Spare

I scooped Archie from his nap and took him out to the lawn. It was sunny, cold, and we gazed at the water, touched the dry leaves, collected rocks and twigs. I kissed his chubby little cheeks, tickled him, then glanced down at my phone to see a text from the head of our security team, Lloyde.

He needed to see me.

I carried Archie across the garden and handed him to Meg, then went across the soggy grass to the cottage where Lloyde and the other bodyguards were staying. We sat on a bench, both of us wearing puffer jackets. Waves rolling gently in the background, Lloyde told me that our security was being pulled. He and the whole team had been ordered to evacuate.

Surely they can’t.

I would tend to agree. But they are.

So much for the year of transition.

The threat level for us, Lloyde said, was still higher than for that of nearly every other royal, equal to that assigned the Queen. And yet the word had come down and there was to be no arguing.

So here we are, I said. The ultimate nightmare. The worst of all worst-case scenarios. Any bad actor in the world would now be able to find us, and it would just be me with a pistol to stop them.

Oh wait. No pistol. I’m in Canada.

I rang Pa. He wouldn’t take my calls.

Just then I got a text from Willy. Can you speak?

Great. I was sure my older brother, after our recent walk in the Sandringham gardens, would be sympathetic. That he’d step up.

He said it was a government decision. Nothing to be done.

78.

Lloyde was pleading with his superiors at home, trying to get them at least to postpone the date when he and his team pulled out. He showed me the emails. He wrote: We can’t just…leave them here!

The person at the other end wrote: The decision has been made. As of March 31 they’re by themselves.

I scrambled to find new security. I spoke to consultants, gathered estimates. I filled a notebook with research. The Palace directed me to a firm, which quoted me a price. Six million a year.

I slowly hung up.

In the midst of all this darkness came the horrible news that my old friend Caroline Flack had taken her life. She couldn’t stand it anymore, apparently. The relentless abuse at the hands of the press, year after year, had finally broken her. I felt so awful for her family. I remembered how they’d all suffered for her mortal sin of going out with me.

She’d been so light and funny that night we met. The definition of carefree.

It would’ve been impossible then to imagine this outcome.

I told myself it was an important reminder. I wasn’t being overdramatic, I wasn’t warning about things that would never happen. What Meg and I were dealing with was indeed a question of life and death.

And time was running out.

In March 2020 the World Health Organization declared a global pandemic, and Canada began to discuss the possibility of closing its borders.

But Meg had zero doubt. They’re definitely going to close those borders, so we need to figure out somewhere else to go…and get there.

79.

We were having a chat with Tyler Perry, the actor-writer-director. He’d sent a note to Meg before the wedding, out of the blue, telling her that she wasn’t alone, that he saw what was happening. Now, FaceTiming with him, Meg and I were trying to put on a brave face, but we were both a mess.

Tyler saw. He asked what was up.

We gave him the highlights, the loss of security, the borders closing. Nowhere to turn.

Whoa. OK, that’s a lot. But…just breathe. Breathe.

That was the problem. We couldn’t breathe.

Look…take my house.

What?

My house in Los Angeles. It’s gated, it’s secure—you’ll be safe there. I’ll keep you safe.

He was traveling, he explained, working on a project, so the house was empty, waiting for us.

It was too much. Too generous.

But we accepted. Eagerly.

I asked why he was doing this.

My mother.

Your…?

My mother loved your mother.

I was caught completely by surprise. He said: After your mother visited Harlem, that was it. She could do no wrong in Maxine Perry’s book.

He went on to say that his mother had died ten years earlier, and he was still grieving.

I wanted to tell him it gets easier.

I didn’t.

80.

The house was Xanadu. High ceilings, priceless art, beautiful swimming pool. Palatial, but above all, ultra-safe. Better yet, it came with security, paid for by Tyler.