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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?

In fact we wanted to elope. Barefoot in Botswana, with maybe a friend officiating, that was our

dream. But we were expected to share this moment with other people. It wasn’t up to us.