The house has magnificent patio doors that open right up so you’re in this great LA garden, designed and maintained by Peter. The lovely thing about the garden is that there’s nothing wild or unkempt about it – it’s staggeringly well manicured, making it look like another room in the house. I’ve kept the concrete piano left by Liberace at the bottom of the garden and had it painted pink and brought up to the top.

      It’s all even more perfect than I remember from the pictures and design templates. Employing Lisaa, my favourite interior designer from Luton and flying her over to LA, has worked a treat, and these guys have transformed all my dreams and her plans into reality.

      ‘Thank you, thank you,’ I say. ‘There’s nothing I don’t like about it. It’s absolutely perfect.’

      The three men smile proudly. I think I’m going to like them very much.

      ‘There we are,’ says Jamie, as he indicates that all my luggage has been brought in. ‘Is there anything else I can get you?’

      ‘No thanks,’ I say, lying down on one of the beautiful white sofas and feeling the sun on my face. I’m so glad to finally be here. It’s been a hell of a journey. What a journey, what a journey, what a journey …

       3 p.m.

      ‘Tracie, love, wake up, wake up,’ says Dean. I look at his watch. It’s 3 p.m.

      ‘What do I have to wake up for?’ I ask.

      ‘You haven’t had a drink in ages. Don’t you want one? You’ll be dehydrated!’

      ‘Ooooh, yes,’ I cry, leaping up. ‘I’m dying for a drink!’

      There are stains the colour of marmalade on the sofa where the fake tan’s rubbed off a little, and a clump of hair extensions where my head once lay.

      Jamie is still with us. He laughs at my eagerness for a drink, shaking his head and saying that everything he’s heard about English women is true.

      ‘Pass my handbag, would you?’ I say. It’s full of alcohol. I watch as Jamie bends over to pick it up for me. He has buns of steel.

      ‘I’ve never known a girl have alcohol in her handbag before,’ he says.

      ‘Well, I guess you’ve never met a girl from Luton before

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