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About Learning To Fly: The Autobiography
Product Description Paperback. Pub Date :2013-11-07 Pages: 528 Language: English Publisher: Michael Joseph From the time she saw the movie Fame. Victoria wanted to be a star A line from the theme song stayed with her - Im gonna live for. ever. Im gonna learn how to fly. With this amazing book she gives us the chance to fly alongside her on her journey from lonely teenager to international star. This is the real Victoria Beckham. telling us what its like to be part of the most watched couple in Britain. Standing up for herself. David and Brooklyn. and setting the record straight about controversies that have surrounded her. She reveals the truth behind the beginnings of the Spice Girls. her wedding. her health and the terrifying kidnap and death threats . And what it took for little Victoria Adams to become the star she is today. and why she wanted it so much. Incredibly frank and told with coru... Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 'Daddy! I'm going to be killed.' 'No, you're not, Victoria. I'm right behind you. I'll look after you.’ I can't see him. We're too close together, jammed in by the crowd. But I can feel his hand on my shoulder, and his hand and his voice are just enough to keep me from screaming. Calm, in control, like he always is. Not like my mum who lives off her nerves. When people say, who do you take after, I say, my dad. But when I panic like this I know I'm like my mum. Another lurch from the crowd. I need space, air. I'm being pushed, my dad behind, me in the middle, the bodyguard in front, so big that all I can see is his back, wet with sweat. I can hardly breathe. Only one thing is louder than the roaring of the crowd and that's my heart thumping in my ears. Even when I'm about to go on stage it's never this bad. Without my glasses, I'm half blind. But I can sense the crowd towering up on my right. painted faces that loom up from nowhere, red, white and blue. A hand reaches out and pushes my baseball cap down over my eyes. I'm shaking. 'Over 'ere, Posh, Posh.' They're drunk. I can smell the beer. Laughing and shouting. Their hands sticking out, jabbing their fingers in some drunken impression of Posh Spice. 'Oi, Posh.’ 'Get yer tits out.' Don't make eye-contact, one of the Spice Girls' security once told me. That's why celebrities wear dark glasses. Like me today. So head down. A flash of a camera. Little red lights everywhere, infra-red autofocus. Like they have on guns. A lens pokes through the wire fence on my left that separates the crowd from the pitch. There are people the other side. Fingers are poking through the wire trying to touch me. That fence shouldn't be there. Haven't they heard of Hillsborough, these morons? The semi-final of the 1989 FA Cup when ninety-six people were killed, crushed against the wire? Only this week they'd had the pictures on the television again. A court case was just starting against the two policemen in charge. 'We love you, Posh.' Then laughter. 'Only kidding!' We're on the strip of concrete that runs around the pitch at Eindhoven trying to get back to our seats. I know it's concrete because I saw it on our way up; now I can't see anything. Just a blur of bodies and arms reaching out. Trying to touch me. It's Monday 12 June 2000. The Football Association had organized everything as they always do for all England away games: a chartered plane from Stansted to Brussels, then a coach to Eindhoven. The driver parked in some backstreet, so we'd had to walk a good twenty minutes to the stadium. But we'd still got there two hours before kick-off. Our seats were about five rows from the front, in the middle, opposite the tunnel where the players come out and when people saw me sitting there like a bloody lemon, out came the cameras. Some of them were press: Sky zooming in on my face. some were just ordinary people, taking a snap to show their friends. Show them what? A moody cow with a baseball cap pulled down over her eyes. I felt a complete idio
