It has been a hectic week for Victoria Beckham. Recently, she showcased her spring/summer 2026 collection at the historic Val-de-Grace abbey in Paris, with her family (with the exception of her son Brooklyn, more on that later) watching proudly from the front row.

Even more excitingly, this Thursday, a new three-part documentary highlighting her journey from a Spice Girl to a ‘global fashion icon’ (as she describes herself in the current edition of US Elle) will be available on Netflix.

The documentary, a behind-the-scenes look directed by Nadia Hallgren, is funded by her husband David’s production company. ‘David convinced me to do it,’ she reveals, so it’s unlikely to be completely candid (though Victoria has openly discussed her teenage skin struggles: ‘You couldn’t put a pin between the pimples’).

From the Netflix trailer, we learn she was ‘millions in the red… it’s taken so long to get to this point… I’m not gonna let it slip through my fingers again.’

‘Let’s be honest,’ David says in the film. ‘You could make a cheese and ham toasted sandwich, we’d be proud of you.’

‘Let’s be honest,’ she replies, whip smart: ‘I couldn’t actually make a cheese sandwich very well.’ Awww!

Victoria aims to present herself as relatable and humble – ‘If we don’t have the music, I’m just gonna have to sing,’ she jokes in the film, backstage at one of her shows. She is capable of laughing at herself and isn’t afraid to shed a tear on-camera. The standout moment from David’s own Netflix documentary was when she claimed a working-class upbringing, despite her father’s Rolls-Royce.

I applaud Victoria for starting a fashion line in 2008 when she could have taken a break with her Louboutin-clad feet up, transitioned from a WAG (a term she helped popularize at the 2006 World Cup in Baden-Baden), and focused full-time on motherhood. It was recently reported that David has paid himself a £26million dividend – funds are not lacking.

But my take on who she really is, having worked with her and reported on her catwalk shows since the beginning, is very different to the one you’re about to be peddled by Netflix.

Oh, apart from the moment she admits she has been ‘a miserable cow’ for much of her career.

My belief is that her deadpan, self-deprecating humour is expressly designed to obfuscate her steely, single-minded ambition to get what she really, really wants – which is recognition, respect, class, acceptance.

I first met Victoria at the British Fashion Awards in the late Nineties. She was as small as a sparrow in a Julien Macdonald cobweb dress, and although I was the editor of a fashion magazine, Marie Claire, she still gazed over my shoulder, searching for someone more useful to butter up. Our next encounter turned out to be even less warm. To put it mildly.

As a former Spice Girls fan, I was desperate to have her on my cover for the all-important October 1999 issue (the October issue is the one that rakes in the most advertising revenue).

The logistics took months as her public relations company, The Outside Organisation, rarely took my calls. (Even now, calling her new PR triggers my PTSD.)

We finally agreed on a date, a venue in Paris and a photographer, Patrick Demarchelier, who famously shot Princess Diana for Vogue. He died in 2022, so I’m sure he won’t mind me saying he charged £20,000 to sit in a corner with his eyes closed while his assistants set up the lighting, while mumbling, ‘Victoria Beckham, Oooo eees she?’

Victoria and her entourage almost missed the Eurostar. She insisted on bringing her new baby, Brooklyn; a message I received from the train was that the carriage ‘doesn’t look first class’.

But the cover shot was stunning – I think the most beautiful she has ever looked. She is dressed in a low-cut, pale pink chainmail gown by Versace that showcased her delicate frame. Surely this would please madam and we could all congratulate ourselves on a job well done. But oh no.

The problems started when Patrick took some candid portraits of Victoria holding her new, naked baby. Bingo! I thought on seeing the contact sheet. The black and white photos would be perfect for inside. What a scoop!

Alas, it kicked off when she arrived back in London. She hated the headline I proposed for the interview, When Posh Came to Shove, and told me that if I published the photo of her cradling Brooklyn, she would sue. She was a tiger mum from the start. The current, much-reported schism in her family, with her oldest son siding with his wife, Nicola Peltz Beckham, even missing David’s 50th birthday party, must grieve her greatly.

I admit I was a coward, so fierce were she and her ‘people’. I asked Patrick to sign the print and destroy the negatives. I couriered the framed portrait to Victoria’s house with a note telling her it was a gift, and would never see the light of day. I imagine she still has it. I never received a thank you; in fact, Victoria expressed her gratitude by failing to show up at the party held to celebrate her cover while also raising money for breast cancer research.

I doubt the Marie Claire cover is framed in her office, although I hear her 32 Vogue covers most definitely are.

When I moved from Marie Claire to the Daily Mail in 2003, her dislike of me escalated. Victoria is all about control. Fashion designers only tolerate a journalist at their shows if the writer’s hands are tied by the prospect of said brand advertising in their publication or, in this age of the influencer, the bribe of free clothes.

The fashion world makes money in an endless merry-go-round of air kissing and bony arse licking. Why is Tom Ford singing Victoria’s praises in her new Netflix series? She promised to wear head-to-toe Tom on the cover of October’s US Elle. That’s how the cookie crumbles. (Of course they don’t eat them.)

Take the launch in London’s Soho of Victoria’s ad campaign for New York designer Marc Jacobs in 2008. I found her depiction in it cruel and frankly humiliating – remember, she was dumped in her own carrier bag, legs splayed, like an obscene corpse – and in print I said so, describing her as the ‘not-so-pretty, awkward, desperate-to-be-included nerd who so wants to play with the cool kids she will do anything to ingratiate herself, even against her better judgment’.

Victoria was so in awe of a famous designer, she called Jacobs ‘a genius’. Emperor’s new clothes, anyone?

Despite my take, I had gained entry to the launch, but as soon as the PR spotted me, I was corralled. I was told that on no account could I approach Victoria, and that I also ‘must not look at her’.

‘What, not catch her eye?’

‘Do not even glance in her direction.’

Ok. I’ve interviewed the other three Spice Girls over the years, finding them open, generous and warm. That’s the difference between being a pop star and a fashion designer. Music is for everyone, inclusive and joyous.

Victoria, wanting desperately to be taken seriously, has decided to adopt the stance of every ‘luxury’ brand leader (I’m trying to think of a designer who’s nice), which is to be difficult, snooty and as far away from being mass market as possible.

In the Netflix trailer, she says ‘fashion was this creative outlet’ as if what Adele does is pot washing. If brands are not aspirational, then how can they possibly charge such high prices?

When Victoria launched her own fashion brand, such was her insecurity (when still Posh, the mini dress she insisted was Gucci was merely a copy), she doubled down on the hard-as-nails attitude. I was expressly not invited to her first catwalk show in London. I wanted to like it, but once I streamed the looks, my verdict was that it was amateurish. Her handbags seemed flimsy and poorly made.

Unfortunately, while most designers are given time to learn their craft, she was dropped in at the deep end. Rumours swirled that Roland Mouret, renowned for his bodycon red carpet gowns, was the power behind her fashion business throne.

But her craft improved, and I wrote as much.

Even so, arriving for her show at the New York Public Library in 2012, I was almost rugby tackled as I tried to gain entry. By now I loved what she was doing but, no, still I was persona non grata.

‘Don’t worry, I haven’t been bribed with a free crocodile handbag or a front-row seat next to David Beckham, who was sporting a Tintin quiff,’ I wrote. ‘I’m still barred. This glowing verdict is not grateful sycophancy. Instead, it’s acknowledgment that Mrs Beckham has talent, an eye for shape and colour and has obviously put in a great deal of hard work.’

Victoria once said she barred me from her shows as I made my criticism personal. Truth is, I wanted her to succeed and, frankly, if you can’t stomach a bad review, you’re better off working in Boots. She designs for women not column inches (a rarity), inserting long zips so you don’t ruin your hair and make-up as you dress. I own two of her dresses: they really do make you feel sexy.

She launched a cosmetics line in 2019, prompted by how much she hated how her hair always stuck to her lip gloss. She sells a £32 kajal eye pencil every 30 seconds, thanks in large part to her relatable tutorials on social media. (I get regular texts entitled, What was Victoria wearing?, which detail every outfit she steps out in. She’s a genius at marketing.)

She launched her own fragrance in 2023. She has kept her fashion prices reasonable – it’s all relative, of course, but her gowns sell for under £1,000, her bags just over a thousand; the likes of Prada and Dior are three times that. She has a pre-loved section on her website.

But I know she still believes she’s the acne-ridden teenager, desperate to belong – which is why she carries a rare Hermes Birkin 30 worth £20,000, and wears a Gold Breitling watch, from her collaboration with the brand, worth £22,000. She owns a Ferrari, but admits she doesn’t know which one; I shop therefore I am.

She believes you need to be as hard as nails to succeed and, of course, very thin: she has admitted to only eating steamed fish and vegetables, and to having a boob job then having it reversed. No cheese sarnies for Posh.

Don’t blame her too much. It’s easy for those who find themselves accepted into that luxe world, from the influencers to the editors and the clients, to have their heads turned. When Victoria lost her luggage at Heathrow, her first thought was to have a minion call Dolce and Gabbana, who duly couriered a complete wardrobe to her home. It’s an entitled world, you see it all the time at the shows: the rudeness to drivers, the turning up of a nose if a freebie voucher gifted to you at a dinner is for Jimmy Choo: ‘I only wear Louboutins.’

Maybe in fashion it’s true you need to be ruthless, given how many brands fail (Samantha Cameron’s Cefinn has just bitten the dust). Victoria’s brand, despite the free publicity, the deep pockets, the patronage of the Princess of Wales – who wore her Alina suit in May, prompting it to sell out – is not yet buoyant. Sales grew by 14 per cent last year, the fourth consecutive year of double-digit growth, but it still failed to stem losses of £1.3million, according to the income statement filed in December 2024. Victoria, David and investors injected £6.2million in loans. The company also has a bank loan of £4.1million due, which it is working to extend amid ‘material uncertainties’.

So, as I said, a busy, nail-biting week when the future of Victoria Beckham Inc, is on the velvet ropes. Will the new documentary set tills ajingle? I’m not sure.

Despite the extra-long zips, the non-sticky lip balm, her brand is no different to the others. And even a chart-topping Netflix series won’t change that.

• Victoria Beckham is on Netflix this Thursday, October 9th