Did they sing KumBiYa and pet the squirrels and hedgehogs while the birds flew about them?MEG CAME TO LONDON. September 2017.
We were in Nott Cott. In the kitchen. Preparing dinner. The whole cottage was filled with…love. Filled to overflowing. It even seemed to spill out the open door, into the garden outside, a scrubby little patch of ground that no one had wanted, for a very long time, but which Meg and I had slowly reclaimed. We’d raked and mown, planted and watered, and many evenings we sat out there on a blanket, listening to classical music concerts wafting over from the park.
I told Meg about the garden just on the other side of our wall: Mummy’s garden. Where Willy and I played as kids. It was now sealed off from us forever. As my memories had once been. Whose garden is it now? she asked. It belongs to Princess Michael of Kent. And her Siamese cats. Mummy despised those cats. As I smelt the garden, and considered this new life, cherished this new life, Meg was sitting on the other side of the kitchen, scooping Wagamama from cartons into bowls.
Without thinking I blurted out: I don’t know, I just… I had my back to her. I froze, mid-sentence, hesitant to go on, hesitant to turn around. You don’t know what, Haz? I just… Yes? I love you. I listened for a response. There was none. Now I could hear her, or feel her, walking towards me. I turned and there she was, right before me.
I love you too, Haz.
The words had been on the tip of my tongue almost from the start, so in one sense they didn’t feel particularly revelatory, or even necessary. Of course I loved her. Meg knew that, Meg could see it, the whole world could. I loved her with all my heart as I’d never loved anyone before. And yet saying it made everything real. Saying it set things in motion, automatically. Saying it was a step.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Or watched Never Let Me Go (wouldn’t have read obvs)Oh my god he read/saw my sisters keeper didn’t he!
Oddly the BRF are quite notorious for their attachment to homeopathy, aren't they? They certainly used to be.My husband would take lemsip if he had a cold, but not any arty farty homeopathic organic quirky stuff.
It’s a man thing
Has he caught onto the date being the anniversary of Anne Boleyn's execution?At last they came to us with a date: May 2018.
And they accepted our request for the location: St. George’s Chapel.
That settled, we made our first public outing with Willy and Kate. The Royal Foundation Forum. February 2018.
All four of us sat on a stage while a woman asked us softball questions before a fairly good-sized audience. The Foundation was nearing ten years of existence, and we spoke about its past while looking to its future with us four at the helm. The audience was keen, all four of us were having fun, the whole atmosphere was hugely positive.
Afterwards, one journalist dubbed us the Fab Four. Here we go, I thought hopefully.
Days later, controversy. Something about Meg showing support for #metoo, and Kate not showing support—via their outfits? I think that was the gist, though who can say? It wasn’t real. But I think it had Kate on edge, while putting her and everyone else on notice that she was now going to be compared to, and forced to compete with, Meg.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Zara got married in a smallish church in Edinburgh.IT WAS HARD for both of us, while dealing with all that, to focus on the million and one details of planning a royal wedding. Strangely, the Palace had trouble focusing too. We wanted to get married quickly. Why give the papers and paps time to do their worst? But the Palace couldn’t seem to pick a date. Or a venue. While waiting for a decree from on high, from the nebulous upper regions of the royal decision-making apparatus, we went off on a traditional “engagement tour.” England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales—we traveled up and down and all over the UK, introducing Meg to the public.
Crowds went wild for her. Meg, Diana would’ve loved you! I heard women scream this again and again. A total departure from the tone and tenor of the tabloids, and also a reminder: the British press wasn’t reality.
On our return from that trip I rang Willy, sounded him out, asked his thoughts about where we might get married. I told him we were thinking of Westminster Abbey.
No good. We did it there.
Right, right. St. Paul’s?
Too grand. Plus Pa and Mummy did it there.
Hm. Yes. Good point.
He suggested Tetbury.
I snorted. Tetbury? The chapel near Highgrove? Seriously, Willy? How many does that place seat?
Isn’t that what you said you wanted—a small, quiet wedding?
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
I love you and I don't mean any harm but I LOVE your typo and you have made me laugh so much. Thankyou. I so needed a laugh.
Charles was, to my recall - not sure about anyone elseOddly the BRF are quite notorious for their attachment to homeopathy, aren't they? They certainly used to be.
She definitely wrote that!Second date with Meghan
This time I was already there—waiting. Smiling. Proud of myself. She walked in, wearing a pretty blue sundress with white pinstripes. She was aglow. I stood and said: I bear gifts. A pink box. I held it forward. She shook it. What’s this? No, no, don’t shake it! We both laughed. She opened the box. Cupcakes. Red, white and blue cupcakes, to be exact. In honor of Independence Day. I said something about the Brits having a very different view of Independence Day from the Yanks, but, oh, well. She said they looked amazing. Our waitress from Date One appeared. Mischa. She seemed genuinely happy to see us, to discover that there was a Date Two. She could tell what was happening, she got that she was an eyewitness, that she’d forever be part of our personal mythology. After bringing us a round of drinks she went away and didn’t return for a long time. When she did, we were deep in the middle of a kiss. Not our first.
Meghan, holding my shirt collar, was pulling me towards her, holding me close. When she saw Mischa she released me immediately and we all laughed. Excuse us. No problem. Another round? Again the conversation flowed, crackled. Burgers came and went, uneaten. I felt an overwhelming sense of Overture, Prelude, Kettle Drums, Act I. And yet also a sense of ending. A phase of my life—the first half?—was coming to a close. As the night neared its end we had a very frank discussion. There was no way round it. She put a hand to her cheek and said: What’re we gonna doooo? We have to give this a proper go. What does that even mean? I live in Canada. I’m going back tomorrow! We’ll meet. A long visit. This summer. My summer’s already planned. Mine too. Surely in the whole summer we could find one small spot of time. She shook her head. She was doing the full Eat Pray Love. Eat what now? The book? Ah. Sorry. Not really big on books. I felt intimidated. She was so the opposite of me. She read. She was cultured. Not important, she said with a laugh. The point was, she was going with three girlfriends to Spain, and then with two girlfriends to Italy, and then— She looked at her calendar. I looked at mine. She raised her eyes, smiled. What is it? Tell me. Actually, there’s one small window… Recently, she explained, a castmate had advised her not to be so structured about her summer of eating, praying and loving. Keep one week open, this castmate said, leave room for magic, so she’d been saying no to all kinds of things, reserving one week, even turning down a very dreamy bike trip through the lavender fields of southern France… I looked at my calendar and said: I have one week open as well. What if they’re the same week? What if? Is it possible? How crazy would that be? It was the same week.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
The Royal Rota was created after the Leveson inquiry, wasn't it, to give legitimate journalists their bit but have the royals control the who, what, when, where? Especially with them when they are kids to protect their privacy? It sure works for the Cambridgelings... sorry Wales babies... whatever.The decree about the wedding coincided uncannily with the airing of Meg’s farewell season of Suits, in which her character, Rachel, was also preparing to get married. Art and life, imitating each other.
Decent of Suits, I thought, marrying Meg off the show, instead of pushing her down a lift shaft. There were enough people in real life trying to do that.
That spring, however, the press was quieter. Keener about breaking news of wedding details than inventing new libels.
So when the Palace encouraged us to feed more wedding details to those correspondents, known as the Royal Rota, we obeyed.
At the same time, I told the Palace that on the Big Day, the happiest day of our lives, I didn’t want to see one single royal correspondent inside that chapel, unless Murdoch himself apologized for phone hacking.
The Palace scoffed. It would be all-out war, the courtiers warned, to bar the Royal Rota from the wedding. Then let’s go to war.
I’d had it with the Royal Rota, both the individuals and the system, which was more outdated than the horse and cart. It had been devised some forty years earlier, to give British print and broadcast reporters first crack at the Royal Family, and it stank to high heaven. It discouraged fair competition, engendered cronyism, encouraged a small mob of hacks to feel entitled.
After weeks of wrangling, it was agreed: The Royal Rota wouldn’t be allowed in the chapel, but they could gather outside. A small win, which I hugely celebrated.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
As if they'd trust him to be Governor General of Bermuda!I rang Pa yet again. Don’t read it, darling— I cut him off. I wasn’t about to hear that nonsense again.
Also, I wasn’t a boy anymore. I tried a new argument. I reminded Pa that these were the same shoddy bastards who’d been portraying him as a clown all his life, ridiculing him for sounding the alarm about climate change. These were his tormentors, his bullies, and now they were tormenting and bullying his son and his son’s girlfriend—did that not inspire his outrage? Why have I got to beg you, Pa? Why is this not already a priority for you? Why is this not causing you anguish, keeping you up at night, that the press are treating Meg like this? You adore her, you told me so yourself. You bonded over your shared love of music, you think she’s funny and witty, and impeccably mannered, you told me—so why, Pa? Why? I couldn’t get a straight answer. The conversation went in circles and when we hung up I felt—abandoned. Meg, meanwhile, reached out to Camilla, who tried to counsel her by saying this was just what the press always did to newcomers, that it would all pass in due time, that Camilla had been the bad guy once. The implication being what? Now it was Meg’s turn? As if it were apples to apples.
Camilla also suggested to Meg that I become Governor General of Bermuda, which would solve all our problems by removing us from the red-hot center of the maelstrom. Right, right, I thought, and one added bonus of that plan would be to get us out of the picture.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
So they made out on Oprah that they didn’t want the big “spectacle” that was for everyone the world and not them, but now Harry is saying he pulled a titty lip as he wanted Westminster Abbey etc, I literally give up trying to make sense of any of it, it’s batshit, and he’s got us all like a pinball machine going here there and everywhere, the little sadist,
I'd stay away from lift shafts Harry...The decree about the wedding coincided uncannily with the airing of Meg’s farewell season of Suits, in which her character, Rachel, was also preparing to get married. Art and life, imitating each other.
Decent of Suits, I thought, marrying Meg off the show, instead of pushing her down a lift shaft. There were enough people in real life trying to do that.
That spring, however, the press was quieter. Keener about breaking news of wedding details than inventing new libels.
So when the Palace encouraged us to feed more wedding details to those correspondents, known as the Royal Rota, we obeyed.
At the same time, I told the Palace that on the Big Day, the happiest day of our lives, I didn’t want to see one single royal correspondent inside that chapel, unless Murdoch himself apologized for phone hacking.
The Palace scoffed. It would be all-out war, the courtiers warned, to bar the Royal Rota from the wedding. Then let’s go to war.
I’d had it with the Royal Rota, both the individuals and the system, which was more outdated than the horse and cart. It had been devised some forty years earlier, to give British print and broadcast reporters first crack at the Royal Family, and it stank to high heaven. It discouraged fair competition, engendered cronyism, encouraged a small mob of hacks to feel entitled.
After weeks of wrangling, it was agreed: The Royal Rota wouldn’t be allowed in the chapel, but they could gather outside. A small win, which I hugely celebrated.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Sick bitch maybe he cried after.. I shouldn’t laugh butSorry if this has been posted already,but of course Megan fucked Harry for the first time in his Mum anniversary of her death………
Now I wonder about the trauma...of Princess Michaels cats.Did they sing KumBiYa and pet the squirrels and hedgehogs while the birds flew about them?
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