Spare

Happy? No, I said. No, I’m not happy.

The paps had always been grotesque people, but as I reached maturity they were worse. You could see it in their eyes, their body language. They were more emboldened, more radicalized, just as young men in Iraq had been radicalized. Their mullahs were editors, the same ones who’d vowed to do better after Mummy died. The editors promised publicly to never again send photographers chasing after people, and now, ten years later, they were back to their old ways. They justified it by no longer sending their own photographers, directly; instead they contracted with pap agencies, who sent the photographers, a distinction without a shred of difference. The editors were still inciting and handsomely rewarding thugs and losers to stalk the Royal Family, or anyone else unlucky enough to be deemed famous or newsworthy.

And no one seemed to give a shit. I remember leaving a club in London and being swarmed by twenty paps. They surrounded me, then surrounded the police car in which I was sitting, threw themselves across the bonnet, all wearing football scarves around their faces and hoods over their heads, the uniform of terrorists everywhere. It was one of the scariest moments of my life, and I knew no one cared. Price you pay, people would say, though I never understood what they meant.

Price for what?

I was particularly close to one of my bodyguards. Billy. I called him Billy the Rock, because he was so solid, so dependable. He once pounced on a grenade someone tossed at me from a crowd. Luckily, it turned out not to be a real one. I promised Billy I wouldn’t push any more paps. But neither could I just stroll into their ambushes. So, when we left a club, I said, You’re going to have to stuff me into the boot of the car, Billy.

He looked at me, wide-eyed. Really?

That’s the only way I won’t be tempted to have a go at them, and they won’t be able to make any money out of me.

Win-win.

I didn’t tell Billy that this was something my mother used to do.

Thus began a very strange routine between us. When leaving a pub or club in 2007, I’d have the car pull into a back alley or underground parking lot, climb into the boot and let Billy shut the lid, and I’d lie there in the dark, hands across my chest, while he and another bodyguard ferried me home. It felt like being in a coffin. I didn’t care.

3.

To mark the tenth anniversary of our mother’s death, Willy and I organized a concert in her honor. The proceeds would go to her favorite charities, and to a new charity I’d just launched—Sentebale. Its mission: the fight against HIV in Lesotho, particularly among children. (Sentebale is the Sesotho word for “forget-me-not,” Mummy’s favorite flower.)

While planning the concert Willy and I were emotionless. All business. It’s the anniversary, we need to do this, there are a million details, full stop. The venue had to be big enough (Wembley Stadium) and the tickets had to be priced right (forty-five pounds) and the entertainers had to be A-list (Elton John, Duran Duran, P. Diddy). But on the night of the event, standing backstage, looking out at all those faces, feeling that pulsing energy, that pent-up love and longing for our mother, we crumpled.

Then Elton walked onstage. He seated himself at a grand piano and the place went mad. I’d asked him to sing “Candle in the Wind,” but he said no, he didn’t want to be morbid. He chose instead: “Your Song.”

I hope you don’t mind
That I put down in words
How wonderful life is while you’re in the world

He sang it with a twinkle and a smile, aglow with good memories. Willy and I tried for that same energy, but then photos of Mummy began flashing on the screen. Each one more radiant. We went from being crumpled to being swept away.

As the song ended Elton jumped up, introduced us. Their Royal Highnesses, Prince William and Prince Harry! The applause was deafening, like nothing we’d ever heard. We’d been applauded in the streets, at polo games, parades, operas, but never in a place this cavernous, or in a context this charged. Willy walked out, I followed, each of us wearing a blazer and open shirt, as if going to a school dance. We were both frightfully nervous. On any topic, but especially on the topic of Mummy, we weren’t accustomed to public speaking. (In fact, we weren’t accustomed to private speaking about her.) But standing before 65,000 people, and another 500 million watching live in 140 countries, we were paralyzed.