Spare

I phoned Granny again, told her about The Sun, told her we might need to hurry out a statement. She understood. She’d allow it, so long as it didn’t “add to speculation.”

I didn’t tell her exactly what our statement would say. She didn’t ask. But also I didn’t fully know yet. I gave her the gist, however, and mentioned some of the basic details I’d outlined in the memo Pa had demanded and which she’d seen.

The wording needed to be precise. And it needed to be bland—calm. We didn’t want to assign any blame, didn’t want to stoke the fires. Mustn’t add to speculation.

Formidable writing challenge.

We soon realized it wasn’t possible; we didn’t have time to get our statement out there first.

We opened a bottle of wine. Proceed, sad little man, proceed.

He did. The Sun posted his story late that night, and again on the morning’s front page.

Headline: WE’RE ORF!

As expected, the story depicted our departure as a rollicking, carefree, hedonistic tapping out, rather than a careful retreat and attempt at self-preservation. It also included the telling detail that we’d offered to relinquish our Sussex titles. There was only one document on earth in which that detail was mentioned—my private and confidential letter to my father.

To which a shockingly, damningly small number of people had access. We hadn’t mentioned it to even our closest friends.

January 7, we worked some more on the draft, did a brief public appearance, met with our staff. Finally, knowing more details were about to be leaked, on January 8 we hunkered down deep inside Buckingham Palace, in one of the main state rooms, with the two most senior members of our staff.

I’d always liked that state room. Its pale walls, its sparkly crystal chandelier. But now it struck me as especially lovely and I thought: Has it always been so? Has it always looked so…royal?

In a corner of the state room was a grand wooden desk. We used this as our workspace. We took turns sitting there, typing on a laptop. We tried out different phrases. We wanted to say that we were taking a reduced role, stepping back but not down. Hard to get the exact wording, the right tone. Serious, but respectful.

Occasionally one of us would stretch out in a nearby armchair, or give the eyes a rest by gazing out of the two huge windows onto the gardens. When I needed a longer break I set off on a trek across the oceanic carpet. On the far side of the room, in the left corner, a small door led to the Belgian Suite, where Meg and I had once spent the night. In the near corner stood two tall wooden doors, the kind people think of when they hear the word “palace.” These led to a room in which I’d attended countless cocktail parties. I thought back on those gatherings, on all the good times I’d had in this place.

I remembered: The room right next door was where the family always gathered for drinks before Christmas lunch.

I went out into the hall. There was a tall, beautiful Christmas tree, still brightly lit. I stood before it, reminiscing. I removed two ornaments, soft little corgis, and brought them back to the staffers. One each. Souvenir of this strange mission, I said.

They were touched. But a bit guilty.

I assured them: No one will miss ’em.

Words that seemed double-edged.

Late in the day, as we crawled closer to a final draft, the staffers began to feel anxious. They worried aloud if their involvement would be discovered. If so, what would it mean for their jobs? But mostly they were excited. They felt that they were on the side of right; both had read every word of abuse in the press and on social media, going back months and months.

At six p.m. it was done. We gathered around the laptop, read the draft one last time. One staffer messaged the private secretaries of Granny, Pa and Willy, told them what was coming. Willy’s guy replied immediately: This is going to go nuclear.

I knew, of course, that many Britons would be shocked, and saddened, which made my stomach churn. But in due course, once they knew the truth, I felt confident they’d understand.

One of the staffers said: Are we doing this?

Meg and I both said:

Yes. There’s no other choice.

We sent the statement to our social media person. Within a minute there it was, live, on our Instagram page, the only platform available to us. We all hugged, wiped our eyes, and quickly gathered our things.

Meg and I walked out of the Palace and jumped into our car. As we sped towards Frogmore the news was already on the radio. Every channel. We picked one. Magic FM. Meg’s favorite. We listened to the presenter work himself into a very British lather. We held hands and shared a smile with our bodyguards in the front seat. Then we all gazed silently out of the windows.

75.

Days later there was a meeting at Sandringham. I don’t remember who called it the Sandringham Summit. Someone in the press, I suspect.