3-39（在线收听）

39.

Granny formally approved the marriage in March 2018.

By royal decree.

Meanwhile, Meg and I were already a growing family. We brought home a new puppy—a

sibling for little Guy. He’d been needing one, poor thing. So when a friend in Norfolk told me his

black Labrador had a litter, and offered me a gorgeous amber-eyed female, I couldn’t say no.

Meg and I named her Pula. The Setswana word for rain.

And good fortune.

Many mornings I’d wake to find myself surrounded by beings I loved, who loved me, and

depended on me, and I thought I simply had no right to this much good fortune. Work challenges

aside, this was happiness. Life was good.

And following along a predestined track, seemingly. The decree about the wedding coincided

uncannily with the airing of Meg’s farewell season of Suits, in which her character, Rachel, was

also preparing to get married. Art and life, imitating each other.

Decent of Suits, I thought, marrying Meg off the show, instead of pushing her down a lift shaft.

There were enough people in real life trying to do that.

That spring, however, the press was quieter. Keener about breaking news of wedding details

than inventing new libels. Each day there was another “world exclusive” about the flowers, the

music, the food, the cake. No detail too small, not even the Portaloos. It was reported that we’d be

providing the poshest Portaloos on earth — porcelain basins, gold- plated seats — after being

inspired by the ones at Pippa Middleton’s wedding. In reality, we didn’t notice anything different

about how or where people went pee or poo at Pippa’s, and we had nothing to do with choosing

the Portaloos for ours. But we sincerely hoped that everyone would be able to do their thing in

comfort and peace.

Above all, we hoped the royal correspondents would continue to write about poo instead of

trying to stir it up.

So when the Palace encouraged us to feed more wedding details to those correspondents,

known as the Royal Rota, we obeyed. At the same time, I told the Palace that on the Big Day, the

happiest day of our lives, I didn’t want to see one single royal correspondent inside that chapel,

unless Murdoch himself apologized for phone hacking.

The Palace scoffed. It would be all-out war, the courtiers warned, to bar the Royal Rota from

the wedding.

Then let’s go to war.

I’d had it with the Royal Rota, both the individuals and the system, which was more outdated

than the horse and cart. It had been devised some forty years earlier, to give British print and

broadcast reporters first crack at the Royal Family, and it stank to high heaven. It discouraged fair

competition, engendered cronyism, encouraged a small mob of hacks to feel entitled.

After weeks of wrangling, it was agreed: The Royal Rota wouldn’t be allowed in the chapel,

but they could gather outside.

A small win, which I hugely celebrated.