We dodge the taxi cabs hurtling down Charing Cross Road, hop over the thin, gray puddles and slip through the doors of London's National Portrait Gallery a slow, steady stream of women shaking the rain from our umbrellas and asking, with just a hint of excitement, for directions to Room 41. Deep in the belly of the gallery, beyond the Lucian Freuds and the Cecil Beatons, Room 41 sits hushed and darkened. I join 11 visitors curled cross-legged on the floor, gazing at a 1-m-wide plasma screen where a shirtless blond man lies sleeping: David Beckham, of course. Who else...
