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Previously...

I heard a cough and opened one eye. The sun was streaming through the window but my attention was drawn to Mummy and Auntie Monica standing at the end of the bed.

I pushed a lock of Andrea’s hair out of my eyes, removed her hand from my left breast–had it been my other one, would she be feeling a right tit?–and wished that she would stop snoring. I was going to dig her in the ribs but I’m not that kind of girl.

‘Feeling better love?’ Mummy asked.

‘Erm, yeah.’

‘Good, you’d better get up; we have a doctor’s appointment.’

I dug Andrea gently in the ribs.

‘Wwwwha’–?’ she mumbled sleepily.

‘We have visitors,’ I hissed as the two women looked on without any expression on their faces.

‘Who, what, when–oh bugger–!’

Andrea had woken up.

‘Andrea Tyler, what have I told you about swearing?’

‘Sorry Mum.’

‘Don’t “sorry Mum” me, young lady. Now get up, you still have school to go to and if you want to use me as a taxi service, you had better get your finger out–I mean–oh, hurry up!’

They both turned to go. I had to know.

‘Mummy?’ they both turned to look back.

‘Are we in trouble?’

‘You would have been if anything had happened, but we trust you.’

‘Yes,’ said Auntie Monica, ‘and we know that you deserve that trust.’

They both left and for some reason I burst into tears–closely followed by Andrea.

And so began another bright day.

And now the story continues…

You may think that the life of a so called football superstar is exciting, but standing on the pitch at Villapool with it raining cats and dogs, stair-rods AND coming down in buckets all at once, shivering in my thin red polyester shirt and the water running down my pony tail and dripping uncomfortably on my equally thin polyester shorts, this star wasn’t feeling particularly super.

It was Saturday and I had managed to get over the slight knock that I had received in last week’s Charity Shield match. For those who are interested in these things, my period had near enough finished now until that glorious day, about twenty-or-so days hence when Auntie Flo would return.

I hoped that next time it wouldn’t be so bad–mentally anyway. I hated being a bear with a sore head and feeling so rotten all the time. I had visited the doctor’s earlier in the week and after an examination which was awful and very intrusive, I was put on the pill–yes that pill. Not because Mummy and Auntie Monica caught me in flagrante delicto whatsit or anything, but because it helped ease some of the nastiness of my periods. I have crossed all my fingers and toes in the hope that it might help a bit.

We still awaited the judgement, regarding Ferris. Our solicitor thought that sometime during the coming week he will be sentenced. I am a bit worried that his ‘friends’ might want to get me somehow and I think that Danni and Charlotte are keeping an even more careful eye on things so that I won’t be caught in a situation where I might be in danger.

Mind you, I couldn’t worry about that all the time and I have sort of pushed it to the back of my mind and tried to concentrate on being what I am first and foremost, a professional footballer.

The whistle blew and I was pleased, as I could now work up a sweat, as I was freezing out there!

The crowd was large, a full house in the old stadium that Villapool were still using. A new one was being built on the outskirts of town with three times the capacity of this one. The supporters were right near the pitch and any stray comments like ‘get yer knickers off’ and other supposedly savoury and witty comments aimed at me were heard clearly as I ran up and down the wings in search of the elusive and slippery ball.

Our fans were behind one goal and at least I got a welcome from them when I was up that end. The match was finely poised for much of the first half, with me trying to stay on my feet and play intelligent football and failing miserably as I couldn’t keep on my feet and my leg began to feel a bit sore again.

A Villapool defender with an unpronounceable Russian name ending with ‘ov’ managed to slip over and gifted me with the ball. Looking up, there was Ogsood running into the area waving and flapping his arms so much that I thought he was in danger of taking off.

I obliged and crossed the ball hard at head height towards him. He was having his own battle with another Villapool defender who looked about eight foot high to me but was, in reality, ‘only’ six foot six in his stockings.

This Neanderthal nudged Petre away and knocked the ball out. We shouted penalty and the ref decided that it was a fair challenge and not made with intent of grievous bodily harm, so in his wisdom–or lack of it–pointed at the corner post for a corner.

As I was the nearest and couldn’t be trusted in the box due to my being vertically challenged, I ran over to take the corner.

The box was a heaving mass of testosterone–mind you, the way some of the players were hugging each other, it was wonder that they were actually prepared for the corner–I wouldn’t have been surprised if they were exchanging phone numbers. In fact, the referee decided that some of the lads were getting too up close and personal and started shouting and gesticulating at them. It made no difference though; as soon as his back was turned they were at it again like footballing rabbits.

Bearing in mind that it was raining so hard that it would put an Amazon rain forest to shame, I placed the ball carefully by the corner flag on the edge of the arc. The howling taunts of the Villapool supporters were loud in my ears as they were no more than twenty feet away from me. I ignored the suggestions regarding parentage and self-abuse, stepped back a few paces nearly slipping over and colliding with a ball boy in the process. It was so muddy that I found it difficult to stay on my feet, but I was determined to put the ball in the box come hell or high water–high water being the most likely. I apologised to the boy who looked shaken not stirred, and then replaced the ball on the spot as it had moved a centimetre to the left.

There were cries of, ‘get on with it’ and ‘don’t break a nail, darlin’’ from some of the witty characters behind me, but I treated such comments with the contempt they deserved. Anyway, as I say, I stepped back, looked up, judged the distance, and through the rain saw the upraised arms of all the lads who wanted the ball.

I strode forward determinedly, my eyes on the ball and focused on one thing, to get the ball where it needed to go. I reached the ball, swung my right foot back and then, with the precision of a surgeon swung my foot at the ball–and slipped over on my rear end. In the process, the ball connected with the toe of my boot and went high in the air. I didn’t see what happened as I was flat on my back with oozing mud oozing into places where it ought not to ooze.

The fans laughed and I heard the words ‘dumb blond’, ‘silly cow’ and ‘stupid bitch’ coming from behind me and then there was a strange deathly silence that was strange followed by some cheering and shouting coming from the other end of the pitch where our discerning crowd of supporters were. In seconds I was pounced upon by our players who were kissing and hugging me for some reason–

With difficulty–because the liquid mud on which I was lying had the consistency of Mummy’s attempts at gravy last week; I was helped up and saw the replay on one of the two big screens at either end of the pitch. I will gloss over the fact that I fell over and move swiftly on. I saw the ball leave my boot, loop up into the air, come down almost vertically, bounce once and then go into the far corner of the net.

The keeper had slipped over, bringing several of the hugging players down with him like some sort of frenzied and sordid orgy, leaving the far post free of players, hence the goal.

‘GOAL!’–I think.

At the end of the season, the BBC did–in addition to the goal of the season–the silliest goal of the season, modesty forbids me to say who won that coveted prize!

~ §~

We were one up and were trying our best to increase our lead. Sandy McPherson always told us that a single goal lead was just not good enough, so we carried on attacking and to tell the truth, we were more than a match for Villapool who seemed to be in shock after my highly skilful–if somewhat freakish–goal.

Ogsood scored in the forty-sixth minute with a superb individual effort when he outpaced the fullback, cut in and blasted the ball past the outstretched fingers of the goalie and scored.

‘GOAL!

Petre’s superb effort gave us the two goal lead that we needed. I would like to have said that I played a bit of a blinder, but I was off my game and nothing I did seemed to go right except the goal. My leg had started to ache a bit too much now and when I told the boss that, he didn’t seem too surprised.

‘It’s all right lassie, go and have an early bath, I could see that ye were struggling a bit–I think I brought you back a wee bit soon, awa’ ye go, hen.’

I went into the showers, the bath was in the men’s changing room but there was a shower in the ladies and I used that. It was nice to wash all the mud off and get warm again. My leg ached and throbbed a bit and I grimaced, knowing the physio would be pounding me again very soon–I swear that she liked her job a bit too much!

Once I had cleaned myself up and got changed into my Melchester trackies, sweatshirt and training all weather jacket– £44.64 from the club shop including free bobble hat–I made my way back to the pitch, high fived and then sat with the subs behind the Boss and his team.

Whilst I had been away, Villapool had scored a goal and were pressing for another. It was 65 minutes on the clock and we were making heavy weather of it. The rain was still bucketing down and to be honest, I found it difficult to see what was going on the other side of the pitch — were there ducks swimming in the puddle over in the corner?

Anyway, the boss was jumping up and down on the line swearing in broad Scots, but Flavio Bonetti, the rather excitable Italian coach for Villapool, was being rather verbose also: I think he was swearing in Italian, but couldn’t swear to it.

It was end to end stuff, sometimes we had the advantage, peppering their goal with shots, on and off target and sometimes they caused us problems, especially when their full backs overlapped and sent the ball across to the tall forwards.

Eventually, Torneto, (Just one Torneto sang the Villapool fans) the Italian bought by Villapool for  £17 million–plus a plate of spaghetti, pre season–got hold of the ball, feinted to the left and then right and unleashed an unstoppable shot past the flailing hands of our goal keeper Ivan Gloshter in the seventy-eighth minute.

This was followed by a dubious penalty decision when a Viilapool player tripped on a blade of grass whilst the referee was inspecting his navel for fluff. The penalty was dully converted and despite further attempts by both teams, the score finished 2-2.

It was a good result for us, away from home against an in-form team, but we were still, nevertheless disappointed that we didn’t come away with three points. Mind you they said the same thing, so it’s all a matter of opinion, I suppose.

I arrived home very late from Villapool. The coach trip took longer than it should because of a pileup on the motorway–no fatalities, but a lot of mess to clear up before the road was clear. Daddy, who hadn’t gone to the game, picked me up from our training ground with his new Merc. He now worked with my agent, John Prentiss and apart from helping me, he was responsible for several other up and coming players–one of them, Karen Bailey, top scorer for Melchester’s Ladies’ team. We all had hopes that more women would do as I did, break into men’s football. Only time would tell if I was a one off or maybe just the first of many.

As I sat in the car and watched almost all the other players go off in their flash cars, I wondered when I too would have one. I sighed, I was only 16–life was so unfair.

‘Good game love?’ asked Daddy as we moved off and made our way home.

Behind our car, another was tailing us–but it was Danni, so I had no worries on that score.

‘Eh what? Oh yes, Daddy–well no, not really, my leg is still playing up and I made a fool of myself in front of the Villapool crowd and the millions watching on the box.’

‘Well if you manage to score like that a few times, I don’t think any of our fans would have anything to complain about.’

‘Yea, but I felt a right nana.’

‘These things happen. It was touch and go whether the game was stopped due to the weather but the ref decided that it could continue.’

‘I was surprised that they didn’t supply us with water wings.’

I yawned, feeling completely drained so I just leant back and closed my eyes.

~ §~

‘We’re home, love.’

I opened my eyes and saw that we had pulled up outside the house.

‘Mmm?’ I said intelligently.

‘Hop out and go inside before you catch cold. I’ll put the car away. Go and get some sleep, you look all in.’

‘All right, Daddy,’ I said. Then I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, ‘night, night, see you in the morning.’

Mrs Moon was in the kitchen when I went in, everyone else was in bed, I think.

‘Hi, Mrs M.’

‘Hello, dear, good game?’

‘Yes, well not too bad I suppose.’

‘Want some hot milk to take up to bed?’

‘Please–you are up late.’

‘Yes, I needed to do a few things for tomorrow’s dinner. I’ll be off in a minute.’

Mrs Moon lived with her husband in the gate house at the end of the drive, so she didn’t have to go far.

The milk was hot, so after pouring it into a mug and thanking Mrs Moon, I said goodnight and then made my weary way upstairs to my bedroom.

I got ready for bed swiftly and soon slid under the duvet. Switching off my bedside light, I was asleep very quickly.

I woke up when it was still dark. I felt–or sensed–that I wasn’t alone. I could hear breathing and it wasn’t me.

I could hear the sound of drawers being opened and then a sniff like sound.

Under my pillow was a red button on a cord–my panic button. Carefully, I reached under the pillow, searching for it and then when I found it, with a trembling hand, I pressed the button hard.

I stayed as still as possible, trying to sound as though I was still asleep. I was absolutely terrified and felt sure that whoever it was creeping around could hear the fear in my breathing and the pounding of my heart.

Danni and Charlotte had tried to teach us all some self defence, but being in bed in a silky nightie in the dead of night with no lights on was not one of the scenarios that we had rehearsed.

Suddenly, the door was flung open and the light came on. The place was full of people and to tell you the truth I just dived under the duvet, holding on hard to my white bunny and paralysed with fear.

There was some scuffling and shouting and the sound of broken glass. Then things went quiet as the noise seemed to recede into the distance.

I felt someone sit on the bed.

‘It’s all right, honey, he’s gone.’ It was Mummy’s voice. She pulled back the duvet and I stared up at her.

‘Oh, Mummy!’ I cried as I flew into her arms.

~ §~

It appeared that he was a fan–short for fanatic. He was called Nigel Digby, 28 years old, no job and lived in a hostel. He was fixated on me and had been ever since I had started playing professionally. He had pictures of me all over the walls of his room and every newspaper clipping that he had collected was pasted into a scrapbook. He even had a sweaty old shirt of mine that I had auctioned for charity, which he had bought off of eBay somehow.

It appeared that Nigel was mentally ill and emotionally unstable. He should have been in a loony bin–mental hospital–but there weren’t many of those anymore, and he had therefore been placed in a hostel for people with mental issues. He was supposed to be on medication, but he wasn’t monitored sufficiently and he missed taking his pills on many occasions.

When questioned by the police, it was found that he got in by the simple means of waiting near the outside gates for them to be opened by a car coming in and then he slipped in. It didn’t help that Mrs Moon had forgotten to lock the kitchen door before going home, and Nigel was able to gain entry easily.

How he managed to find my room was easy enough to work out. I had put a notice on my door that announced ‘Suzie’s Room’ and so he had found me without really trying.

I was told that Danni and Charlotte were being hauled over the coals by their bosses due to the lapse in security, but how can you possibly take into account someone like Nigel?

~ §~

The doctor was called and I was given something to help me sleep. I refused to sleep in my room and ended up in Mummy’s bed, while Daddy slept in mine.

I slept deeply and luckily didn’t have any dreams, but that only put off the inevitable–I wakened with a pounding headache to add to the throbbing in my leg caused by my injury. Mummy hadn’t left me and it was only afterwards that I learnt that Monica was looking after Daisy and Poppy.

I went downstairs at about ten o’clock wearing my robe–I couldn’t be bothered to get dressed. Mummy stayed upstairs to make the bed and tidy up. She wanted to come with me, but to be honest, I felt a bit stifled and wanted to be alone so that I could get my head together.

I made myself some toast and a mug of tea. The place was very quiet and I wondered vaguely where everyone was and then I remembered that Monica, Claire and Andrea were going to church and the babies were probably having a nap. I had no idea where Daddy was or anyone else. Not that I cared, as I felt numb and a bit out of it–probably still under the effects of the tranquiliser or whatever it was I had been given by the doctor.

I entered the sun room with my breakfast and sat on one of the chairs overlooking the lawn. In the distance Mr Moon was raking some leaves up and I envied him his life. He didn’t need to worry about much. He had his garden, his wife and his security–what a lucky man he was.

It was a cold clear day and the frost hadn’t completely cleared yet. It was the type of morning where normally I would have gone out for a run, but at the moment I couldn’t do that. My leg ached and my head ached, and above all, my heart ached.

I felt the tears run down my cheeks as I realised that as long as I was in the limelight things were always going to be difficult for me. In my naíveté I had thought that I would be able to just play football and that was it. I hadn’t realised that I would then become public property, my life and everything that I held dear being open to public scrutiny and, yes, abuse.

How many kids my age had been attacked as I had been? Why was it that I was the target of hatred, just because I was good at something?

I sighed and then got up. I was still woozy and feeling sorry for myself. As I went out, I saw some newspapers folded on a table by the side of the door. I went over and glanced at the headlines of The Globe.

SUSAN HURST–ATTEMPTED RAPE
IN HER OWN HOME!
Last night at approximately 11.30 pm, an intruder managed to circumvent the strict security surrounding young wonder girl and football star Susan Hurst in her luxury mansion and gain entry into her bedroom.
Nigel Digby, 28, is being held in custody following his activities. It is understood that Digby is being treated for an unspecified mental illness and this may be taken into account by the CPS before any charges are brought.
This incident closely follows the very public attack by Robert Ferris on Ms Hurst at the England match against Scotland at Wembley. It seems that trouble seems to follow this talented player and it is hoped that last night’s events do not affect her playing career.
See centre pages for further details including the meteoric rise to prominence of the girl who has everything–Too much? Too Young?

I threw the paper down. It was the usual rubbish from a rubbishy paper. What was that about rape? At least they weren’t attacking me any more–probably because they knew what would happen if they did. That didn’t mean that they had stopped writing a load of balls–pardon my French–about me.

I made my way to go upstairs and almost jumped out of my skin when the hall ’phone rang.

Without thinking, I picked it up.

‘Hello?’

‘Suzie? This is Mark Millard from The Telegraph. Can I have a comment regarding the intrusion last night?’

‘No, please speak to Sheila Strong; she looks after all that sort of stuff.’

‘But––’

‘–Soreee, I have to go.’

I put the phone down, wondering how in hell’s name he got hold of our ex-directory number.

The ’phone rang again.

‘Yes?’

‘Susan? Harry Watson, The Sun. Will this latest problem make you feel––’

I slammed the phone down and then ripped the cord out of the wall, throwing the phone and charger on the floor and stamping on it. That hurt, as I used my injured leg.

‘Oh bugger!’

Mummy came downstairs and gazed at what I was doing.

‘Susan, what’s going on?’

I looked at her and just wanted to scream but I took a couple of deep breaths.

‘Sorry, Mummy, the media has got hold of our number and I just–just, oh please leave me alone!’

I ran past her as fast as I could on my dodgy leg-in tears, up the stairs and into my room, slamming the door and throwing myself on my–as yet unmade–bed.

I stayed there for what seemed a few seconds but was actually nearly an hour. I was surprised that Mummy hadn’t followed me upstairs but assumed that she thought that I would be better off being alone and getting it out of my system. Only I couldn’t. Things seemed pretty black for me and I was constantly re-running Digby’s intrusion through my head. He could have been a murderer–look at John Lennon, look at others who have been stalked and paid for it with their lives. I could be next! And what about Ferris and his so called friends; what agenda did they have?

Everything was getting too much for me. I had to be alone, away from people asking how I was, being sympathetic or even worse, pitying me.

I got dressed in record time, wearing a woolly top, long skirt and leggings. Then I put my boots on and overcoat. Brushing my hair and putting it up in a ponytail took seconds and then I was ready. I could have and probably should have put on some makeup, judging from my pale face and rings under my red, bloodshot eyes, but to be honest I couldn’t be bothered.

After grabbing my bag, I went out of the bedroom and limped downstairs. I could hear people talking in the kitchen so I went in and saw Mummy and Mrs M doing something with pastry. Mummy had more flour on her than the work surface.

‘I…I’m just going for a walk in the garden, I won’t be long.’

‘Are you all right dear?’ asked Mummy, looking up from kneading something.

‘Y—yes, sorry about the phone an'...an' swearing.’

‘That’s okay love, we all have days like this — well not really, but you know what I mean. Would you like me to come?’

‘No, I’ll be fine, it’s cold outside and anyway, Mrs Moon is still trying to teach you to cook.’

The ladies both smiled at my little deception joke but I felt a bit dead inside and not really in the mood for jokes.

I let myself out quietly and walked around the lawns and down to the lake. I shivered involuntarily and my leg throbbed uncomfortably. September was a funny month, sometimes warm and summery but at times quite cold, as the winter started to flex its muscles. Talking of muscles, my leg really ached now, adding to my misery.

I wanted to think. What was I doing wrong? Was I too much of a target for weirdoes? I continued my solitary walk and reached the boundary wall. Over in the distance, Mr Moon was continuing to clean up the leaves. An almost pointless occupation in the autumn, until all the leaves had dropped.

My mind kept returning to the things that had happened over such a short space of time. This time last year I was seemingly an ordinary, if to tell the truth, rather effeminate boy, living with one abusive and one abused parent. My life sucked big time and the only outlet that I had from my problems was my love of football.

I smiled as I remembered those impromptu games. Whoever turned up generally played. We had some great scraps and it was surprising, the level and quality of our games.

Then I was seen by a scout and the rest is history, but what a history. I was taken up by Melchester, the club that I had supported all my life and on occasion, when I could afford it, sat in the stands. In double quick time I had been propelled into the first team; I scored a series of fluky goals and a few good ones. I was the new hope for English football, according to some.

I was earning an obscene amount of money. I had people working for me. I could afford to buy our house easily and had all my new family around me and the love of Andrea too.

Before I was able to enjoy the trappings of fame and fortune, my mum was murdered by my step-dad and then he killed himself. I was attacked privately and publicly, physically and mentally–I didn’t want to think about all the negatives, I just wanted to decide what to do, but the negatives kept on coming back to haunt me.

Far over to my right, the gates swung silently open and a car drove through. It was a Ferrari–red, low slung and very sleek. In normal times I would have been interested, but at the moment, it could have been a coach and four, for all I cared.

I turned around and walked back the way I came. Whoever it was, if it was for me–I wasn’t in.

Things carried on whirling around in my mind. It was a bit like a slide show of pictures and memories, first my mum, then step dad, my first game at school, walking on the hallowed Melchester pitch for the first time. Falling in love with Andrea; Jeff and Josie bringing me into their family, Daisy and Poppy, all innocent and not aware of the problems in life they might face when they grew older. Claire, my best friend: mad, impulsive and a complete and utter screwball, but I loved her dearly–all my new friends and helpers, I should feel lucky and privileged but in my present mood, it wasn’t that easy.

Then my thoughts turned black again when I recalled in my mind’s eye finding mum on her bloody bed after being horrifically beaten up by my step father; the interview where Ferris got mad and I reacted; all the negative things like the pill incident and the intense media focus on me. So many things that were negative had happened and I wondered seriously whether it was worth it. Did the negatives outweigh the positives?

I found that I cried easily now and as I sat on a bench–in a far corner out of site of the house–with tears rolling down my cheeks, I wondered if I could go on like this. I wasn’t suicidal, I never thought that that was the answer and just left a whole heap of trouble behind and caused heartache to the ones you loved. But I did feel very vulnerable and not able to decide what I could or should do.

I put my head in my hands and sobbed. After a few moments I sensed someone sit next to me. I didn’t look up, thinking that he or she might just go away, if I didn’t pay any attention.

‘Susan–?’

I took my hands away from my eyes and sat up straight and peered blearily at the person sitting next to me with the oh-so-familiar voice.

‘Michelle–?’

It was Michelle Howard–the film star and my friend from that farce of a TV interview. We had seen each other a few times since, but as she was based in L.A. and had been filming a new block buster for a few months, I hadn’t seen her in a while.

‘Oh Sue, look at you––’

‘–How…how––?’

‘–how did I know? Well, honey, you’re all over the papers and when I rang here, I couldn’t get through so rang your mother up on her cell–she gave me her number last time I saw you, remember? She told me that you were in a state and I decided to come around and lend you some moral support. Look, girlfriend, it’s freezing out here and my hair will go frizzy if we don’t go indoors. Let’s find a quiet place inside and then we can have a nice girlie chat.’

She looked as glamorous as ever and her makeup and hair were flawless. As I walked beside her, I felt a bit plain and ordinary, but her looks are a major part of her success, me–it’s just my feet.

We sat in the sun room and Mrs M brought us both a cup of tea and some scones.

When she left, she shut the door and left us to it.

For a few minutes we concentrated on the scones which were gorgeous with jam and cream. Michelle didn’t need to watch her weight as she was very thin and I would soon work off the extra calories with exercise.

‘All righty,’ said Michelle, putting her plate down, ‘let me tell you how you feel and you can tell me if I’m right?’

‘Okay,’ I said, taking a sip of my tea and wondering what was coming.

‘You feel like you have been used and abused somehow, and have no privacy and everyone is out to get you. You are too worried to go out just in case someone takes a pop at you or a journalist grabs you or takes a compromising picture. You don’t feel safe even in your own home because that man managed to get into your room. You don’t know what to do about it and think that maybe living in a convent is a viable option. Am I close?’

I nodded, tears once again dripping down my face. My eyes felt gritty and sore and my nose was all stuffed up and runny at the same time.

‘Let me tell you a little story. It’s about a girl who always wanted to be an actress and finally made it through luck rather than design. She was successful from the start, as her first film went mega, even though it was low budget. This girl made several movies and didn’t bomb in any of them. She put it down to luck and the people she worked with but, I suppose she was quite good, as believe me the camera never lies and will bring out all your faults.

‘Anyway this girl–who you must have guessed is me–had everything, fame, fortune, the lot. Everyone who was anyone wanted to know me and be seen with me. Then the whispering started about silly things. Had I had plastic surgery on my nose? Was that man seen with me at that award a co-star or something more? I got fan mail in the thousands. I had several fan sites. People didn’t treat me like I was ordinary and put me on some sort of pedestal.

‘Then there were the stalkers, I have had three so far, none of them dangerous, thank God, but strange enough to give me the willies, as my dad used to say. How do I cope with all this? Well I could just retire, I can afford to, but I love my art too much for that. I could bury my head in the sand and hope that it goes away–which it won’t. I could never go out and do things that I want to do, as if I was like Garbo when she wanted to be left alone. I’m not that sort of person and what sort of existence is that? For better or worse, I am–to a point–public property. I have around me a team that helps keep the creeps away and protects me from the worst of these things. Alright your security team did foul up, but it was a one off, or it should be.’

She took a sip of tea and looked up at me.

‘As soon as you scored that first goal for Melchester you traded in your privacy for a public life. Like it or not, you are news, just like I am. In this country reward, success and hard work means that there is always somebody trying to pull you down. You can let them, or you can get on with your life and to hell with the petty small minded idiots who get off on bringing more successful people down. If you retired today, it wouldn’t stop. You will still be in their sights.’

‘So what do I do?’

‘You get up off the floor, and shake yourself down to show them that you don’t care, and get on with your life, making your own rules. You’ve gotten Sheila Strong on your side and she has more balls than most men: use her. You have your parents who love you and want to protect you, as do your friends. The security people, they are good, despite the mess up. Make sure they give you proper cover, not only when you are away from home but while you’re here too. Above all though, don’t let anything restrict you from doing what you want to do–as long as it’s safe.’

‘What about on the pitch? There are thousands of people at matches and any one of them could get to me.’

She looked at me for a moment.

‘There are always risks. For example, off the top of my head, it’s risky to cross the road. Also when you are in a car going 60 miles an hour and another car is coming your way and passing you at the same speed, giving a collision speed of 120 miles an hour, you pass the other car with barely a few feet between you. Do you worry about that?’

‘No, but that’s normal.’

‘Normal or not, it’s a hazard that we all face on a regular basis, but we don’t have sleepless nights over it. What do we do?’

‘Get on with it?’

‘By George she’s got it!’

‘So, what you are saying is, make sure that I’m as safe as I can be and accept that shit sometimes happens?’

‘Susan Hurst, I’m glad that your mom isn’t listening in. But as you say, shit does happen and we have to deal with it as and when it occurs. But remember, you are in charge of your life and don’t let anyone say otherwise.’

~ §~

Michelle stayed for a while longer and then had to shoot off to meet a producer. We made arrangements to meet up soon and I hugged and thanked her as she left.

I went and sat down again, thinking over what she had said. I had been through a lot to get where I was now, so was I going to let others hound me out of the game that I loved and make me look over my shoulder all the time?

I was only 16 but had had more experience of the ups and downs of life than many people have in a lifetime. I had to toughen up and make sure that the life I led was the life I wanted.

At the moment I wanted to be the best footballer and the best girl I could be. I would use my money to make sure that I had the best protection for me and all those that I loved around me. I would have problems and there would be times when things went wrong, but for now, I was going to do things my way.

The door opened and Daddy came in. ‘How are you feeling, love?’

‘Better thanks.’

He came over and sat next to me, drawing me into a hug.

‘You know, if you want to stop this merry-go-round and get off, we are right behind you.’

‘I know, Daddy. I will not be intimidated though, and I want to make a go of things.’

‘You’re very brave. I don’t know that I would be in your situation. We’ll talk about this later and maybe have a family meeting.’

‘Yes, I’d like that. Michelle has given me some advice. No way am I going to be defeated.’

‘That’s my girl. Look, Mummy’s had to go to the hospital with the twins. We think that they might have measles. The surgery’s closed so she’s popped up to the hospital, just to be on the safe side. I’m going to follow.’

‘I thought that they looked a bit under the weather earlier and they’ve been sleeping and crying a lot. Can I come?’ I asked, all worried for the girls.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah, they are my sisters and we are a family.’

‘Okay, get your coat, love,’

~ §~

After waiting in A&E for two hours, the girls were confirmed to have measles and they were given some syrup stuff to reduce the fever and pain. We were told to see the GP the following day. They would probably have it for about two weeks–poor little tykes.

We arrived home a bit later to be met by Claire, who after ensuring that the children were okay, dragged Daddy and me to the office where the computer was on.

‘Look at this!’ she said, excitedly, pointing at the screen showing an internet news website and at the top under a breaking news banner, was the screaming headline––

‘SCORPIO ITALIA IN BID WAR OVER SUSAN HURST.
 £50 MILLION OFFERED FOR THE WONDER GIRL!’

---

To Be Continued...

Please leave comments...thanks! ~Sue

My thanks go to the brilliant and lovely Gabi for editing, making suggestions that I hadn't even thought of and pulling the story into shape.