Spare

Finally I told him flatly and defiantly that his bearded brother was getting married soon, and he could either get on board or not. The choice was up to him.

42.

I showed up to my stag ready to party. To laugh, to have a good time, to get clear of all this stress. And yet I also feared that if I got too clear, got too drunk and passed out, Willy and his mates would hold me down and shave me.

In fact Willy told me, explicitly, in all seriousness, that this was his plan.

So, while having fun, I was also at all times keeping my older brother in my sight.

The stag was at a friend’s house in the Hampshire countryside. Not on the south coast, or in Canada, or in Africa, all of which were reported as its location.

Aside from my older brother, fifteen mates were in attendance.

The host kitted out his indoor tennis court with various boy toys:

Giant boxing gloves.

Bows and arrows, à la Lord of the Rings.

A mechanical bull.

We painted our faces and rough-housed like idiots. Great fun.

After an hour or two I was tired, and relieved when someone shouted that lunch was ready.

We had a big picnic in a large, airy barn, then trooped off to a makeshift shooting range.

Arming that drunken lot to the teeth—dangerous idea. But somehow no one was hurt.

When everyone was bored of firing rifles, they dressed me as a giant yellow feathered chicken and sent me downrange to shoot fireworks at me. All right, I offered to do it. Whoever comes closest wins! I flashed back to those long-ago weekends in Norfolk, dodging fireworks with Hugh and Emilie’s boys.

I wondered if Willy did too.

How had we drifted so far from the closeness of those days?

Or had we?

Maybe, I thought, we can still recapture it.

Now that I’m to be married.

43.

There had been spirited arguments in the back corridors of the Palace about whether or not Meg could—or should—wear a veil. Not possible, some said.

For a divorcée, a veil was thought to be out of the question.

But the powers that be, unexpectedly, showed some flexibility on the subject.

Next came the question of a tiara. My aunts asked if Meg would like to wear my mother’s. We were both touched. Meg then spent hours and hours with her dress designer, getting the veil to match the tiara, giving it a similar scalloped edge.

Shortly before the wedding, however, Granny reached out. She offered us access to her collection of tiaras. She even invited us to Buckingham Palace to try them on. Do come over, I remember her saying.

Extraordinary morning. We walked into Granny’s private dressing room, right next to her bedroom, a space I’d never been in. Along with Granny was a jewelry expert, an eminent historian who knew the lineage of each stone in the royal collection. Also present was Granny’s dresser and confidante, Angela. Five tiaras were arrayed on a table, and Granny directed Meg to try on each one before a full-length mirror. I stood behind, watching.

One was all emeralds. One was aquamarines. Each was more dazzlingly stunning than the last. Each took my breath.

I wasn’t the only one. Granny said to Meg quite tenderly: Tiaras suit you.

Meg melted. Thank you, Ma’am.

One of the five, however, stood out. Everyone agreed. It was beautiful, seemingly made for Meg. Granny said it would be placed in a safe directly and she looked forward to seeing it on Meg’s head come the Big Day.

Make sure, she added, that you practice putting it on. With your hairdresser. It’s tricky and you don’t want to be doing it for the first time on the wedding day.

We left the Palace feeling awed and loved and grateful.

A week later we contacted Angela and asked her to please send us the chosen tiara so we could practice putting it on. We’d done research, and we’d spoken to Kate about her own experience, and we’d learned that Granny’s warning was spot on. The placing of the tiara was an intricate, elaborate process. It had to be first sewn to the veil, then Meg’s hairdresser would need to fix it to a small plait in her hair. Complicated, time-consuming—we’d need at least one dress rehearsal.

For some reason, however, Angela didn’t respond to any of our messages.

We kept trying.

No response.

When we finally reached her, she said the tiara would require an orderly and a police escort to leave the Palace.

That sounded…a bit much. But all right, I said, if that’s protocol, let’s find an orderly and a police officer and get the ball rolling. Time was running out.

Inexplicably, she replied: Can’t be done.

Why can’t it?

Her schedule was too busy.

She was being obstructive, obviously, but for what reason? We couldn’t even hazard a guess. I considered going to Granny, but that would probably mean sparking an all-out confrontation, and I wasn’t quite sure with whom Granny would side.