Spare

I didn’t get it. Was she being sarcastic? Ironic? Deliberately cryptic? Was she indulging in a bit of wordplay? I’d never known Granny to do any wordplay, and this would be a surpassingly bizarre moment (not to mention wildly inconvenient) for her to start, but maybe she just saw the chance to play off my unfortunate use of the word “have” and couldn’t resist?

Or else, perhaps there was some hidden meaning beneath the wordplay, some message I wasn’t comprehending?

I stood there squinting, smiling, asking myself over and over: What is the Queen of England saying to me right now?

At long last I realized: She’s saying yes, you muppet! She’s granting permission. Who cares how she words it, just know when to take yes for an answer.

So I sputtered: Right. OK, Granny! Well. Fabulous. Thank you! Thank you so much.

I wanted to hug her.

I longed to hug her.

I didn’t hug her.

I saw her into the Range Rover, then marched back to Pa and Willy.

34.

I took a ring from Meg’s jewelry box and gave it to a designer, so he’d know her size.

Since he was also the keeper of Mummy’s bracelets, earrings and necklaces, I asked him to harvest the diamonds from one particularly beautiful bracelet of Mummy’s and use those to create a ring.

I’d cleared all this in advance with Willy. I’d asked my brother if I could have the bracelet, and told him what it was for. I don’t recall him hesitating, for one second, in giving it to me. He seemed to like Meg, despite his oft-cited concerns. Kate seemed to like her too. We’d had them over for dinner during one of Meg’s visits, and Meg cooked, and everything was good. Willy had a cold: he was sneezing and coughing, and Meg ran upstairs to get him some of her homeopathic cure-alls. Oregano oil, turmeric. He seemed charmed, moved, though Kate announced to the table that he’d never take such unconventional remedies.

We talked about Wimbledon that night, and Suits, and Willy and Kate weren’t brave enough to admit to being superfans. Which was sweet.

The only possibly discordant note I could think of was the marked difference in how the two women dressed, which both of them seemed to notice.

Meg: ripped jeans, barefoot.

Kate: done up to the nines.

No big deal, I thought.

Along with the diamonds from the bracelet I’d asked the designer to add a third—a blood-free diamond from Botswana.

He asked if there was a rush.

Well…now that you mention it…

35.

Meg packed up her house, gave up her role in Suits. After seven seasons. A difficult moment for her, because she loved that show, loved the character she was playing, loved her cast and crew—loved Canada. On the other hand life there had become untenable. Especially on set. The show writers were frustrated, because they were often advised by the Palace comms team to change lines of dialogue, what her character would do, how she would act.

She’d also shut down her website and abandoned all social media, again at the behest of the Palace comms team. She’d said goodbye to her friends, goodbye to her car, goodbye to one of her dogs—Bogart. He’d been so traumatized by the siege of her house, by the constant ringing of the doorbell, that his demeanor changed when Meg was around. He’d become an aggressive guard dog. Meg’s neighbors had graciously agreed to adopt him.

But Guy came. Not my friend, Meg’s other dog, her beat-up little beagle, who was even more beat-up of late. He missed Bogart, of course, but more, he was badly injured. Days before Meg left Canada, Guy had run away from his minder. (Meg was at work.) He’d been found miles from Meg’s house, unable to walk. His legs were now in casts.

I often had to hold him upright so he could pee.

I didn’t mind in the least. I loved that dog. I couldn’t stop kissing him, petting him. Yes, my intense feelings for Meg spilled over onto anyone or anything she loved, but also I’d wanted a dog for so long, and I’d never been able to have one because I’d been such a nomad. One night, not long after Meg’s arrival in Britain, we were at home, making dinner, playing with Guy, and the kitchen of Nott Cott was as full of love as any room I’d ever been in.

I opened a bottle of champagne—an old, old gift I’d been saving for a special occasion.

Meg smiled. What’s the occasion?

No occasion.

I scooped up Guy, carried him outside, into the walled garden, put him down on a blanket I’d spread on the grass. Then I ran back inside and asked Meg to grab her champagne flute and come with me.

What’s up?

Nothing.

I led her out to the garden. Cold night. We were both wrapped in big coats, and hers had a hood lined with fake fur that framed her face like a cameo. I set electric candles around the blanket. I wanted it to look like Botswana, the bush, where I’d first thought of proposing.

Now I knelt on the blanket, Guy at my side. Both of us looked up searchingly at Meg.