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60.

I walked home from the office and found Meg sitting on the stairs.

She was sobbing. Uncontrollably.

My love, what’s happened?

I thought for sure we’d lost the baby.

I went to her on my knees. She choked out that she didn’t want to do this anymore.

Do what?

Live.

I didn’t catch her meaning at first. I didn’t understand, maybe didn’t want to understand. My

mind just didn’t want to process the words.

It’s all so painful, she was saying.

What is?

To be hated like this—for what?

What had she done? she asked. She really wanted to know. What sin had she committed to

deserve this kind of treatment?

She just wanted to make the pain stop, she said. Not only for her, for everyone. For me, for her

mother. But she couldn’t make it stop, so she’d decided to disappear.

Disappear?

Without her, she said, all the press would go away, and then I wouldn’t have to live like this.

Our unborn child would never have to live like this.

It’s so clear, she kept saying, it’s so clear. Just stop breathing. Stop being. This exists because

I exist.

I begged her not to talk like that. I promised her we’d get through it, we’d find a way. In the

meantime, we’d find her the help she needed.

I asked her to be strong, hang on.

Incredibly, while reassuring her, and hugging her, I couldn’t entirely stop thinking like a

fucking royal. We had a Sentebale engagement that night, at the Royal Albert Hall, and I kept

telling myself: We can’t be late. We cannot be late. They’ll skin us alive! And they’ll blame her.

Slowly—too slowly—I realized that tardiness was the least of our problems.

I said she should skip the engagement, of course. I needed to go, make a quick appearance, but

I’d be home fast.

No, she insisted, she didn’t trust herself to be at home alone for even an hour with such dark

feelings.

So we put on our best kit, and she applied dark, dark lipstick to draw attention away from her

bloodshot eyes, and out of the door we went.

The car pulled up outside the Royal Albert Hall, and as we stepped into the blue flashing lights

of the police escort and the whiteout lights of the press’s flashbulbs, Meg reached for my hand.

She gripped it tightly. As we went inside, she gripped it even tighter. I was buoyed by the

tightness of that grip. She’s hanging on, I thought. Better than letting go.

But when we settled into the royal box, and the lights dimmed, she let go of her emotions. She

couldn’t hold back the tears. She wept silently.

The music struck up, we turned and faced the front. We spent the entire length of the

performance (Cirque du Soleil) squeezing each other’s hands, me promising her in a whisper:

Trust me. I’ll keep you safe.