Spare

My eyes already full of tears, I brought the ring out of my pocket and said my piece. I was shivering, and my heart was audibly thumping, and my voice was unsteady, but she got the idea.

Spend your life with me? Make me the happiest guy on this planet?

Yes.

Yes?

Yes!

I laughed. She laughed. What other reaction could there be? In this mixed-up world, this pain-filled life, we’d done it. We’d managed to find each other.

Then we were crying and laughing, and petting Guy, who looked frozen solid.

We started for the house.

Oh, wait. Don’t you want to see the ring, my love?

She hadn’t even thought about it.

We hurried inside, finished our celebration in the warmth of the kitchen.

It was November 4.

We managed to keep it secret for about two weeks.

36.

Ordinarily, I’d have gone to Meg’s father first, asked for his blessing. But Thomas Markle was a complicated man.

He and Meg’s mother split when she was two, and thereafter she divided her time between them. Monday to Friday with Mum, weekends with Dad. Then, for part of high school, she’d moved in with her father full-time. They were that close.

After college she’d traveled the world, but always stayed in constant contact with Daddy. She still, even in her thirties, called him Daddy. She loved him, worried about him—his health, his habits—and often relied upon him. Throughout her run on Suits she’d consulted him every week about the lighting. (He’d been a lighting director in Hollywood, won two Emmys.) In recent years, however, he hadn’t been working regularly, and he’d sort of disappeared. He’d rented a small house in a Mexican border town and wasn’t doing well overall.

In every way, Meg felt, her father would never be able to withstand the psychological pressures that come with being stalked by the press, and that was now happening to him. It had long been open season on everyone in Meg’s circle, every current friend and ex-boyfriend, every cousin, including those she’d never known, every former employer or former co-worker, but after I proposed there was a frenzy around…the Father. He was considered the prize catch. When the Daily Mirror published his location, paps descended on his house, taunting him, trying to tempt or lure him outside. No fox hunt, no bear baiting was ever more depraved. Strange men and women dangled offers of money, gifts, friendship. When none of that worked, they rented the house next door and shot him day and night through his windows. The press reported that, as a result, Meg’s father had nailed plywood over his windows.

But this wasn’t true. He’d often had plywood nailed over his windows, even when living in Los Angeles, well before Meg started dating me.

Complicated man.

They’d then begun following him into town, tailing him on his errands, walking behind him as he went up and down the aisles of local shops. They’d run photos of him with the headline: GOT HIM!

Meg would often phone her father, urge him to remain calm. Don’t speak to them, Daddy. Ignore them, they’ll go away eventually, as long as you don’t react. That’s what the Palace says to do.

37.

It was hard for both of us, while dealing with all that, to focus on the million and one details of planning a royal wedding.

Strangely, the Palace had trouble focusing too.

We wanted to get married quickly. Why give the papers and paps time to do their worst? But the Palace couldn’t seem to pick a date. Or a venue.

While waiting for a decree from on high, from the nebulous upper regions of the royal decision-making apparatus, we went off on a traditional “engagement tour.” England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales—we traveled up and down and all over the UK, introducing Meg to the public.

Crowds went wild for her. Meg, Diana would’ve loved you! I heard women scream this again and again. A total departure from the tone and tenor of the tabloids, and also a reminder: the British press wasn’t reality.

On our return from that trip I rang Willy, sounded him out, asked his thoughts about where we might get married.

I told him we were thinking of Westminster Abbey.

No good. We did it there.

Right, right. St. Paul’s?

Too grand. Plus Pa and Mummy did it there.

Hm. Yes. Good point.

He suggested Tetbury.

I snorted. Tetbury? The chapel near Highgrove? Seriously, Willy? How many does that place seat?

Isn’t that what you said you wanted—a small, quiet wedding?