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26.

The next session I asked if it would be all right for me to lie down.

She smiled. I was wondering when you’d ask.

I stretched out on the green sofa, tucked a pillow under my neck.

I spoke about the physical and emotional suffering. The panic, the anxiety. The sweats.

How long has this been going on?

Two or three years now. It used to be much worse.

I told her about the talk with Cress. During the skiing holiday. The top coming off the bottle,

emotions fizzing all over the place. I’d cried a bit then…but it wasn’t enough. I needed to cry

more. And I couldn’t.

I got around to talking about the deep rage, the ostensible trigger for seeking her out in the first

place. I described the scene with Meg, in the kitchen.

I shook my head.

I vented about my family. Pa and Willy. Camilla. I frequently stopped myself, mid-sentence, at

the sound of passersby outside the window. If they ever knew. Prince Harry in there yapping about

his family. His problems. Oh, the papers would have a field day.

Which led us on to the subject of the press. Firmer ground. I let fly. My own countrymen and

countrywomen, I said, showing such contempt, such vile disrespect, to the woman I loved. Sure,

the press had been cruel to me through the years, but that was different. I was born into it. And

sometimes I’d asked for it, brought it on myself.

But this woman has done nothing to deserve such cruelty.

And whenever I complained about it, privately or publicly, people just rolled their eyes. They

said I was whingeing, said I only pretended to want privacy, said Meg was pretending as well. Oh,

she’s getting chased, is she? Wah-wah, give us a break! She’ll be fine, she’s an actress, she’s used

to paps, in fact, wants them.

But no one wanted this. No one could ever get used to it. All those eye-rollers couldn’t take

ten minutes of it. Meg was having panic attacks for the first time in her life. She’d recently

received a text from a perfect stranger who knew her address in Toronto and promised to put a

bullet into her head.

The therapist said I sounded angry.

Shit, yes, I was angry!

She said that, no matter how valid my complaints, I also sounded stuck. Granted, Meg and I

were living through an ordeal, but the Harry who’d snapped at Meg with such anger wasn’t this

Harry, the reasonable Harry, lying on this sofa and laying out his case. That was twelve-year-old

Harry, traumatized Harry.

What you’re going through right now is reminiscent of 1997, Harry, but I also fear that part of

you is trapped in 1997.

I didn’t like the sound of that. I felt a bit insulted. Calling me a child? Seems a bit rude.

You say you want truth, you value truth above all—well, there’s the truth.

The session went over the allotted time. It lasted nearly two hours. When our time was up, we

made a date to get together again soon. I asked if it would be all right if I gave her a hug.

Yes, of course.

I embraced her lightly, thanked her.

Outside, on the street, my head was swimming. In each direction there was an amazing

collection of restaurants and shops, and I’d have given anything to walk up and down, look in the

windows, give myself time to process all I’d said and learned.

But, of course, impossible.

Didn’t want to cause a scene.