Spare

I disliked these men, and they didn’t have any use for me. They considered me irrelevant at best, stupid at worst. Above all, they knew how I saw them: as usurpers. Deep down, I feared that each man felt himself to be the One True Monarch, that each was taking advantage of a Queen in her nineties, enjoying his influential position while merely appearing to serve.

I’d come to this conclusion through cold hard experience. For instance, Meg and I had consulted with the Wasp about the press, and he’d agreed that the situation was abominable, that it needed to be stopped before someone got hurt. Yes! You’ll get no argument from us on that! He suggested the Palace convene a summit of all the major editors, make our case to them.

Finally, I said to Meg, someone gets it.

We never heard from him again.

So I was skeptical when Granny offered to send us the Bee. But I told myself to keep an open mind. Maybe this time would be different, because this time Granny was dispatching him personally.

Days later, Meg and I welcomed the Bee into Frogmore, made him comfortable in our new sitting room, offered him a glass of rosé, gave a detailed presentation. He took meticulous notes, frequently putting a hand over his mouth and shaking his head. He’d seen the headlines, he said, but he’d not appreciated the full impact this might have on a young couple.

This deluge of hate and lies was unprecedented in British history, he said. Disproportionate to anything I’ve ever seen.

Thank you, we said. Thank you for seeing it.

He promised to discuss the matter with all the necessary parties and get back to us soon with an action plan, a set of concrete solutions.

We never heard from him again.

67.

Meg and I were on the phone with Elton John and his husband, David, and we confessed: We need help.

We’re sort of losing it here, guys.

Come to us, Elton said.

By which he meant their home in France.

Summer 2019.

So we did. For a few days we sat on their terrace and soaked up their sunshine. We spent long healing moments gazing out at the azure sea, and it felt decadent, not just because of the luxurious setting. Freedom of any kind, in any measure, had come to feel like scandalous luxury. To be out of the fishbowl for even an afternoon felt like day release from prison.

One afternoon we took a scooter ride with David, around the local bay, down the coastal road. I was driving, Meg was on the back, and she threw out her arms and shouted for joy as we zoomed through little towns, smelt people’s dinners from open windows, waved to children playing in their gardens. They all waved back and smiled. They didn’t know us.

The best part of the visit was watching Elton and David and their two boys fall in love with Archie. Often I’d catch Elton studying Archie’s face and I knew what he was thinking: Mummy. I knew because it happened so often to me as well. Time and again I’d see an expression cross Archie’s face and it would bring me up short. I nearly said so to Elton, how much I wished my mother could hold her grandson, how often it happened that, while hugging Archie, I felt her—or wanted to. Every hug tinged with nostalgia; every tuck-in touched with grief.

Does anything bring you face-to-face with the past like parenthood?

On the last night we were all experiencing that familiar end-of-holiday malaise: Why can’t it be like this forever? We were drifting from the terrace to the pool, and back again, Elton offering cocktails, David and I chatting about the news. And the sorry state of the press. And what it meant for the state of Britain.

We got onto books. David mentioned Elton’s memoir, at which he’d been toiling for years. It was finally done, and Elton was mighty proud of it, and the publication date was drawing near.

Bravo, Elton!

Elton mentioned that it was going to be serialized.

Is that so?

Yes. Daily Mail.

He saw my face. He quickly looked away.

Elton, how in the absolute—?

I want people to read it!

But, Elton—? The very people who’ve made your life miserable?

Exactly. Who better to excerpt it? Where better than the very newspaper that’s been so poisonous to me my whole life?

Who better? I just…I don’t understand.

It was a warm night, so I’d already been sweating. But now beads were dripping off my forehead. I reminded him of the specific lies the Mail had famously printed about him. Hell—he’d sued them, just over a decade earlier, after they claimed he forbade people at a charity event from speaking to him.