Spare (51 page)

Next came the question of a tiara. My aunts asked if Meg would like to wear my mother’s. We were both touched. Meg then spent hours and hours with her dress designer, getting the veil to match the tiara, giving it a similar scalloped edge.

Shortly before the wedding, however, Granny reached out. She offered us access to
her
collection of tiaras. She even invited us to Buckingham Palace to try them on.
Do come over
, I remember her saying.

Extraordinary morning. We walked into Granny’s private dressing room, right next to her bedroom, a space I’d never been in. Along with Granny was a jewelry expert, an eminent historian who knew the lineage of each stone in the royal collection. Also present was Granny’s dresser and confidante, Angela. Five tiaras were arrayed on a table, and Granny directed Meg to try on each one before a full-length mirror. I stood behind, watching.

One was all emeralds. One was aquamarines. Each was more dazzlingly stunning than the last. Each took my breath.

I wasn’t the only one. Granny said to Meg quite tenderly:
Tiaras suit you.

Meg melted.
Thank you, Ma’am.

One of the five, however, stood out. Everyone agreed. It was beautiful, seemingly made for Meg. Granny said it would be placed in a safe directly and she looked forward to seeing it on Meg’s head come the Big Day.

Make sure
, she added,
that you practice putting it on. With your hairdresser. It’s tricky and you don’t want to be doing it for the first time on the wedding day.

We left the Palace feeling awed and loved and grateful.

A week later we contacted Angela and asked her to please send us the chosen tiara so we could practice putting it on. We’d done research, and we’d spoken to Kate about her own experience, and we’d learned that Granny’s warning was spot on. The placing of the tiara was an intricate, elaborate process. It had to be first sewn to the veil, then Meg’s hairdresser would need to fix it to a small plait in her hair. Complicated, time-consuming—we’d need at least one dress rehearsal.

For some reason, however, Angela didn’t respond to any of our messages.

We kept trying.

No response.

When we finally reached her, she said the tiara would require an orderly and a police escort to leave the Palace.

That sounded…a bit much. But all right, I said, if that’s protocol, let’s find an orderly and a police officer and get the ball rolling. Time was running out.

Inexplicably, she replied:
Can’t be done.

Why can’t it?

Her schedule was too busy.

She was being obstructive, obviously, but for what reason? We couldn’t even hazard a guess. I considered going to Granny, but that would probably mean sparking an all-out confrontation, and I wasn’t quite sure with whom Granny would side.

Also, to my mind, Angela was a troublemaker, and I didn’t need her as an enemy.

Above all,
she was still in possession of that tiara.

She held all the cards.

Though the press was
mostly laying off Meg, mostly staying focused on the approaching wedding, the harm was already done. After eighteen months of trashing her, they’d riled up all the trolls, who were now crawling out of their cellars and lairs. Ever since we’d acknowledged that we were a couple, we’d been flooded with racist taunts and death threats on social media. (
See ya later, race traitor!
) But now the official threat level, used by Palace security to allocate personnel and guns, had reached vertiginous heights. In pre-wedding conversations with police we learned that we’d become
the
prized target for terrorists and extremists. I remembered General Dannatt saying I was a bullet magnet, that anyone standing next to me would be unsafe. Well, I was a bullet magnet again, but standing next to me would be the person I loved most in the world.

There’s been some reporting about the Palace deciding to instruct Meg in guerrilla warfare, and survival tactics, in the event of a kidnapping attempt. A bestselling book describes the day Special Forces came to our house, grabbed
Meg, put her through several intense days of drills, pushing her into back seats and car boots, speeding away to safe houses—all of which is utter nonsense. Meg wasn’t given one minute of training. On the contrary, the Palace floated the idea of not giving her any security at all, because I was now sixth in line to the throne. How I wished reports about Special Forces were even partly true! How I longed to phone my mates in Special Forces, have them come and train Meg and re-train me. Or, better yet, pitch in, protect us. For that matter, how I wished I could send Special Forces to go and grab that tiara.

Angela still hadn’t delivered it.

Meg’s hairdresser had come in from France for the rehearsal, and the tiara still wasn’t there. So he’d gone back.

Again, we phoned Angela. Again, nothing.

Finally, Angela appeared out of thin air at Kensington Palace. I met her in the Audience Room.

She put before me a release, which I signed, and then she handed me the tiara.

I thanked her, though I added that it would’ve made our lives so much easier to have had it sooner.

Her eyes were fire. She started having a go at me.

Angela, you really want to do this now? Really? Now?

She fixed me with a look that made me shiver. I could read in her face a clear warning.

This isn’t over.

Meg had spent months
trying to soothe her father. There was always something new that he’d read about himself, something derogatory he’d taken to heart. His pride was constantly wounded. Every day there was another humiliating photo in the papers. Thomas Markle buying a new loo. Thomas Markle buying a six-pack. Thomas Markle with his belly hanging over his belt.

We understood. Meg told him we knew how he felt. The press, the paps, they were awful. Impossible to totally ignore what’s written, she acknowledged. But please do try to ignore them
in person
. Ignore anyone who approaches, Daddy. Be on guard against anyone who pretends to be your best
friend. He seemed to be listening. He started to sound as if he was in a better place, mentally.

Then, the Saturday before the wedding, Jason phoned us.
We’ve got a problem.

What?

The
Mail on Sunday
is going to run a story saying that Meg’s father has been working with the paps and, for money, has staged some candid photos.

We immediately phoned Meg’s dad, told him what was coming. We asked if it was true. Had he staged a bunch of candid photos for money?

No.

Meg said:
We might be able to kill this story, Daddy, but if it turns out you’re lying, we’ll never be able to kill a false story about ourselves, or our children, again. So this is serious. You must tell us the truth.

He swore that he’d never staged any photos, that he hadn’t taken part in any such charade, that he didn’t know the pap in question.

Meg whispered to me:
I believe him
.

In that case, we told him, leave Mexico right now: A whole new level of harassment is about to rain down on you, so come to Britain. Now. We’ll arrange for an apartment where you can hole up safely until your flight.

Air New Zealand, first class, booked and paid for by Meg.

We would immediately send a car with private security to pick him up.

He said he had things to do.

Now Meg’s face changed. Something was up.

She turned to me again and sighed:
He’s lying.

The story broke the next morning and it was worse than we feared. There was video of Meg’s father meeting the pap at an internet café. There was a series of farcically staged shots, including one of him reading a book about Britain as if studying for the wedding. The photos, reportedly worth a hundred thousand pounds, seemed to prove beyond all doubt that Meg’s father had indeed been lying. He’d taken part in this fakery, maybe to make some money, or maybe they had some leverage on him. We didn’t know.

Headlines read:
Meg Markle’s father a con artist! Staged candid photos for money!

A week before the wedding, this now became
the
story.

Though the photos had been taken weeks before, they’d been held in reserve until the most devastating possible moment.

Soon after the story broke, Thomas Markle sent us a text:

I’m so ashamed.

We phoned him.

And texted him.

And phoned again.

We’re not angry, please pick up.

He didn’t answer.

Then we heard, along with the rest of the world, that he’d apparently had a heart attack and wasn’t coming to the wedding.

The next day
Meg had a text from Kate.

There was a problem with the dresses for the bridesmaids, apparently. They needed altering. The dresses were French couture, hand-sewn from measurements only. So it wasn’t a big shock that they might need altering.

Meg didn’t reply to Kate straightaway. Yes, she had endless wedding-related texts, but mostly she was dealing with the chaos surrounding her father. So the next morning she texted Kate that our tailor was standing by. At the Palace. His name was Ajay.

This wasn’t sufficient.

They set up a time to speak that afternoon

Charlotte’s dress is too big, too long, too baggy. She cried when she tried it on at home,
Kate said.

Right, and I told you the tailor has been standing by since eight a.m. Here. At KP. Can you take Charlotte to have it altered, as the other moms are doing?

No, all the dresses need to be remade.

Her own wedding dress designer agreed, Kate added.

Meg asked if Kate was aware of what was going on right now. With her father.

Kate said she was well aware, but the dresses.
And the wedding is in four days!

Yes, Kate, I know…

And Kate had other problems with the way Meg was planning her wedding. Something about a party for the page boys?

The page boys?
Half the kids in the wedding are from North America. They haven’t even arrived yet.

It went back and forth.

I’m not sure what else to say. If the dress doesn’t fit then please take Charlotte to see Ajay. He’s been waiting all day.

Fine.

A short time later I arrived home and found Meg on the floor. Sobbing.

I was horrified to see her so upset, but I didn’t think it a catastrophe. Emotions were running high, of course, after the stress of the last week, the last month, the last day. It was intolerable—but temporary. Kate hadn’t meant any harm, I told her.

Indeed the next morning Kate came by with flowers and a card that said she was sorry. Meg’s best friend, Lindsay, was in the kitchen when she turned up.

Simple misunderstanding, I told myself.

On the eve of
the wedding I stayed at Coworth Park Hotel. A private cottage. Several mates sat with me and had drinks. One commented that I seemed a bit distracted.

Yes, well. There’s been a lot going on.

I didn’t want to say too much. The business with Meg’s father, Kate and the dress, the constant worry about someone in the crowd doing something crazy—better not to talk about it.

Someone asked about my brother. Where’s Willy?

I gave another non-answer. Another sore subject.

He’d been scheduled to join us for the evening. But, like Meg’s father, he’d canceled last minute.

He’d told me, just before he attended tea with Granny: Can’t do it, Harold. Kate and the kids.

I’d reminded him that this was our tradition, that we’d had dinner before his wedding, that we’d gone together and visited the crowds.

He held fast.
Can’t do it.

I pushed.
Why you being like this, Willy? I was with you the whole night before you married Kate. Why you doing this?

I asked myself what was really going on. Was he feeling bad about not being my best man? Was he upset that I’d asked my old mate Charlie? (The Palace put out the story that Willy was the best man, as they’d done with me when he and Kate married.) Could that be part of it?

Or was it a hangover from Beardgate?

Or was he feeling guilty about the business between Kate and Meg?

He wasn’t giving any indication. He just kept saying no. While asking me why it even mattered so much.

Why are you even saying hello to the crowds, Harold?

Because the press office told me to. As we did at your wedding.

You don’t need to listen to them.

Since bloody when?

I felt sick about it. I’d always believed, despite our problems, that our underlying bond was strong. I’d thought brotherhood would always trump a bridesmaid’s dress or a beard. Suppose not.

Then, just after leaving Granny, around six
p.m.
, Willy texted. He’d changed his mind. He’d come.

Maybe Granny intervened?

Whatever. I thanked him happily, heartily.

Moments later, we met outside and got into a car, which drove us down to King Edward Gate. We hopped out, walked up and down the crowd, thanking people for coming.

People wished us well, blew us kisses.

We waved goodbye, got back into the car.

As we drove off, I asked him to come have dinner with me. I mentioned maybe staying the night, as I’d done before his wedding.

He’d come for dinner, he said, but wouldn’t be able to stay.

Come on, please, Willy.

Sorry, Harold. Can’t. Kids.

I stood at the altar,
smoothed the front of my Household Cavalry uniform, watched Meg floating towards me. I’d worked hard to choose the right music for her procession, and ultimately I’d landed on Handel’s
Eternal Source of Light Divine.

Now, as the soloist’s voice rang out above our heads, I thought I’d chosen well.

Indeed, as Meg came nearer and nearer, I was giving thanks for all my choices.