Spare

When she finally got inside Nott Cott, she’d phoned her best girlfriends, each of whom asked: Is he worth this, Meg? Is anyone worth this?

I put my arms around her, said I was sorry. So sorry.

We just held each other, until I slowly became aware of the most delicious smells.

I looked around. Hang on. You mean…after all that…you still made lunch?

I wanted to feed you before I left.

21.

Three weeks later I was getting an HIV test at a drop-in clinic in Barbados.

With Rihanna.

Royal life.

The occasion was the upcoming World AIDS Day, and I’d asked Rihanna, at the last minute, to join me, help raise awareness across the Caribbean. To my shock she’d said yes.

November 2016.

Important day, vital cause, but my head wasn’t in the game. I was worried about Meg. She couldn’t go home because her house was surrounded by paps. She couldn’t go to her mother’s house, in Los Angeles, because it too was surrounded by paps. Alone, adrift, she was on break from filming, and it was Thanksgiving time. So I’d reached out to friends who had a house sitting empty in Los Angeles, and they’d generously offered it to her. Problem solved, for the moment. Still, I was feeling worried, and intensely hostile towards the press, and I was now surrounded by…press.

The same royal reporters…

Gazing at them all, I thought: Complicit.

Then the needle went into my finger. I watched the blood spurt and remembered all the people, friends and strangers, fellow soldiers, journalists, novelists, schoolmates, who’d ever called me and my family blue bloods. That old shorthand for aristocracy, for royalty, I wondered where it had come from. Someone said our blood was blue because it was colder than other people’s, but that couldn’t be right, could it? My family always said it was blue because we were special, but that couldn’t be right either. Watching the nurse channel my blood into a test tube, I thought: Red, just like everyone else’s.

I turned to Rihanna and we chatted while I awaited the result. Negative.

Now I just wanted to run, find somewhere with Wi-Fi, check on Meg. But it wasn’t possible. I had a full slate of meetings and visits—a royal schedule that didn’t leave much wiggle room. And then I had to hurry back to the rusty Merchant Navy ship taking me around the Caribbean.

By the time I reached the ship, late that night, the onboard Wi-Fi signal was barely a pulse. I was only able to text Meg, and only if I stood on the bench in my cabin, phone pressed against the porthole. We were connected just long enough for me to learn that she was safe at my friend’s house. Better yet, her mother and father had been able to sneak in and spend Thanksgiving with her. Her father had brought an armful of tabloids, however, which he inexplicably wanted to talk about. That didn’t go well, and he’d ended up leaving early.

While she was telling me the story the Wi-Fi went out.

The merchant ship chugged on to its next destination.

I put down the phone and stared out of the porthole at the dark sea.

22.

Meg, driving home from set, noticed five cars following her.

Then they started chasing her.

Each car was driven by a man—shady-looking. Wolfish.

It was winter, Canada, so the roads were ice. Plus, the way the cars were spinning around her, cutting her off, running red lights, tailgating her, while also trying to photograph her, she felt sure she was going to be in a crash.

She told herself not to panic, not to drive erratically, not to give them what they wanted. Then she phoned me.

I was in London, in my own car, my bodyguard driving, and her tearful voice brought me right back to my childhood. Back to Balmoral. She didn’t make it, darling boy. I pleaded with Meg to stay calm, keep her eyes on the road. My air-controller training took over. I talked her to the nearest police station. As she got out of the car, I could hear, in the background, paps following her to the door.

C’mon, Meghan, give us a smile!

Click click click.

She told the police what was happening, begged them for help. They had sympathy, or said they did, but she was a public figure, so they insisted there was nothing to be done. She went back to her car, paps swarming her again, and I guided her to her house, through the front door, where she collapsed.

I did too, a little. I felt helpless, and this, I realized, was my Achilles heel. I could deal with most things so long as there was some action to be taken. But when I had nothing to do…I wanted to die.