Spare

She turned to me again and sighed: He’s lying.

The story broke the next morning and it was worse than we feared. There was video of Meg’s father meeting the pap at an internet café. There was a series of farcically staged shots, including one of him reading a book about Britain as if studying for the wedding. The photos, reportedly worth a hundred thousand pounds, seemed to prove beyond all doubt that Meg’s father had indeed been lying. He’d taken part in this fakery, maybe to make some money, or maybe they had some leverage on him. We didn’t know.

Headlines read: Meg Markle’s father a con artist! Staged candid photos for money!

A week before the wedding, this now became the story.

Though the photos had been taken weeks before, they’d been held in reserve until the most devastating possible moment.

Soon after the story broke, Thomas Markle sent us a text:

I’m so ashamed.

We phoned him.

And texted him.

And phoned again.

We’re not angry, please pick up.

He didn’t answer.

Then we heard, along with the rest of the world, that he’d apparently had a heart attack and wasn’t coming to the wedding.

46.

The next day Meg had a text from Kate.

There was a problem with the dresses for the bridesmaids, apparently. They needed altering. The dresses were French couture, hand-sewn from measurements only. So it wasn’t a big shock that they might need altering.

Meg didn’t reply to Kate straightaway. Yes, she had endless wedding-related texts, but mostly she was dealing with the chaos surrounding her father. So the next morning she texted Kate that our tailor was standing by. At the Palace. His name was Ajay.

This wasn’t sufficient.

They set up a time to speak that afternoon

Charlotte’s dress is too big, too long, too baggy. She cried when she tried it on at home, Kate said.

Right, and I told you the tailor has been standing by since eight a.m. Here. At KP. Can you take Charlotte to have it altered, as the other moms are doing?

No, all the dresses need to be remade.

Her own wedding dress designer agreed, Kate added.

Meg asked if Kate was aware of what was going on right now. With her father.

Kate said she was well aware, but the dresses. And the wedding is in four days!

Yes, Kate, I know…

And Kate had other problems with the way Meg was planning her wedding. Something about a party for the page boys?

The page boys? Half the kids in the wedding are from North America. They haven’t even arrived yet.

It went back and forth.

I’m not sure what else to say. If the dress doesn’t fit then please take Charlotte to see Ajay. He’s been waiting all day.

Fine.

A short time later I arrived home and found Meg on the floor. Sobbing.

I was horrified to see her so upset, but I didn’t think it a catastrophe. Emotions were running high, of course, after the stress of the last week, the last month, the last day. It was intolerable—but temporary. Kate hadn’t meant any harm, I told her.

Indeed the next morning Kate came by with flowers and a card that said she was sorry. Meg’s best friend, Lindsay, was in the kitchen when she turned up.

Simple misunderstanding, I told myself.

47.

On the eve of the wedding I stayed at Coworth Park Hotel. A private cottage. Several mates sat with me and had drinks. One commented that I seemed a bit distracted.

Yes, well. There’s been a lot going on.

I didn’t want to say too much. The business with Meg’s father, Kate and the dress, the constant worry about someone in the crowd doing something crazy—better not to talk about it.

Someone asked about my brother. Where’s Willy?

I gave another non-answer. Another sore subject.

He’d been scheduled to join us for the evening. But, like Meg’s father, he’d canceled last minute.

He’d told me, just before he attended tea with Granny: Can’t do it, Harold. Kate and the kids.

I’d reminded him that this was our tradition, that we’d had dinner before his wedding, that we’d gone together and visited the crowds.

He held fast. Can’t do it.

I pushed. Why you being like this, Willy? I was with you the whole night before you married Kate. Why you doing this?