Spare

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.

It meant we now had a few more very big steps ahead.

Like…moving in together?

I asked if she’d consider moving to Britain, moving into Nott Cott with me.

We talked about all that would mean, and how it would work, and what she’d be giving up. We talked about the logistics of winding down her life in Toronto. When, and how, and above all…for what? Exactly?

I can’t just leave my show and quit my job to give it a shot. Would moving to Britain mean a forever commitment?

Yes, I said. It would.

In that case, she said with a smile, yes.

We kissed, hugged, sat down to our supper.

I sighed. On the road, I thought.

But later, after she’d fallen asleep, I analyzed myself. A holdover from therapy, perhaps. I realized that, mixed in with all my roiling emotions, there was a big streak of relief. She’d said it back, the actual words, I love you, and it hadn’t been inevitable, it hadn’t been a formality. Part of me, I couldn’t deny, had been braced for the worst case. Haz, I’m sorry but I just don’t know if I can do this…Part of me feared she’d bolt. Go back to Toronto, change her number. Heed the advice of her girlfriends.

Is anyone worth this?

Part of me thought she’d be smart to do so.

31.

By pure chance the 2017 Invictus Games were going to be in Toronto. Meg’s backyard. Perfect occasion, the Palace decided, for our first official public outing.

Meg was a bit nervous. Me too. But we had no choice. Has to be done, we said. We’ve hidden from the world long enough. Also, this would be the most controlled, predictable environment we could ever hope for.

Above all, once we did a public date, it might reduce the bounty on our heads among the paps, which at that point was running at around a hundred thousand pounds.

We tried to make the whole thing as normal as possible. We watched wheelchair tennis from the front row, focused on the game and the good cause, ignored the whir of cameras. We managed to have fun, to crack a few jokes with some Kiwis sitting beside us, and the photos that appeared the following day were sweet, though several in the British press slammed Meg for wearing ripped jeans. No one mentioned that everything she wore, down to the flats and button-down shirt, had been pre-approved by the Palace.

And by “no one,” I mean not anyone at the Palace.

One statement, that week, in defense of Meg…it might’ve made a world of difference.

32.

I told Elf and Jason that I wanted to propose.

Congratulations, both men said.

But then Elf said he’d need to do some fast digging, find out the protocols. There were strict rules governing such things.

Rules? Really?

He came back days later and said before doing anything I’d need to ask Granny’s permission.

I asked him if that was a real rule, or the kind we could work around.

Oh, no, it’s very real.

It didn’t make sense. A grown man asking his grandmother for permission to marry? I couldn’t recall Willy asking before he proposed to Kate. Or my cousin Peter asking before he proposed to his wife, Autumn. But come to think of it I did remember Pa asking permission when he wanted to marry Camilla. The absurdity of a fifty-six-year-old man asking his mother’s permission had been lost on me at the time.

Elf said there was no point in examining the whys and hows, this was the inalterable rule. The first six in line to the throne had to ask permission. The Royal Marriages Act of 1772, or the Succession to the Crown Act of 2013—he was going on and on and I could barely believe my ears. The point was, love took a decided back seat to law. Indeed, law had trumped love on more than one occasion. A fairly recent relative had been…strongly dissuaded…from marrying the love of their life.

Who?

Your aunt Margaret.

Really?

Yes. She’d wanted to marry a divorcé and…well.

Divorcé?

Elf nodded.

Oh, shit, I thought. This might not be a slam dunk.

But Pa and Camilla were divorcés, I said, and they’d got permission. Didn’t that mean the rule no longer applied?

That’s them, Elf said. This is you.

To say nothing about the furor over a certain king who’d wanted to marry an American divorcée, which Elf reminded me had ended with the King’s abdication and exile. Duke of Windsor? Ever heard of him?