Spare (44 page)

Until she got inside. Then she said something about a frat house.

I glanced around. She wasn’t far off.

Union Jack in the corner. (The one I’d waved at the North Pole.) Old rifle on the TV stand. (A gift from Oman, after an official visit.) Xbox console.

Just a place to keep my stuff,
I explained, moving around some papers and clothes.
I’m not here much.

It was also constructed for smaller people, humans of a bygone era. Thus the rooms were tiny and the ceilings were doll’s house low. I gave her a quick tour, which took thirty seconds.
Mind your head!

I’d never noticed until then just how shabby the furniture was. Brown sofa, browner beanbag chair. Meg paused before the beanbag.

I know. I know.

Our dinner guests were my cousin Euge, her boyfriend Jack, and my mate Charlie. The salmon turned out perfectly and everyone complimented Meg on her culinary talents. They also devoured her stories. They wanted to hear all about
Suits
. And her travels. I was grateful for their interest, their warmth.

The wine was as good as the company, and there was plenty of it, and after dinner we moved into the snug, put on music and silly hats, and danced. I have a fuzzy memory, and a grainy video on my phone, of Charlie and me rolling on the floor while Meg sat nearby laughing.

Then we got into the tequila.

I remember Euge hugging Meg, as if they were sisters. I remember Charlie giving me a thumbs-up. I remember thinking: If meeting the rest of my family goes like this, we’re home free. But then I noticed that Meg was feeling poorly. She complained of an upset stomach and looked terribly pale.

I thought: Uh-oh, lightweight.

She took herself off to bed. After a nightcap I saw our guests out and tidied up a bit. I got into bed around midnight and crashed out, but I woke at two
a.m.
to hear her in the bathroom, being sick, truly sick, not the drunken sick I’d imagined. Something else was going on.

Food poisoning.

She revealed that she’d had squid for lunch at a restaurant.

British calamari! Mystery solved.

From the floor she said softly:
Please tell me you’re not having to hold back my hair while I’m vomiting.

Yes. I am.

I rubbed her back and eventually put her to bed. Weak, near tears, she said she’d imagined a very different end to Date Four.

Stop, I said. Taking care of each other? That’s the point.

That’s love, I thought, though I managed to keep the words inside.

Just before Meg returned to Canada
we went to Frogmore gardens for a walk.

It was on the way to the airport.

A favorite spot of mine, I said. It spoke to her as well. She especially loved the swans, and especially one that was very grumpy. (We named him Steve.) Most swans are grumpy, I said. Majestic, but sourpusses. I always wondered why, since every British swan was the property of Her Majesty, and any abuse of them, thereby, was a criminal offense.

We chatted about Euge and Jack, whom she loved. We talked about Meg’s work. We talked about mine. But mostly we talked about this relationship, a subject so immense it seemed inexhaustible. We continued the talk as we got back into the car and drove to the airport, and kept talking in the car park, where I dropped her on the sly. We agreed that if we were serious about giving ourselves a chance, a real chance, we’d need a serious plan. Which meant, among other things, making a vow never to let more than two weeks pass without seeing each other.

We’d both had long-distance relationships, and they’d always been hard, and part of the reason had always been lack of serious planning. Effort. You had to fight the distance, defeat that distance. Meaning, travel. Lots and lots of travel.

Alas, my movements attracted more attention, more press. Governments had to be alerted when I crossed international borders, local police had to be notified. All my bodyguards had to be shuffled. The burden therefore would fall on Meg. In the early days, it would have to be her spending time on planes, her crisscrossing the ocean—while still working full-time on
Suits
. Many days the car came for her at 4:15
a.m.
to take her to set.

It wasn’t fair for her to shoulder the burden, but she was willing, she said. No choice, she said. The alternative was not seeing me, and that, she said, wasn’t feasible. Or bearable.

For the hundredth time since July 1, my heart cracked open.

Then we said goodbye again.

See you in two weeks.

Two weeks. God. Yes.

Soon after that day,
Willy and Kate invited me over to dinner.

They knew something was going on with me and they wanted to find out what it was.

I wasn’t sure I was ready to tell them. I wasn’t sure I wanted anyone else to know just yet. But then, as we sat around their TV room, both kids tucked into bed, the moment felt right.

I casually mentioned that there was…a new woman in my life.

They surged forward.
Who is she?

I’ll tell you, but please, please, please, I need you both to keep it a secret.

Yes, Harold, yes, yes—who is it?

She’s an actress.

Oh?

She’s American.

Oh.

On a show called
Suits
.

Their mouths fell open. They turned to each other.

Then Willy turned to me and said:
Fuck off!

What?

No way.

Sorry?

Impossible!

I was baffled, until Willy and Kate explained that they were regular—nay, religious—viewers of
Suits
.

Great, I thought, laughing. I’ve been worrying about the wrong thing. All this time I’d thought Willy and Kate might not welcome Meg into the family, but now I had to worry about them hounding her for an autograph.

They barraged me with questions. I told them a bit of how we’d met, told them about Botswana, told them about Waitrose, told them I was smitten, but overall what I told them was heavily redacted. I just didn’t want to give away too much.

I also said I couldn’t wait for them to meet her, that I looked forward to the four of us spending lots of time together, and I confessed, for the umpteenth time, that this had long been my dream—to join them with an equal partner. To become a foursome. I’d said this to Willy so many times, and he’d always replied:
It might not happen, Harold! And you’ve got to be OK with that.
Well,
now I felt that it
was
going to happen, and I told him so—but he still said to slow down.

She’s an American actress after all, Harold. Anything might happen.

I nodded, a bit hurt. Then hugged him and Kate and left.

Meg came back to
London a week later.

October 2016.

We lunched with Marko and his family, and I introduced her to a few other close mates. All good. Everyone loved her.

Emboldened, I felt the time had come for her to meet my family.

She agreed.

First stop, Royal Lodge. To meet Fergie, because Meg already knew Fergie’s daughter Euge, and Jack, so this seemed a logical baby step. But as we neared Royal Lodge I got word on my phone.

Granny was there.

She’d popped in.

On her way from church back to the castle.

Meg said:
Fun! I love grandmas.

I asked if she knew how to curtsy. She said she thought so. But she also couldn’t tell if I was serious.

You’re about to meet the Queen
.

I know, but it’s your grandma.

But she’s the Queen.

We pulled into the driveway, drove across the gravel, parked next to the big green box hedge.

Fergie came outside, somewhat aflutter, and said:
Do you know how to curtsy?

Meg shook her head.

Fergie demonstrated once. Meg imitated her.

There wasn’t time for a more advanced tutorial. We couldn’t keep Granny waiting.

As we walked towards the door Fergie and I both leaned into Meg, whispering quick reminders.
When you first meet the Queen it’s Your Majesty. Thereafter it’s just Ma’am. Rhymes with ham.

Just, whatever you do, don’t talk over her
, we both said, talking over each other.

We entered the large front sitting room and there she was. Granny. The monarch. Queen Elizabeth II. Standing in the middle of the room. She turned slightly. Meg went straight to her and dropped a deep, flawless curtsy.

Your Majesty. Pleasure to meet you.

Euge and Jack were near Granny and they almost seemed to pretend not to know Meg. They were very quiet, very proper. Each gave Meg a quick kiss on the cheek, but it was pure royal. Pure British.

There was some bloke standing to the other side of Granny and I thought: Bogey at twelve o’clock. Meg looked to me for a clue as to his identity, but I couldn’t help—I’d never seen him before. Euge whispered into my ear that he was a friend of her mum’s. Ah, OK. I looked at him hard:
Brilliant. Congratulations on being present for one of the most consequential moments of my life.

Granny was dressed for church: a brightly colored dress and matching hat. I can’t recall the color, I wish I could, but it was bright. Fancy. I could see Meg regretting her jeans and black sweater.

I was also regretting my shabby trousers. We didn’t plan, I wanted to tell Granny, but she was busy asking about Meg’s visit.

Great
, we said.
Wonderful.

We asked about the church service.

Lovely.

It was all very pleasant. Granny even asked Meg what she thought of Donald Trump. (This was just before the November 2016 election, so everyone in the world seemed to be thinking and talking about the Republican candidate.) Meg thought politics a no-win game, so she changed the subject to Canada.

Granny squinted.
I thought you were American.

I am, but I’ve been living in Canada for seven years for work.

Granny looked pleased. Commonwealth. Good, fine.

After twenty minutes Granny announced she had to be going. My uncle Andrew, seated beside her, holding her handbag, began to escort her out. Euge went with her too. Before reaching the door Granny looked back to say goodbye to Jack, and to Fergie’s friend.

She locked eyes with Meg, gave a wave and a warm smile.
Bye.

Bye. Lovely to meet you, Ma’am,
as she dipped into a curtsy again
.

Everyone flooded into the room after she’d driven away. The whole
vibe changed. Euge and Jack were their old selves, and someone suggested drinks.

Yes, please.

Everyone complimented Meg on her curtsy. So good! So deep!

After a moment Meg asked me something about the Queen’s assistant.

I asked who she was talking about.

That man holding the purse
.
That man who walked her to the door
.

That wasn’t her assistant
.

Who was it?

That was her second son. Andrew.

She definitely hadn’t googled us.

Next was Willy.
I knew he’d kill me if I let it go another minute. So Meg and I popped over one afternoon, shortly before he and I were due to leave on a shooting trip. Walking up to apartment 1A, under the huge arch, through the courtyard, I felt more nervous than I had before the meeting with Granny.

I asked myself why.

No answer came to mind.

We climbed the gray stone steps, rang the bell.

No reply.

After a wait the door opened and there was my big brother, a bit dressed up. Nice trousers, nice shirt, open collar. I introduced Meg, who leaned in and gave him a hug, which completely freaked him out.

He recoiled.

Willy didn’t hug many strangers. Whereas Meg hugged most strangers. The moment was a classic collision of cultures, like flashlight-torch, which felt to me both funny and charming. Later, however, looking back, I wondered if it was more than that. Maybe Willy expected Meg to curtsy? It would’ve been protocol when meeting a member of the Royal Family for the first time, but she didn’t know, and I didn’t tell her. When meeting my grandmother, I’d made it clear—this is the Queen. But when meeting my brother, it was just Willy, who loved
Suits.

Whatever, Willy got over it. He exchanged a few warm words with Meg, just inside the door, on the checkered floor of their hall. We were then
interrupted by his spaniel, Lupo, barking as if we were burglars. Willy hushed Lupo.

Where’s Kate?

Out with the kids.

Ah, too bad. Next time.

Then it was time to say goodbye. Willy needed to finish packing and we needed to go. Meg gave me a kiss and told us both to have fun on our shooting weekend, and off she went to spend her first night alone at Nott Cott.

Over the next few days I couldn’t stop talking about her. Now that she and Granny had met, now that she and Willy had met, now that she was no longer a secret within the family, I had so much to say. My brother listened, attentive, always smiling thinly. Boring to hear someone besotted go on and on, I know, but I couldn’t stop myself.

To his credit, he didn’t tease, didn’t tell me to shut up. On the contrary, he said what I’d hoped he’d say, even needed him to say.

Happy for you, Harold.

Weeks later, Meg and I
drove through the gate, into the lush gardens of Clarence House, which made Meg gasp.

You should see them in the spring. Pa designed them himself.

I added:
In honor of Gan-Gan, you know. She lived here before him.

I’d mentioned Gan-Gan to Meg. I’d also mentioned that I used to live here at Clarence House, from when I was nineteen until I was about twenty-eight. After I moved out, Camilla turned my bedroom into her dressing room. I tried not to care. But, especially the first time I saw it, I cared.