The Princess, page 30
She had heard this before, of course. Balmoral. Prince Philip.
The level of adulation, you wouldn’t believe it. It could have been corroding. It would have been very easy to play to the gallery. Safer not to be too popular. . . .
“And while I couldn’t possibly be fonder of dear Charles,” the old queen was continuing genially, “he’s not a very natural or spontaneous person. You, on the other hand, are the exact opposite. All schoolgirl charm and warm responsiveness.”
This was as alarming as it was flattering. “But I don’t want to upstage Charles,” Diana said. “I never have and I never would.”
“I’m sure you don’t, my dear.” The Queen Mother twinkled. “But others prefer to put you in the limelight, that’s the problem.”
“Is this about the press, ma’am? Because they follow me everywhere?”
“Yes, you need to be careful about that. Of all the family, Charles is the one most sensitive about his own image. It’s possible that his persistent desire to be appreciated is the most hopeless of his causes.”
Diana sighed. “I wish it would stop.”
A glitter of rings as the old queen raised her champagne glass. “It won’t. I’d like to tell you differently, but I would be telling you a lie. You just have to manage them, that’s all. I’ve managed them for sixty years, and we all get on famously. I think they’re perfect ducks. When I was eighty, they all clubbed together their beer money and bought me a china bowl and a bunch of flowers.”
“That was kind of them.”
“It wasn’t an especially nice bowl. I’d have preferred the beer.” The Queen Mother now picked up a little bell of cranberry-colored glass and tinkled it. William reappeared immediately, removed the plates and refilled their champagne. Then more gold-rimmed plates appeared.
“Oh, William, what an absolute treat!” exclaimed the old queen. “Tournedos Rossini is such a favorite of one’s.”
It was a thick fillet steak topped with a generous slice of what looked like foie gras. Especially after the eggs, it seemed huge and rich. Diana’s head was whirling slightly from all the wine.
“Rule two.” The Queen Mother leaned forward conspiratorially. Her tiara flashed brightly, warningly.
Diana straightened up, blinked. Behind her hostess, the room with the illuminated cabinets seemed oddly blurred.
The twinkling old eyes narrowed, sharpened. The wrinkled old mouth drew together, ready to speak. “Never trust anyone,” it said. “Ever.”
KENSINGTON PALACE, LONDON
APRIL 1992
Sandy
“When I woke up the next morning, I had no idea where I was.” Diana’s voice came lightly across the darkened room. “And then I heard a sort of stamping, scraping sound, and looked out of my window. And it was the guards at Clarence House marching about on the cobbles.”
I imagined rifles, railings, the crash of heavy boots. “Scary!”
“Well, I was more concerned with my hangover,” she said with a chuckle. “It was the first I’d ever had. I must have been terribly drunk when I went to bed, because I remember riding a bike round the little yard by William’s office. I was ringing the bell and shouting, ‘I’m going to marry the Prince of Wales!’ Talk about embarrassing!”
I disagreed. I thought it sounded sweet, and slightly sad. The image reinforced how young she had been, how childlike, romantic, idealistic. It was obvious now that the picture was darkening; nothing seemed to have gone right since the proposal.
“That was the day of the engagement announcement,” Diana went on. “I went to get my hair done at Headlines. The policeman had to come with me. I said, ‘Officer Officer, what on earth do you think’s going to happen? That Kevin will attack me with the scissors or something?’ But it made no difference. Everything had changed.”
FORTY-FOUR
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 1981
Diana
Kevin’s face had been a picture. She had walked into the salon and waved her engagement ring under his nose. “What do you think about that?”
The hairdressers had all squealed. “Everyone’s going to want this hairstyle,” Kevin exulted, putting the finishing touches to her fringe. “After today, every salon in the country’s going to be copying it.”
Crowds were already gathering outside the palace gates as they drove through. She kept her head well down. How did they know? On a table in a passage was the answer. A newspaper headline lady diana engagement today.
How had they known? The old queen’s words from last night came back. Never trust anyone. Ever.
She had hoped Charles would show her to her rooms. He was out, however. She also hoped for rooms near to his, but they were on the top floor in the nursery corridor. The little bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and sitting room had, she was told, once belonged to Charles’s nanny. She imagined Caro balking at this: What are they trying to tell you, Duch?
Excitedly, she explored the rooms, opened all the cupboards and drawers. Perhaps she was expecting a note of welcome, from Charles, from her future mother-in-law, whose house this was after all. Nothing, however. No flowers, even. And it was all so quiet and still. But that was the windows; they were double-glazed, and oh my goodness, the view! It was of the gold statue of Queen Victoria, which must mean—yes, she was right above the famous balcony, where she would stand on her wedding day. A great, bright excitement now rose within her, sending the shadows away.
As she watched, a footman appeared in the courtyard below. Her stomach tightened; he was carrying the framed announcement. Immediately, the crowd pressed against the railings.
She knew exactly what the announcement said; she had read it earlier, over and over again. But it still hadn’t quite gone in. It was so hard to believe that it had actually happened. Everything she had ever wanted. All her romantic dreams, come true and summed up in this one short sentence.
It is with the greatest pleasure that the queen and the Duke of Edinburgh announce the betrothal of their beloved son the Prince of Wales to the Lady Diana Spencer, daughter of the Earl Spencer and the Honourable Mrs. Shand Kydd.
She watched the footman place it on the gate. Then the crowds erupted like a bomb going off. The cheers were faint because of the double glazing, but she could hear a thumping; the band that had accompanied the guard change was playing “Congratulations.” She felt on the one hand awed that the guard was performing in her honor, and on the other hand wildly amused. “Congratulations”—that was from centuries ago. She could almost hear Caro saying it.
She turned from the window. What should she do now? The TV interview would be soon, and Charles would come and fetch her. An inner glow accompanied this thought, as well as a sickening swoop of nerves. Charles would help though. He had lots of TV experience. He knew all about it.
There was a small TV in the sitting room, which she switched on. Incredibly, it was black-and-white. The picture jagging and fizzing across the screen now righted itself to an image of the front of Buckingham Palace. Some recent tabloid shots of her now appeared.
“His Royal Highness could not have made a better choice for a future queen of England,” said the voice-over. “Lady Diana is British through and through and from a family of historical distinction with numerous royal links.”
She laughed. “Yes,” she said aloud. “That’s me!”
“And a royal engagement could not have come at a better time,” the TV voice continued. “The mundane facts of British life at the moment are pretty grim. The dreary statistics of unemployment and falling production, strikes and threats of strikes, have depressed us for far too long. What better than a royal romance to warm and cheer all our hearts?”
Diana felt her high spirits dim slightly. Unemployment and strikes? All that had somehow passed her by. She had stepped out of the real world completely.
“But at last it is to be royal wedding bells, and we are delighted for them both,” the television concluded. “Prince Charles is a lucky man. He has been accepted by a lovely girl who still has the freshness of the morning dew. The whole nation is smiling.”
The freshness of the morning dew! She could imagine what Coleherne Court would make of that. You should see her before a shower! She giggled, then felt a little sad.
The bulletin then went live to the crowd in front of the palace, where some familiar figures were being interviewed by a reporter with a large microphone.
“Over Christmas, I realized Diana was in love.” Her father spoke shakily, as he had ever since the stroke. “Then His Royal Highness called and said, ‘I would like to marry your daughter. Diana, much to my astonishment, has already said yes.’ ”
Diana’s astonishment was equally great. This was private. What was her father thinking?
“We simply couldn’t be happier for her,” trilled an affected voice from the depths of a mink collar. Next to the red-faced earl, Raine’s lacquered hair rose almost as high as the nearby guards’ fur helmets.
Never trust anyone. Ever. Diana turned the TV off.
Oh, where was Charles? She wished desperately that he would come, the one person she could depend on in this suddenly strange world. Her hopes soared as someone entered the room: not the prince, alas, but a tall woman with large eyes that seemed to take absolutely everything in. She was, she explained, Lady Grafton, lady-in-waiting to the queen.
“You will have to choose ladies-in-waiting of your own now, of course,” she added once the pleasantries were concluded.
She hadn’t thought of this. Did she really need them? It seemed so old-fashioned somehow. Her two grandmothers had occupied similar posts, but they were from a previous generation. “What would they do?” Diana asked doubtfully.
“Oh, hover and be helpful,” Lady Grafton said comfortably. “Be on hand to take coats and bouquets, chat to nervous lady mayoresses, inspect needlework by Girl Guides, that sort of thing.”
Did she want to be a bouquets and mayoresses Princess of Wales? It sounded so stuffy. She wanted to inspire people. Help them. Love them. Then again, perhaps her friends could be her ladies-in-waiting. Her flatmates. They’d be back together, the old gang. The Four Musketeers, perhaps even with Battersea.
But Lady Grafton looked doubtful. “They don’t need to be particular friends,” she said. “Rather, amiable and sensible girls of good class, chosen for their efficiency, way with people and art of conversation.”
Diana looked down to hide the rebellion in her eyes. She didn’t want amiable and sensible. But would Coleherne Court want to inspect needlework, anyway?
“Are you ready, my dear?” It was time to go down for the engagement interview. Lady Grafton led off, across the miles of thick red carpet, and Diana, in her flat shoes, followed. Her subversive thoughts faded as she anticipated seeing Charles and proclaiming their love to the world.
COLEHERNE COURT, KENSINGTON, LONDON
“Duch looks so happy,” said Ginny. They were crowded around the television in the sitting room. Atop the pile of Daily Mails and TV Timeses on the coffee table was Battersea in his bowl. He was, after all, part of the household and needed to witness one of his fellow residents joining the royal family.
Alongside the bowl was a large box of tissues. Everyone, the goldfish excepted, was sniffing copiously. “Although Battersea might be crying too,” Caro pointed out. “But you can’t tell because his face is wet anyway.”
The flatmates thought the estimated size of the TV audience quite unbelievable. Five hundred million people were tuning in from all over the world to watch the girl who had shared their fridge, their bathroom, their wardrobe and their lives. It still didn’t feel real. “And I don’t think it ever will,” said Anne.
“Charlie Renfrew doesn’t look quite as thrilled as Duch does,” Caro remarked. The Prince of Wales, on-screen, was shooting his cuffs and seemed uneasy.
“Yes, but he’s royal,” Anne reminded them. “They’re trained to strangle their emotions at birth. For a Windsor, that’s actually an expression of ecstasy.”
“And he is quite handsome, really,” Ginny said. “Nice skin and hair. They both look quite similar in that way. Sort of shiny and glossy.”
“And oh, look!” interrupted Anne. Diana, next to Charles on the Buckingham Palace sofa, now rested her head on his shoulder in a gesture that mixed ease with pure affection. “Have you ever seen such complete adoration?”
Caro shushed her. “The interview’s starting.”
“Duch doesn’t need to be interviewed,” Ginny put in. “That grin says it all. Talk about cats and cream!”
It was true. She was positively blazing with happiness, her smile brighter than the diamonds on her finger. All three girls now questioned the doubts they had harbored. Diana had been right all along. She really would be happy ever after.
How did they feel? the TV interviewer asked his subjects.
“Absolutely delighted,” said Diana, to the cheers of her flatmates.
“Oh, look! She’s blushing!”
“She’ll have to stop that when she’s queen. You can’t blush on the throne.”
When did they decide to get engaged? asked the interviewer.
“About three weeks ago,” replied Charles. “I thought she might want to think it over so she could say, ‘I can’t bear the whole idea,’ or not. But she actually accepted.”
“Straightaway,” agreed Diana with a happy giggle.
The flatmates cheered again. “Did she ever!”
Where would they live after the wedding? “Basically, I hope, down at Highgrove in Gloucestershire,” said Charles.
The flatmates screeched. “Oh Gawd, poor Duch.” They had all heard about the dreaded job of redecoration and thought it sounded awfully grown-up and boring. “Fine if you’re forty,” Anne had said. “But you’re nineteen.”
The others had joined in. “You don’t know the first thing about swatches and paint samples.”
“You don’t know your rag roll from your stipple.”
“Why don’t you just get Nicky Haslam or someone to do it all for you? Or Ashley Hicks. He’s practically royal anyway.”
Diana had shaken her fair head. “Charles wants me to do it.”
“I bet he does. Why doesn’t he do it?”
The exchange had ended in a cushion fight.
The interviewer was asking about a wedding date.
“No date as such,” Charles said, “but the idea is certainly the latter part of July. Probably the easiest from all sorts of different people’s points of view.”
The flatmates looked at each other.
“End of July?”
“I’m not sure that’s the easiest from Duch’s point of view.”
“No, it’s nearly six months.”
“What’s she going to do all that time?”
“In Buckingham Palace, all by herself.”
“Well, she said she wouldn’t be, remember. She said they’d look after her, show her what to do.”
“Shush! We’re missing the interview!”
“Naturally quite daunting, but I hope it won’t be too difficult,” Diana was saying.
The flatmates hooted. “What’s she talking about?”
“Sex!”
Charles was talking now. “It wasn’t easy to begin with, but obviously after a bit you get used to it. You just have to take the plunge.”
“Ha ha!”
“Definitely sex!”
“Oh, stop it! Battersea, cover your ears!”
“I hope I can pass on the bit of experience I have,” Charles added, which made them all roar again.
“Actually,” Caro said, reaching for a tissue to mop her streaming eyes, “they were talking about tours abroad.”
“Ooh, listen! The interviewer’s asking about the gap in their ages!”
“It’s only twelve years,” remarked the prince. “Lots of people get married with that sort of age difference. I always feel you are as old as you think or feel you are. I think Diana will keep me young. That’s a very good thing. I shall be exhausted.”
“Gawd,” said Caro. “He makes her sound like an overactive toddler.”
“I’m frankly amazed that Diana’s prepared to take me on.”
“And in love?” asked the interviewer.
“Of course,” giggled Diana.
The flatmates cheered, delighted.
“Whatever ‘in love’ means,” added Charles.
The three friends looked at one another.
“What did he just say?”
KENSINGTON PALACE, LONDON
APRIL 1992
Sandy
“I remember that,” I said slowly. “There you were, next to him on international television, millions watching, you adore him, you’re about to marry him and he said . . .”
“ ‘Whatever “in love” means.’ ” Diana sighed. “I know. I was so excited and thrilled and I loved him so much. And he just said . . . that.” She hung her head. When she raised her face again, it was full of misery. “It was like a knife in my heart. I was so shocked, I just laughed and told myself he was joking. I couldn’t bear to think about it, still can’t, really.” She swung her legs abruptly off the sofa and sat up. “Hungry?”
So much so, I could have eaten the grapes woven into the rug pattern.
“Big Mac and fries all right?” she asked gaily.
I had imagined our pasta lunch as an aberration, and it would be covered silver dishes from now on. Tournedos Rossini. Oeufs Drumkilbo, even.
“Great,” I said. “I didn’t have you down as a McDonald’s fan.”
She grinned. “I got into it during all those months at Buckingham Palace.”
I laughed.
“No, really,” she said. “The footmen felt so sorry for me, they used to go out and get me burgers.”
