Best George - Babysitting George: the last days of a soccer icon

If it weren t for my agent, Ed Victor, who believed in Babysitting George before it existed, this book would never have been written. It would never have reached its current state without the vision and encouragement of Alexandra Pringle at Bloomsbury, who was able to guide me when I needed it most. Gillian Stern has known, at every stage, what was in the books best interest; I cant thank her enough for her enthusiasm and dedication. I am similarly indebted to Anna Simpson who has patiently worked with me and always offered the best advice. Thanks too to Rob McGibbon, for the frankness of his criticism, and to Jude Drake for all her help and hard work.

When I first met Phil Hughes, all those years ago, he struck me as a novelistic hero a loyal, kind and funny man who looked out for me over the course of that turbulent time and stayed devoted to George until his death and beyond. I would like to thank him, as well as Sharon van Geuns, Bernard Ginns and David Vincent all of whom managed to retain their senses of humour despite everything George put us through. I am also grateful to all my colleagues at the time for their professionalism and level-headedness.

Many thanks to Stephen Purdew and Mavis Baird for sharing their many memories of George with me, and to Gina Devivo for her kindness over the course of that summer and her friendship since. I would also like to thank Alex Best and her mother Cheryl Pursey for their understanding during such a difficult time in their lives. Georges sister and brother-in-law, Barbara and Norman McNarry who decided that Georges death would not be in vain and set up the George Best Foundation in 2006 and his son, Calum, deserve a special mention.

Lastly, I would like to thank my husband for his forbearance, energy and enthusiasm, and my parents for their support and tolerance.

In the ten years Ive worked as a journalist, no job has marked me more than the first I was sent on: the job of babysitting George Best. At the time, I remember thinking that the car chases with the paparazzi, hasty back-door exits and blonde mistresses involved were the stuff of films; that it would be impossible to explain the warped relationship between the press and celebrities to anyone outside the media.

Now, years later, I have tried to do just that. This isnt a football book, nor is it a biography charting the rise and fall of one of Britains best-loved sportsmen. Babysitting George is a personal memoir of the scorching summer of 2003 based on the fragmented encounters of a nave young journalist with a dying star. Our conversations have been replicated as faithfully as possible from memory, notes and tapes, as have the events of that period. For clarity the various people I reported to have been collectively referred to as my boss or the boss. I hope that the picture of George that emerges is a fond one. It is certainly intended to be.

Celia Walden

CELIA WALDEN was born in Paris in 1975 and now lives in London. She is the Senior Feature Writer for the Daily Telegraph , GQ Magazine s motoring correspondent and an interviewer for Glamour magazine. She is also a regular on a number of television programmes, from the Lorraine Kelly Show to Sky News . Her first novel, Harms Way , was published in 2008.

When people expect a strong reaction its sometimes tempting to downplay things: take your time before replying, keep your expression impassive. In this case, it was impossible. My bottom lip lagged, as though the muscles holding it in place had failed, and I was aware that I had stopped blinking. Gina, on the other hand, was a picture of nonchalance. Sitting back, she observed me curiously.

Are you OK?

Yes, I stammered. Of course. Just a bit surprised, thats all. But you... when did you... Are you sure?

I think so, yes.

She got up. Maybe it was the sudden mania of movement: the filling of the kettle, and arrangement of cups and teaspoons in their saucers that brought on my suspicions.

How late are you?

A week. No, nearly ten days.

And you and George, you werent... You werent careful.

Well, you know George. Id never seen Gina blush before and yet I could see the blood rising in swatches beneath her tan. He doesnt care about that stuff.

We were both silent, and I wondered whether she really was nave enough to think that this baby, if there was one, would bring George back. Some noise overhead, a bird nesting in the thatch, broke the stasis and I smiled.

Dont you think we had better find out for sure?

The girls, ill equipped for the change in temperature, had borrowed our jumpers and lagged behind us through a pedestrian precinct in Chichester town centre, slowed by the weight of boredom and grown-up clothing. Waiting for Gina outside the chemist earlier, I had experienced a stab of guilt when I had caught them staring enviously at a group of schoolchildren amassed on a bench outside McDonalds. We had taken them out of their lives for too long. Surely now, whatever the outcome of this test, we should all be allowed to go home.

You going to be much longer, Gina? The girls are getting hungry.

She had been in the changing room of a vast clothing store for nearly ten minutes, trying on a pair of jeans spotted in the shops window on our way back to the car.

Nearly done. Her face, flustered and unhappy above a curtain pulled to the chin, appeared at the opening of one of the booths. Too bloody tight. All the biscuits Ive been eating hanging around in that house.

Perhaps it was that, along with her nervousness about the test which made her so short-tempered on the way home. Never having once heard her raise her voice to the girls, I had been surprised to hear her reprimand them both for squabbling in the back seat.

Thats enough! All I can hear is you two. Now just stop it.

Bar the odd shuddering sniff from Jessica, the rest of the journey took place in silence.

When we got back, the girls went to their rooms immediately, slamming their respective doors in protest at the way theyd been treated. Gina kicked off her flip-flops and disappeared into the sitting room. A second later, I heard the TV erupt at full blast.

Feeling, again, that Id been assigned the role of reigning adult, I gave Gina a few minutes before wandering into the room with two cups of tea.

She sat, her eyes fixed on the screen, apparently engrossed in an American soap opera.

I cleared my throat. You not curious to know, Gina?

Not really. No.

This, I hadnt expected.

Really?

I waited.

Are you scared of what the test will say?

This piqued her.

No! No.

When she finally turned to look at me, I saw that shed been crying.

Shit, Ive been through worse stuff than this, trust me.

A perfume advert featuring a model Gina was frequently compared to came on and she waited for it to finish before saying anything more.

Look, Ive been thinking, and Im not sure I want to know right now. Im not sure Im ready, she added nonsensically.

Gina... I was annoyed now. Picking up the remote from the coffee table I turned the TV off. This isnt something you can ignore. Either youre pregnant or youre not. And if you are, I persevered, he will need to know. Any father would need to know.

Im not doing it. The TV went back on. Just drop it.

I could hear my colleagues now, picture their faces as the headline George Bests Love Child was revealed in any newspaper but ours.

Gina, standing in between her and the television, I softened my voice. You have got to do this. You owe it to George.

Oh, Jesus. Her toes twitched in annoyance. Why do you keep going on about this? What goes on with George and me is our business mine actually, considering hes buggered off. Anyone would think it was you that was bloomin pregnant.

I crouched down, looking imploringly up at her. If I was... I was struggling to make myself understood. Not that I know, of course, but if I suspected I might be pregnant...