Beckham (21 page)

I hung onto that trophy. I thought I could make it my job to get it safely out of the ground. I walked out into the parking lot to look for the coach. Everyone else seemed to have drifted away and there was this eerie quiet in the air. The one or two voices you could hear sounded like they were coming from miles away. I looked up and saw Dad walking towards me. He just appeared out of the gloom, from nowhere, walking along with Mum and some other people. It wasn't as if we'd arranged to meet straight after the game: I'd been expecting to see them back at the hotel. Ninety thousand people inside the Nou Camp that night and your mum and dad are the ones you bump into by chance. We were the only people there.

Dad didn't need to say a word. He hugged me. It felt like he was crying or, at least, trying hard not to. And my eyes were tearing up too. The two of us knew what it had been like when we'd met less than a year before, in another parking lot, after the Argentina game in Saint-Etienne. My parents knew better than anybody what had happened to me since that night. It had happened to them, too, in a way. That's how it is with your children. Their lives become the most important part of your own. I knew what it felt like to be a father now, of course. So I put down the cup and just hugged my dad back.

‘Victoria hates it up north…'

‘David is joining Arsenal…'

‘…or, if he isn't, he's going to buy a helicopter to fly up to Manchester three times a week.'

There was plenty of speculation when we bought our house just outside London. The truth was a lot simpler, but also a lot less controversial. The story needed to shift newspapers, I suppose, which meant that the boring and the obvious had to make way for something people could talk about. Actually, Victoria didn't have a problem with Manchester at all or with me playing there. And as for me, I had absolutely no intention of ever leaving United. I think even the manager read more significance into us buying a new place than there was. He was aware of the gossip and pulled me to one side:

‘Why have you bought that?'

His main concern was probably that I might end up trying to commute from Essex for training. In fact, even after we talked, I think he spent a year or more believing that, secretly, that's what I was doing. He didn't realize the place was a building site. I did my best to explain:

‘London is where I'm from and that's why I've bought a house there. When I finish playing, I'll move back: my family's in London and so are lots of our friends. That's all it is. We're a family now, boss: Mr and Mrs Beckham. We've got our first baby boy. And when I retire London will be the natural place for us to call home.'

Once Brooklyn arrived and we knew we were getting married, I think instinct kicked in. We knew we wanted somewhere to bring up a family, somewhere we could always call home. We had a pretty good idea where we wanted the Beckhams to be based: north and east of London, near our parents, and not too far from the highways. We knew we wanted space for Brooklyn to run around, safely and in privacy. We knew we wanted room to have friends and family over without having to squeeze anyone in. We wanted to be able to throw a decent party. Me? I had to make sure I had enough space for a snooker table and a long enough wall for my collection of signed shirts. It was time to stretch out a little after a year and a half of living out of suitcases, stopping at Tony and Jackie's or at the apartment in Cheshire.

The place we found was in Hertfordshire, on the edge of a little village called Sawbridgeworth. The first place we looked at belonged to the boxing promoter Frank warren. I liked it but Victoria wasn't sure: perhaps it would have been too big for us. The house in Sawbridgeworth hardly needed a second look: Victoria fell in love with it straight away. The buildings and the grounds were the right sort of scale. I know people call it Beckingham Palace but it's a family home when all's said and done. It's manageable without needing an army of helpers. There was plenty of work to be done to it, and maybe that was what got Victoria so excited about it. I'm like her in that I've got very particular tastes in things: you could say we've got a liking for ‘subtle over-the-top', the pair of us. What Victoria had, though, was the imagination to see how she could turn the place into somewhere we'd love. She also had a dad who had the knowledge and found the time to organize the details. Tony was the unpaid project manager for Sawbridgeworth when he wasn't running his own building business. I bet he had no idea what he'd be taking on when we said: please, we need someone we trust. It took the best part of four years to make all the changes that Victoria had imagined the moment we first drove through the gates.

Sawbridgeworth was about putting down roots. Until I pack in the game, though, I'm the same as any other player. It's something you take on as part of being a professional: your life revolves around training and games. It has to. Even one of the biggest days of my life, my wedding day, had to get squeezed into its place in the middle of the United calendar. At least there wasn't a World Cup or a European Championship to rush off to over the summer of 1999. Once I'd come down from the incredible high of the European Cup that May, and once I'd been convinced I should take off the winners' medal I had slung round my neck for days afterwards, we were able to concentrate on the planning, and all the excitement, of the Beckhams' own cup final: David and Victoria getting married on the fourth of July.

It's fair to say the Big Day took some organizing. It's also fair to say I didn't have that much to do with it. We knew what we wanted: the general idea. Life had turned into a fairy tale since the Prince met his Princess and that's how we wanted it to feel. But when it came to the details, Victoria did most of the hard work. Together, we imagined something special, not just for us but for our families and friends too. Then, the day-to-day inspiration came from the bride. We talked. I didn't have anything sprung on me at the last moment. And, in the middle of all the bustle and arrangement-making, I was allowed to have my say. But it was Victoria, and her mum and sister Louise, who took on the responsibility for getting things right.

Through the 1998/99 season, and after what had happened in the World Cup, we'd had to get used to the idea of thinking about security in relation to almost everything we did. But we weren't going to compromise on the day for our family and friends. We didn't want to slip away and get married in secret. We wanted a wedding to remember, both for ourselves and for the people we care most about. A big day would mean big security, though, and that pushed us towards two big decisions. One was to do a photo deal with a magazine: we realized that
OK!
's desire to protect their exclusive would go a long way
towards protecting our privacy at the same time. The other was to find someone who could take some of the pressure off the bride. So we hired a wedding co-ordinator, Peregrine Armstrong-Jones. I can't say I'd ever met anyone named Peregrine before. He was pretty upper-upper but a really lovely bloke who did a fantastic job for us: he understood what we were hoping for and made sure that was exactly what we got.

Between them, Victoria and Peregrine found our castle in Ireland at Luttrellstown. It had everything we needed and, best of all, something we might never have thought of if it hadn't been there already. The local church was a little drive away but, in the castle grounds, there was a little folly: ancient, tumbledown and a bit magical. The kind of setting in which you could dream about saying: I do. Once the bride and her sidekick saw it, ramshackle as it was, the decision was made and Peregrine got to work. There was a stream running underneath the folly and he created this setting straight out of a picture book of times past, with branches reaching overhead, fairy lights and flowers everywhere. Just enough room for about thirty members of our families and very closest friends before the big bash for everyone up at the castle later on. It was fantastic.

I loved every minute of the build-up: tasting the food, trying the wines and choosing the music. Everything went really smoothly—amazing, really, considering how complicated the arrangements were—until it came to getting the bride's frock across the Irish Sea. Now, bear in mind I wasn't supposed to see Victoria's wedding dress until the day. The people at
OK!
were so nervous about things that they chartered a small private plane to take us to Ireland. Brooklyn, me, Victoria, her mum and dad, sister Louise—with her baby, Liberty—and brother Christian had all squeezed in before the crew told us that the big box with the Big Secret wouldn't fit in the hold. Which meant the dress had to come out of the box to get it in through the passenger door. So I was sent off to stand on the runway with my eyes shut for twenty
minutes. I had to sit with my back to the thing all the way to Dublin and, of course, once we touched down, we had to go through the entire routine all over again. I wasn't supposed to see it and, of course, we had to make sure that any cameras couldn't either. Pity: the afternoon would have made quite a good silent movie.

We got to the castle two days before our wedding day. Mum and Dad flew out and other guests started arriving the following evening. We had a big dinner for everyone the night before. After the meal, Victoria and I went out in the castle grounds for a walk together. We headed down to the marquee where the reception was going to take place. There was a little grove that had been made out of branches, and holly and flowers, which people would have to walk underneath to get inside. I'd brought along a couple of glasses and a bottle of champagne. I was telling Victoria, again, how much I loved her and, all of a sudden, this soft rain started falling. On a warm summer's evening, it felt perfect. I couldn't have imagined anything more romantic.

Eventually, bride and groom had to go their separate ways for the night. Back at the castle, Victoria, of course, had the best room in the place: our wedding suite. I had to make do with another guest room downstairs. Before I went to bed, the United players and some of my mates got together: it wasn't very wild as stag evenings go. Everyone was pretty tired and we just went through and had a couple of drinks and a game or two on the snooker table. Two o'clock and sober, that was me. I wanted to look half-decent the following morning and I wanted to be sure I'd remember every second of it.

I got back to my room and started fretting about my speech. I knew I wanted to thank mum and Dad for everything, Lynne and Joanne too, to thank Jackie and Tony and Victoria's brother and sister for making me so welcome into their family: Christian had turned into something like the brother I'd always wanted to have. And then to talk about Victoria who, by this stage in the proceedings, would have become my
wife. I was starting to think that finding the right words to describe what I really felt might just have to wait for a glass of champagne and the spur of the moment. I rang Peregrine:

‘Sorry, Peregrine. My speech. I'm still not sure I'm saying what I want to. Or if I'm saying it the right way.'

He was still awake or, at least, pretended he was:

‘No problem. I'll be right up.'

Five minutes later, I was standing at the end of my bed and Peregrine had pulled a chair up in front of me:

‘Go on, then. Let me hear it and I can give you a few pointers. I'll be the audience.'

I was a bit embarrassed but he assured me I would be on the day too, so this was good practice. Almost as soon as I started, he was clearing his throat loudly and coughing. As I ploughed on, he started throwing in comments like:

‘That's not very funny.'

He started rattling his chair: anything, really, to try to throw me out of my stride. He knew the speech was going to be all right: we changed a couple of things but I didn't even use my script on the day. He was just trying to give me an idea of how standing up there, doing it in front of an audience, might feel. By the time Peregrine had finished giving me a hard time, I was ready for bed. At least I'd had some help. The Best Man, Gary Neville, had had to sweat through it all on his own.

The next morning, I was pacing about in the corridor getting myself nervous about what lay ahead. I found myself outside Gary's room and I could hear talking. He couldn't be on the phone: there wasn't one in the room. The stone walls of the castle meant he'd be lucky to get decent reception on his cell phone. I couldn't help wondering what he was up to. I opened the door as quietly as I could. Gary was standing there in front of the mirror, holding a can of deodorant in front of his face like a microphone, practicing his speech. I knew how he was feeling, of course, after the time I'd had the night before. But I burst out laughing
anyway. Gary did too. It was going to be a big day all round. I realized how seriously he was taking it when the manicurist arrived. And I was honored: Gaz had waited for my wedding day to get his nails done for the first time in his life.

The guests who'd been invited for the ceremony in the folly were starting to arrive. It was the proper thing, and gave me something to think about other than how nervous I was. I got ready and went down to the main reception to say hello. Melanie, Emma and Mel B from the Spice Girls, were almost the first to get there. They've always been lovely with me, even though I get a bit shy when I'm around them. At least, with the Girls, I didn't have to force myself to make the conversation. They took care of that. They seemed as excited as I was, wanting to know everything that was going on. Mum and Dad were there, too, just to keep my feet on the ground.

Usually, the Best Man drives, doesn't he? I'd decided I wasn't having that. I'm the world's worst passenger anyway and, although it was only two minutes from the castle to the folly, I reckoned that would be enough for Gary to take us off into the mud. What's more, the groom's car was a Bentley Continental. I wasn't going to miss driving that. I was paying for it, after all. We drove down and I saw the inside of the folly for the very first time. You could hear helicopters spinning overhead, looking for pictures but, once you'd walked up these mossy, old steps and through the doorway, the sound of the stream running underneath us drowned everything else out. It was like stepping into the pages of a fairy tale: little lights twinkling above us, red roses everywhere, ivy creeping up the walls and the scent of a forest floor. Victoria had planned all this down to the last detail and it was beautiful. I gulped back the first lump in my throat of the day.

The Bishop of Cork, who was performing the ceremony, was already there, dressed in his deep purple robes. He was a lovely man. And a mad Manchester United fan, of course. He actually arranged for the folly to be blessed so that the wedding could take place inside it. There
are twelve bishops in Ireland and, since our marriage, the other eleven have nicknamed the Bishop of Cork ‘Purple Spice'. I stood in front of the altar that Peregrine had made out of branches and twigs, while everyone else made their way inside. A violin and a harp were playing. It was perfect and peaceful and I could feel myself shaking like a leaf. Sweating, too: it was really warm in there. I looked around: our families were all there, aunts, uncles, my Nan and Grandad, the Girls, my mate Dave Gardner, Gary Neville's mum and dad; just a couple of dozen people in all. And all of us expectant, waiting. I heard another car pull up outside the folly: Victoria.