Spare

She suggested an alternative. Soho House at 76 Dean Street. It was her headquarters whenever she came to London. She’d reserve us a table in a quiet room.

No one else would be around.

The table would be under her name.

Meghan Markle.

2.

After texting half the night, into the wee hours, I groaned when that alarm rang at dawn. Time to get on Sir Keith’s boat. But I also felt grateful. A sailing race was the only way I’d be able to put down my phone.

And I needed to put it down, just for a spell, to collect my wits.

To pace myself.

Sir Keith’s boat was called Invictus. Homage to the games, God love him. That day it had a crew of eleven, including one or two athletes who’d actually competed in the games. The five-hour race took us around the Needles, and into the teeth of a gale. The wind was so fierce, many other boats dropped out of the race.

I’d sailed before, many times—I recalled one golden holiday, with Henners, trying to capsize our little Laser boat for laughs—but never like this, on open sea, in conditions so squally. The waves were towering. I’d never feared death before, and now I found myself thinking: Please don’t let me drown before my big date. Then another fear took hold. The fear of no onboard loo. I held it in for as long as I possibly could, until I had no choice. I swung my body over the side, into the tossing sea…and still couldn’t pee, mainly thanks to stage fright. The whole crew looking.

Finally I went back to my post, sheepishly hung from the ropes, and peed my pants.

Wow, I thought, if Ms. Markle could see me now.

Our boat won our class, came in second overall. Hooray, I said, barely pausing to celebrate with Sir Keith and the crew. My only concern was jumping into that water, washing the pee off my trousers, then racing back to London, where the bigger race, the ultimate race, was about to begin.

3.

The traffic was terrible. It was Sunday night, people were streaming back into London from their weekends in the country. Plus I had to get through Piccadilly Circus, a nightmare at the best of times. Bottlenecks, construction, accidents, gridlock, I ran into every conceivable obstacle. Again and again my bodyguards and I would come to a full stop in the road and we’d just sit. Five minutes. Ten.

Groaning, sweating, mentally shouting at the mass of unmoving cars. Come! On!

Finally it couldn’t be avoided. I texted: Running a bit late, sorry.

She was already there.

I apologized: Horrible traffic.

Her reply: OK.

I told myself: She might leave.

I told my bodyguards: She’s gonna leave.

As we inched towards the restaurant I texted again: Moving, but still slow.

Can’t you just get out?

How to explain? No, I couldn’t. I wasn’t able to go running through the streets of London. It would be like a llama running through the streets. It would make a scene, cause security nightmares; never mind the press it might attract. If I was spotted high-stepping towards Soho House, that would be the end of whatever privacy we might briefly enjoy.

Also, I had three bodyguards with me. I couldn’t ask them suddenly to take part in a track-and-field event.

Texting wasn’t the way to convey this, however. So I just…didn’t answer. Which surely irritated her.

At last I arrived. Red-cheeked, puffing, sweaty, half an hour late, I ran into the restaurant, into the quiet room, and found her at a small sitting area on a low velvet sofa in front of a low coffee table.

She looked up, smiled.

I apologized. Profusely. I couldn’t imagine many people had been late for this woman.

I settled into the sofa, apologized again.

She said she forgave me.

She was having a beer, some sort of IPA. I asked for a Peroni. I didn’t want beer, but it seemed easier.

Silence. We took it all in.

She was wearing a black sweater, jeans, heels. I knew nothing about clothes, but I knew she was chic. Then again, I knew she could make anything look chic. Even a bivvy bag. The main thing I noticed was the chasm between internet and reality. I’d seen so many photos of her from fashion shoots and TV sets, all glam and glossy, but here she was, in the flesh, no frills, no filter…and even more beautiful. Heart-attack beautiful. I was trying to process this, struggling to understand what was happening to my circulatory and nervous systems, and as a result my brain couldn’t handle any more data. Conversation, pleasantries, the Queen’s English, all became a challenge.

She filled the gap. She talked about London. She was here all the time, she said. Sometimes she just left her luggage at Soho House for weeks. They stored it without question. The people there were like family.

I thought: You’re in London all the time? How have I never seen you? Never mind that nine million people lived in London, or that I rarely left my house, I felt that if she was here, I should’ve known. I should’ve been informed!

What brings you here so often?