3-74（在线收听）

74.

We got word from Sara that The Sun was about to run a story saying The Duke and Duchess of

Sussex were stepping away from their royal duties to spend more time in Canada. A sad little man,

the newspaper’s showbiz editor, was said to be the lead reporter on the story.

Why him? Why, of all people, the showbiz guy?

Because lately he’d refashioned himself into some sort of quasi royal correspondent, largely

on the strength of his secret relationship with one particularly close friend of Willy’s comms

secretary—who fed him trivial (and mostly fake) gossip.

He was sure to get everything wrong, as he’d got everything wrong on his last big “exclusive,”

Tiaragate. He was equally sure to cram his story into the paper as fast as possible, because he was

likely working in concert with the Palace, whose courtiers were determined to get ahead of us and

spin the story. We didn’t want that. We didn’t want anyone else breaking our news, twisting our

news.

We’d have to rush out a statement.

I phoned Granny again, told her about The Sun, told her we might need to hurry out a

statement. She understood. She’d allow it, so long as it didn’t “add to speculation.”

I didn’t tell her exactly what our statement would say. She didn’t ask. But also I didn’t fully

know yet. I gave her the gist, however, and mentioned some of the basic details I’d outlined in the

memo Pa had demanded and which she’d seen.

The wording needed to be precise. And it needed to be bland—calm. We didn’t want to assign

any blame, didn’t want to stoke the fires. Mustn’t add to speculation.

Formidable writing challenge.

We soon realized it wasn’t possible; we didn’t have time to get our statement out there first.

We opened a bottle of wine. Proceed, sad little man, proceed.

He did. The Sun posted his story late that night, and again on the morning’s front page.

Headline: WE’RE ORF!

As expected, the story depicted our departure as a rollicking, carefree, hedonistic tapping out,

rather than a careful retreat and attempt at self-preservation. It also included the telling detail that

we’d offered to relinquish our Sussex titles. There was only one document on earth in which that

detail was mentioned—my private and confidential letter to my father.

To which a shockingly, damningly small number of people had access. We hadn’t mentioned

it to even our closest friends.

January 7, we worked some more on the draft, did a brief public appearance, met with our

staff. Finally, knowing more details were about to be leaked, on January 8 we hunkered down deep

inside Buckingham Palace, in one of the main state rooms, with the two most senior members of

our staff.

I’d always liked that state room. Its pale walls, its sparkly crystal chandelier. But now it struck

me as especially lovely and I thought: Has it always been so? Has it always looked so…royal?

In a corner of the state room was a grand wooden desk. We used this as our workspace. We

took turns sitting there, typing on a laptop. We tried out different phrases. We wanted to say that

we were taking a reduced role, stepping back but not down. Hard to get the exact wording, the

right tone. Serious, but respectful.

Occasionally one of us would stretch out in a nearby armchair, or give the eyes a rest by

gazing out of the two huge windows onto the gardens. When I needed a longer break I set off on a

trek across the oceanic carpet. On the far side of the room, in the left corner, a small door led to

the Belgian Suite, where Meg and I had once spent the night. In the near corner stood two tall

wooden doors, the kind people think of when they hear the word “palace.” These led to a room in

which I’d attended countless cocktail parties. I thought back on those gatherings, on all the good

times I’d had in this place.

I remembered: The room right next door was where the family always gathered for drinks

before Christmas lunch.

I went out into the hall. There was a tall, beautiful Christmas tree, still brightly lit. I stood

before it, reminiscing. I removed two ornaments, soft little corgis, and brought them back to the

staffers. One each. Souvenir of this strange mission, I said.

They were touched. But a bit guilty.

I assured them: No one will miss ’em.

Words that seemed double-edged.

Late in the day, as we crawled closer to a final draft, the staffers began to feel anxious. They

worried aloud if their involvement would be discovered. If so, what would it mean for their jobs?

But mostly they were excited. They felt that they were on the side of right; both had read every

word of abuse in the press and on social media, going back months and months.

At six p.m. it was done. We gathered around the laptop, read the draft one last time. One

staffer messaged the private secretaries of Granny, Pa and Willy, told them what was coming.

Willy’s guy replied immediately: This is going to go nuclear.

I knew, of course, that many Britons would be shocked, and saddened, which made my

stomach churn. But in due course, once they knew the truth, I felt confident they’d understand.

One of the staffers said: Are we doing this?

Meg and I both said:

Yes. There’s no other choice.

We sent the statement to our social media person. Within a minute there it was, live, on our

Instagram page, the only platform available to us. We all hugged, wiped our eyes, and quickly

gathered our things.

Meg and I walked out of the Palace and jumped into our car. As we sped towards Frogmore

the news was already on the radio. Every channel. We picked one. Magic FM. Meg’s favorite. We

listened to the presenter work himself into a very British lather. We held hands and shared a smile

with our bodyguards in the front seat. Then we all gazed silently out of the windows.