It was a rainy evening in Worsley, England. David Beckham stared out of the window of his expensive home. There was little to see, apart from the drizzle and the usual photographers across the street. Usually there were at least ten of them, waiting for his every move. But he had stayed inside all day and the depressing weather had driven most of the vultures away to some other victim's house.
David took another drink. He still felt miserable, even lonely. His fiancée Victoria was off to some concert with the remaining Spice Girls. And he had not been in the mood to join her. In the old days they could occasionally sneak out together, to some party or some friend's place. But nowadays wherever they went the press hunted them down like they were wanted criminals. And all this because of one stupid foul for which he had apologised anyway.
Life had not always been this cruel. Only a few weeks ago he had been the golden boy of English soccer. One of the best players of recent years and certainly the most attractive. His great skills had long been apparent to the many followers of the world's most popular game. For Manchester United he had performed magnificently, even scoring one of the most memorable goals ever. A terrific kick from within his own half which had totally dumbfounded the Wimbledon-goalkeeper and delighted everybody else.
He had been an obvious choice for England's worldcup squad. With Paul Gascoigne a shadow of his former self, Beckham was one of the few, perhaps the only one, who could bring some creativity to the side. But to David's astonishment, manager Glen Hoddle had not even picked him for the first match. The result was predictable: England beat Tunisia but it was an uninspired game. Then came an unexpected defeat against Rumania and the English worldcup-dream was in grave danger.
But against Colombia David did play and how! He directed the play, scattering brilliant passes. And from a free kick he scored a magnificent goal from thirty yards. It was not only his goal that delighted millions, but also the sight of the blond hunk on his knees, celebrating. At twenty-three he was the perfect mix of grown-up athletic stud and boyish hunk.
His luck was to change dramatically though. In the second round against Argentina he started well enough. And what a match it was: 2-2 at half time, with that other gorgeous teen idol Michael Owen scoring an unbelievable goal. But at the start of the second half David was brought down and as he lay helplessly on the pitch he kicked the culprit. It was a worthless kick but it happened in front of the referee who sent him off. The rest is history: England was knocked out on penalties and Argentina went on. On to a memorable defeat to Holland in the quarterfinals.
Then it started: The English, and especially the gutter-press, in desperate need for a scapegoat, turned against him with great fanaticism. One national newspaper had the headline "Ten brave heroes and one stupid boy" all over the front-page. When he went to New York with Victoria, for a short holiday, the paparazzi followed them everywhere. He feared he had just replaced the late Princess Diana as the most hunted person in Britain. And one silly mistake had caused all that.
Coming home had done little to change his mood. Occasionally the phone would ring and some drunk would shout abuse at him. Or it would be a journalist whose first question would be: "How do you feel, having left down your country?" Although he tried to act sturdy, it was far more than David could stomach. And now he was alone. Alone with his thoughts, with his worries and his beer.
Suddenly the doorbell rang. It startled David. He was not expecting any visitors. Reluctantly he walked to the front door and opened it.
"Hi Becks..."
Luckily it wasn't a drunken "supporter" or a tabloid man. It was his Manchester United teammate Ryan Giggs.
"Hi Ryan, come in."
Ryan walked in and took off his expensive leather jacket. He shook his curly head like a puppy and waterdrops spattered across the hall. He giggled.
"Sorry 'bout that. Terrible weather."
"Oh, that's all right Ryan."
The boys entered the living room. Giggs sat down in one of the posh designer-chairs. He looked around.
"You all alone? Where's Vicky?"
"She's off to some concert. I don't think she'll be back this weekend. You want a beer?"
"Please."
David went to the kitchen to get it. He was pleased Ryan had come to visit him. At first they had been seen as rivals. Beckham had been called "the new Ryan Giggs." But they had proved they could play well together. And they got along really well too. Ryan was only a year and a half older than he was and they shared many interests. They both loved expensive clothes and cars. And they were often seen at only the trendiest nightclubs. They had a lot in common.
He brought his friend a designer bottled beer and sat down on the sofa. For a moment he was silent. He took a good look at Ryan, who was certainly worth one. Of course he had a nice athletic body. All great footballers have. But he had beautiful brown eyes and cute curly brown hair too. Before Beckham came on the scene Giggs had been the favourite of the young girls on the stands. But David was in a league of his own as far as looks are concerned. And he knew it.
"So," said Ryan. "How have you been?"
"Oh. Just terrible."
Ryan felt his mate was telling the truth and felt a bit uneasy. Of course he knew everything that had happened. Hey, they have television in Wales too! But what was he supposed to say? He said nothing.
David stretched himself and wiped his long bleached blond hair from his forehead. He took a sip of his beer.
"It's bloody ridiculous!" he blurted out.
"What is?"
"The way everybody behaves. It's like everyone is down on me. And those goddamn photographers. They drive me mad!"
"Oh, come one Becks. They're not worth it."
"Really man, they follow us everywhere. Did you see those pics they made in New York?"
Ryan had and it had been pretty embarrassing. David and Victoria had gone to the States to get away from it all. Instead they had been hounded and the pictures of the young couple had been all over the papers. Holding hands, she touching his gorgeous butt, the great British public had been seen it all. And everything accompanied with the usual derisive captions. David had become Fleet Street's favourite hate-figure.
"Yeah, I did. But so what? This'll blow over."
"Will it? They seem to enjoy it."
In one gulp he emptied his glass. He now knew what he wanted to do tonight. He wanted to get really drunk and his pal Ryan was going to be his drinking-chum. And so it happened. They drank a few more beers and then turned to whiskey. And as night progressed the mood got more and more emotional.
"You know," said David. "I'm really thinking of moving. Victoria wants to move to Italy anyway. So why not? What's left for me here?"
"Man, you can't be serious! Think of us; think of all your pals here. Think of your family."
David sighed. He had thought of that too. It was some dilemma. But he knew things couldn't go on the way they had. These past few weeks had been a nightmare to him.
