1.
I was sitting around Nott Cott, scrolling through Instagram. In my feed I saw a video: My friend Violet. And a young woman.
They were playing with a new app that put silly filters on your photos. Violet and the woman had dog ears, dog noses, long red dog tongues hanging out.
Despite the canine cartoon overlay, I sat up straighter.
This woman with Violet…my God.
I watched the video several times, then forced myself to put down the phone.
Then picked it up again, watched the video again.
I’d traveled the world, from top to bottom, literally. I’d hopscotched the continents. I’d met hundreds of thousands of people, I’d crossed paths with a ludicrously large cross-section of the planet’s seven billion residents. For thirty-two years I’d watched a conveyor-belt of faces pass by and only a handful ever made me look twice. This woman stopped the conveyor-belt. This woman smashed the conveyor-belt to bits.
I’d never seen anyone so beautiful.
Why should beauty feel like a punch in the throat? Does it have something to do with our innate human longing for order? Isn’t that what scientists say? And artists? That beauty is symmetry and therefore represents a relief from the chaos? Certainly my life to that point had been chaotic. I can’t deny hungering for order, can’t deny seeking a bit of beauty. I’d just come back from a trip with Pa, Willy and Kate to France, where we’d marked the anniversary of the Battle of the Somme, honored the British dead, and I’d read a haunting poem, “Before Action.” It was published by a soldier two days before he’d died in action. It ended: Help me to die, O Lord.
Reading it out, I realized I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live.
A fairly staggering revelation for me just then.
But this woman’s beauty, and my response to it, wasn’t based merely on symmetry. There was an energy about her, a wild joy and playfulness. There was something in the way she smiled, the way she interacted with Violet, the way she gazed into the camera. Confident. Free. She believed life was one grand adventure, I could see that. What a privilege it would be, I thought, to join her on that journey.
I got all of that from her face. Her luminous, angelic face. I’d never had a firm opinion on that burning question: Is there just one person on this earth for each of us? But in that moment I felt there might be only one face for me.
This one.
I sent Violet a message. Who…is…this…woman?
She answered straightaway. Yeah, I’ve had six other guys ask me.
Great, I thought.
Who is she, Violet?
Actress. She’s in a TV show called Suits.
It was a drama about lawyers; the woman played a young paralegal.
American?
Yeah.
What’s she doing in London?
Here for the tennis.
What’s she doing at Ralph Lauren?
Violet worked for Ralph Lauren.
She’s doing a fitting. I can connect you guys, if you like.
Um, yes. Please?
Violet asked if it would be all right to give the young woman, the American, my Instagram handle.
Of course.
It was Friday, July 1. I was due to leave London the next morning, heading to the home of Sir Keith Mills. I was to take part in a sailing race on Sir Keith’s yacht, around the Isle of Wight. Just as I was stuffing the last few things into my overnight bag I glanced at my phone.
A message on Instagram.
From the woman.
The American.
Hello!
She said she’d got my info from Violet. She complimented my Instagram page. Beautiful photographs.
Thank you.
It was mostly photos of Africa. I knew she’d been there, because I’d studied her Instagram page too; I’d seen photos of her hanging out with gorillas in Rwanda.
She said she’d done some aid work there as well. With children. We shared thoughts about Africa, photography, travel.
Eventually we exchanged phone numbers, and migrated the conversation over to text, going late into the night. In the morning I moved from Nott Cott to the car, without a pause in the texting. I texted with her throughout the long drive to Sir Keith’s place, continued through Sir Keith’s hall—How you doing, Sir Keith?—and up the stairs and into his guestroom, where I locked the door and remained holed up, texting. I sat on the bed texting like a teenager until it was time to have dinner with Sir Keith and his family. Then, after dessert, I quickly returned to the guestroom and resumed texting.
I couldn’t type fast enough. My thumbs were cramping. There was so much to say, we had so much in common, though we came from such different worlds. She was American, I was British. She was well-educated, I was decidedly not. She was free as a bird, I was in a gilded cage. And yet none of these differences felt disqualifying or even important. On the contrary, they felt organic, energizing. The contradictions created a sense of:
Hey…I know you.
But also: I need to know you.
Hey, I’ve known you forever.
But also: I’ve been searching for you forever.
Hey, thank God you’ve arrived.
But also: What took you so long?
Sir Keith’s guestroom looked out onto an estuary. Many times, mid-text, I’d walk over to the window and gaze out. The view made me think of the Okavango. It made me think also of destiny, and serendipity. That convergence of river and sea, land and sky reinforced a vague sense of big things coming together.
It occurred to me how uncanny, how surreal, how bizarre, that this marathon conversation should have begun on July 1, 2016.
My mother’s fifty-fifth birthday.
Late into the night, while waiting for her next text, I’d tap the American’s name into Google. Hundreds of photos, each more dazzling. I wondered if she was googling me too. I hoped not.
Before turning out the light I asked how long she was going to be in London. Damn—she was leaving soon. She had to get back to Canada to resume filming her show.
I asked if I could see her before she left.
I watched the phone, waiting for the answer, staring at the endlessly fluttering ellipsis.
…
Then: Sure!
Great. Now: Where to meet?
I suggested my place.
Your place? On a first date! I don’t think so.
No, I didn’t mean it like that.
She didn’t realize that being royal meant being radioactive, that I was unable to just meet at a coffee shop or pub. Reluctant to give her a full explanation, I tried to explain obliquely about the risk of being seen. I didn’t do a good job.
She suggested an alternative. Soho House at 76 Dean Street. It was her headquarters whenever she came to London. She’d reserve us a table in a quiet room.
No one else would be around.
The table would be under her name.
Meghan Markle.
2.
After texting half the night, into the wee hours, I groaned when that alarm rang at dawn. Time to get on Sir Keith’s boat. But I also felt grateful. A sailing race was the only way I’d be able to put down my phone.
And I needed to put it down, just for a spell, to collect my wits.
To pace myself.
Sir Keith’s boat was called Invictus. Homage to the games, God love him. That day it had a crew of eleven, including one or two athletes who’d actually competed in the games. The five-hour race took us around the Needles, and into the teeth of a gale. The wind was so fierce, many other boats dropped out of the race.
I’d sailed before, many times—I recalled one golden holiday, with Henners, trying to capsize our little Laser boat for laughs—but never like this, on open sea, in conditions so squally. The waves were towering. I’d never feared death before, and now I found myself thinking: Please don’t let me drown before my big date. Then another fear took hold. The fear of no onboard loo. I held it in for as long as I possibly could, until I had no choice. I swung my body over the side, into the tossing sea…and still couldn’t pee, mainly thanks to stage fright. The whole crew looking.
Finally I went back to my post, sheepishly hung from the ropes, and peed my pants.
Wow, I thought, if Ms. Markle could see me now.
Our boat won our class, came in second overall. Hooray, I said, barely pausing to celebrate with Sir Keith and the crew. My only concern was jumping into that water, washing the pee off my trousers, then racing back to London, where the bigger race, the ultimate race, was about to begin.
3.
The traffic was terrible. It was Sunday night, people were streaming back into London from their weekends in the country. Plus I had to get through Piccadilly Circus, a nightmare at the best of times. Bottlenecks, construction, accidents, gridlock, I ran into every conceivable obstacle. Again and again my bodyguards and I would come to a full stop in the road and we’d just sit. Five minutes. Ten.
Groaning, sweating, mentally shouting at the mass of unmoving cars. Come! On!
Finally it couldn’t be avoided. I texted: Running a bit late, sorry.
She was already there.
I apologized: Horrible traffic.
Her reply: OK.
I told myself: She might leave.
I told my bodyguards: She’s gonna leave.
As we inched towards the restaurant I texted again: Moving, but still slow.
Can’t you just get out?
How to explain? No, I couldn’t. I wasn’t able to go running through the streets of London. It would be like a llama running through the streets. It would make a scene, cause security nightmares; never mind the press it might attract. If I was spotted high-stepping towards Soho House, that would be the end of whatever privacy we might briefly enjoy.
Also, I had three bodyguards with me. I couldn’t ask them suddenly to take part in a track-and-field event.
Texting wasn’t the way to convey this, however. So I just…didn’t answer. Which surely irritated her.
At last I arrived. Red-cheeked, puffing, sweaty, half an hour late, I ran into the restaurant, into the quiet room, and found her at a small sitting area on a low velvet sofa in front of a low coffee table.
She looked up, smiled.
I apologized. Profusely. I couldn’t imagine many people had been late for this woman.
I settled into the sofa, apologized again.
She said she forgave me.
She was having a beer, some sort of IPA. I asked for a Peroni. I didn’t want beer, but it seemed easier.
Silence. We took it all in.
She was wearing a black sweater, jeans, heels. I knew nothing about clothes, but I knew she was chic. Then again, I knew she could make anything look chic. Even a bivvy bag. The main thing I noticed was the chasm between internet and reality. I’d seen so many photos of her from fashion shoots and TV sets, all glam and glossy, but here she was, in the flesh, no frills, no filter…and even more beautiful. Heart-attack beautiful. I was trying to process this, struggling to understand what was happening to my circulatory and nervous systems, and as a result my brain couldn’t handle any more data. Conversation, pleasantries, the Queen’s English, all became a challenge.
She filled the gap. She talked about London. She was here all the time, she said. Sometimes she just left her luggage at Soho House for weeks. They stored it without question. The people there were like family.
I thought: You’re in London all the time? How have I never seen you? Never mind that nine million people lived in London, or that I rarely left my house, I felt that if she was here, I should’ve known. I should’ve been informed!
What brings you here so often?
Friends. Business.
Oh? Business?
Acting was her main job, she said, the thing she was known for, but she had several careers. Lifestyle writer, travel writer, corporate spokesperson, entrepreneur, activist, model. She’d been all over the world, lived in various countries, worked for the US embassy in Argentina—her CV was dizzying.
All part of the plan, she said.
Plan?
Help people, do some good, be free.
The waitress reappeared. She told us her name. Mischa. East European accent, shy smile, many tattoos. We asked about them; Mischa was more than happy to explain. She provided a needed buffer, a tapping of the brakes, a moment to take a breath, and I think she knew she was filling this role, and embraced it. I loved her for it.
Mischa left us and the conversation started to really flow. The initial awkwardness was gone, the warmth from our texting returned. We’d each had first dates on which there was nothing to talk about, and now we both felt that special thrill when there’s too much to talk about, when there isn’t enough time to say all that needs to be said.
But speaking of time…ours was up. She gathered her stuff.
Sorry, I have to go.
Go? So soon?
I have dinner plans.
If I hadn’t been late, we’d have had more time. I cursed myself, got to my feet.
A brief goodbye hug.
I said I’d take care of the bill and she said in that case she’d foot the bill for thank-you flowers to Violet.
Peonies, she said.
I laughed. OK. Bye.
Goodbye.
Poof, she was gone.
Compared to her, Cinderella was the queen of long goodbyes.
4.
I’d made plans to meet my mate after. Now I phoned him, told him I was on my way, and half an hour later I was barging into his house off the King’s Road.
He took one look at my face and said: What’s happened?
I didn’t want to tell him. I kept thinking: Do not tell him. Do not tell him. Do not tell him.
I told him.
I recounted the entire date, then pleaded: Shit, mate, what am I going to do?
Out came the tequila. Out came the weed. We drank and smoked and watched…Inside Out.
An animated movie…about emotions. Perfect. I was thoroughly inside out.
Then I was peacefully numb. Good weed, dude.
My phone rang. Oh, shit. I held it up to my mate. It’s her.
Who?
HER.
She wasn’t just calling. She was FaceTiming.
Hello?
Hello.
What are you up to?
Uh, I’m with my mate.
What’s that in the background?
Oh, er—
Are you watching cartoons?
No. I mean, yeah. Kinda. It’s…Inside Out?
I moved to a quiet corner of the flat. She was back at her hotel. She’d washed her face. I said: God, I love your freckles.
She took a quick breath. Every time she was photographed, she said, they airbrushed out her freckles.
That’s insane. They’re beautiful.
She said she was sorry she’d had to run. She didn’t want me to think she hadn’t enjoyed meeting me.
I asked when I could see her again. Tuesday?
I leave Tuesday.
Oh. Tomorrow?
Pause.
OK.
Fourth of July.
We set another date. Back at Soho House.
5.
She spent that whole day at Wimbledon, cheering on her friend Serena Williams, from Serena’s box. She texted me after the final set as she raced back to her hotel, then texted again while she changed, then texted me as she was rushing to Soho House.
This time I was already there—waiting. Smiling. Proud of myself.
She walked in, wearing a pretty blue sundress with white pinstripes. She was aglow.
I stood and said: I bear gifts.
A pink box. I held it forward.
She shook it. What’s this?
No, no, don’t shake it! We both laughed.
She opened the box. Cupcakes. Red, white and blue cupcakes, to be exact. In honor of Independence Day. I said something about the Brits having a very different view of Independence Day from the Yanks, but, oh, well.
She said they looked amazing.
Our waitress from Date One appeared. Mischa. She seemed genuinely happy to see us, to discover that there was a Date Two. She could tell what was happening, she got that she was an eyewitness, that she’d forever be part of our personal mythology. After bringing us a round of drinks she went away and didn’t return for a long time.
When she did, we were deep in the middle of a kiss.
Not our first.
Meghan, holding my shirt collar, was pulling me towards her, holding me close. When she saw Mischa she released me immediately and we all laughed.
Excuse us.
No problem. Another round?
Again the conversation flowed, crackled. Burgers came and went, uneaten. I felt an overwhelming sense of Overture, Prelude, Kettle Drums, Act I. And yet also a sense of ending. A phase of my life—the first half?—was coming to a close.
As the night neared its end we had a very frank discussion. There was no way round it.
She put a hand to her cheek and said: What’re we gonna doooo?
We have to give this a proper go.
What does that even mean? I live in Canada. I’m going back tomorrow!
We’ll meet. A long visit. This summer.
My summer’s already planned.
Mine too.
Surely in the whole summer we could find one small spot of time.
She shook her head. She was doing the full Eat Pray Love.
Eat what now?
The book?
Ah. Sorry. Not really big on books.
I felt intimidated. She was so the opposite of me. She read. She was cultured.
Not important, she said with a laugh. The point was, she was going with three girlfriends to Spain, and then with two girlfriends to Italy, and then—
She looked at her calendar. I looked at mine.
She raised her eyes, smiled.
What is it? Tell me.
Actually, there’s one small window…
Recently, she explained, a castmate had advised her not to be so structured about her summer of eating, praying and loving. Keep one week open, this castmate said, leave room for magic, so she’d been saying no to all kinds of things, reserving one week, even turning down a very dreamy bike trip through the lavender fields of southern France…
I looked at my calendar and said: I have one week open as well.
What if they’re the same week?
What if?
Is it possible?
How crazy would that be?
It was the same week.
I suggested we spend it in Botswana. I gave her my best Botswana pitch. Birthplace of all humankind. Most sparsely populated nation on earth. True garden of Eden, with 40 percent of the land given over to Nature.
Plus, the largest number of elephants of any nation on earth.
Above all, it was the place where I’d found myself, where I always re-found myself, where I always felt close to—magic? If she was interested in magic, she should come with me, experience it with me. Camp under the stars, in the middle of nowhere, which is actually Everywhere.
She stared.
I realize it’s crazy, I said. But all of this is obviously crazy.
6.
We couldn’t fly together. For one thing, I was already going to be in Africa. I was scheduled to be in Malawi, doing conservation work with African Parks.
But I didn’t tell her the other reason: We couldn’t risk being seen together, the press finding out about us. Not yet.
So, she finished her Eat Pray Love thing, then flew from London to Johannesburg, then to Maun, where I’d asked Teej to meet her. (I wanted to do it myself, of course, but couldn’t without creating a scene.) After an eleven-hour odyssey, including a three-hour layover in Johannesburg, and a hot car ride to the house, Meghan had every right to be grumpy. But she wasn’t. Bright-eyed, eager, she was ready for anything.
And looking like…perfection. She wore cut-off jean shorts, well-loved hiking boots, a crumpled Panama hat that I’d seen on her Instagram page.
As I opened the gate to Teej and Mike’s house, I handed her a chicken-salad sandwich, wrapped in clingfilm. Thought you might be hungry. I suddenly wished I had flowers, a present, something besides this measly sandwich. We hugged, and it was awkward, not just because of the sandwich but the unavoidable suspense. We’d talked and FaceTimed countless times since our first dates, but this was all new and different. And a bit strange.
We were both thinking the same things. Is it going to translate? To another continent?
And what if it doesn’t?
I asked about the flight. She laughed about the Air Botswana crew. They were big fans of Suits, so they’d asked her to pose for a photo.
Yay, I said, thinking: Shit. If one member of the crew posted that photo, the cat would be out of the bag.
We all jumped into a three-bench truck, Mike driving, my bodyguards trailing, and set off. Straight into the sun. After an hour of tarmac roads, we were facing four hours of dirt tracks. To make the time go faster I pointed out every flower, plant, bird. That’s a francolin. That’s a hornbill. It’s like Zazu from The Lion King. That’s a lilac-breasted roller, and he seems to be doing his mating display.
After a respectful period of time, I held her hand.
Next, when the road got flatter, I ventured a kiss.
Just as we both remembered.
My bodyguards, fifty meters behind us, pretended not to see.
As we got further into the bush, as we neared the Okavango, the fauna began changing.
There! Look!
Oh, my God. Is that…giraffes!
And over there, look!
A family of warthogs.
We saw a breeding herd of elephants. Dads, mums, babies. Hi, guys. We started along a firebreak road and the birds were going nuts, which sent a weird shiver down my spine. Lions in the area.
No way, she said.
Something told me to look back. Sure enough, a flickering tail. I shouted for Mike to stop. He hit the brakes, threw the truck into reverse. There—standing right before us, a big fella. Daddy. And there, four youngsters, lounging under a shady bush. With their mums.
We admired them for a while, then drove on.
Shortly before dusk we arrived at a small satellite camp Teej and Mike had made up. I carried our bags to a bell tent beside a huge sausage tree. We were on the edge of a big forest, looking down a gentle slope to the river, and beyond: a floodplain teeming with life.
Meghan—whom I was now calling Meg, or sometimes just M—was stunned. The vivid colors. The pure, fresh air. She’d traveled, but she’d never seen anything like this. This was the world before the world was made.
She opened her small suitcase—she needed to get something. Here it comes, I thought. The mirror, the hairdryer, the makeup kit, the fluffy duvet, the dozen pairs of shoes. I was shamefully stereotyping: American actress equals diva. To my shock, and delight, there was nothing in that suitcase but bare essentials. Shorts, ripped jeans and snacks. And a yoga mat.
We sat in canvas chairs, watched the sun set and the moon rise. I whipped up some bush cocktails. Whisky with a splash of river water. Teej offered Meg a glass of wine and showed her how to cut the end off a plastic water bottle and turn it into a goblet. We told stories, laughed a lot, then Teej and Mike cooked us a lovely dinner.
We ate around the fire, staring at the stars.
At bedtime I guided Meg through the darkness to the tent.
Where’s the flashlight? Meg asked.
You mean the torch?
We both laughed.
The tent was very small, and very Spartan. If she’d been expecting some glamping trip, she was now fully divested of that fantasy. We lay down inside, on our backs, feeling the moment, reckoning with the moment.
There were separate bedrolls, the result of much worry and many conversations with Teej. Didn’t want to be presumptuous.
We pushed them together, lay shoulder to shoulder. We stared at the roof, listening, talking, watching moon shadows flutter across the nylon.
Then, a loud munching sound.
Meg bolted upright. What’s that?
Elephant, I said.
Just one, from what I could tell. Just outside. Eating peacefully from the shrubs around us.
She won’t hurt us.
She won’t?
Soon after, the tent shook from a loud roar.
Lions.
Are we going to be OK?
Yes. Don’t worry.
She lay down, put her head on my chest.
Trust me, I told her. I’ll keep you safe.
7.
I woke just before dawn, unzipped the tent quietly, tiptoed out. The stillness of a Botswana morning. I watched a flock of pygmy geese fly upriver, watched impala and lechwe having their morning drink at the water’s edge.
The birdsong was incredible.
As the sun came up I gave thanks for this day, then walked down to the main camp for a piece of toast. When I returned I found Meg stretched on a yoga mat beside the river.
Warrior pose. Downward dog. Child’s pose.
When she finished I announced: Breakfast is served.
We ate under an acacia tree, and she asked excitedly what the plan was.
I have surprises.
Beginning with a morning drive. We hopped into Mike’s old doorless truck, went barreling into the bush. Sun on our cheeks, wind in our hair, we cruised through streams, bounced over hills, flushed lions out of deep grass. Thanks for making such a racket last night, boys! We came upon a large group of giraffes grazing the treetops, their eyelashes like rakes. They nodded good morning.
Not everyone was so friendly. Strolling by a vast watering hole, we saw a cloud of dust just up ahead. A grumpy warthog confronted us. He retreated when we stood our ground.
Hippos also snorted belligerently. We waved, retreated, jumped back into the truck.
We interrupted a pack of wild dogs trying to filch a dead buffalo from two lionesses. It wasn’t going well. We left them to it.
The grass was golden, swaying in the wind. Dry season, I said to Meg. The air was warm, clean, a joy to breathe. We broke out a picnic lunch, washed it down with a couple of Savannah ciders. Afterwards we went for a swim in an estuary off the river, keeping our distance from the crocs. Stay away from the dark water.
I told her this was the cleanest, purest water in the world, because it was filtered by all that papyrus. Even sweeter than the water in the ancient bath at Balmoral, though…better not to think of Balmoral.
The anniversary was only weeks away.
At dusk we lay across the bonnet of the truck, watching the sky. When the bats came out, we went to find Teej and Mike. We turned on music, laughed and talked and sang and ate dinner again around the fire. Meg told us a bit about her life, about growing up in Los Angeles, about her struggles to become an actress, doing quick changes between auditions in her rundown SUV on which the doors didn’t always work. She was forced to enter through the boot. She talked about her growing portfolio as an entrepreneur, her lifestyle website, which had tens of thousands of readers. In her free time she did philanthropic work—she was especially fierce about women’s issues.
I was fascinated, hanging on every word, while in the background I heard a faint drumbeat: She’s perfect, she’s perfect, she’s perfect.
Chels and Cress often mentioned my Jekyll-and-Hyde existence. Happy Spike in Botswana, tightly wound Prince Harry in London. I’d never been able to synthesize the two, and it bothered them, bothered me, but with this woman, I thought, I could do it. I could be Happy Spike all the time.
Except she didn’t call me Spike. By now Meg had taken to calling me Haz.
Every moment of that week was a revelation and a blessing. And yet every moment also dragged us closer to the wrenching minute when we’d have to say goodbye. There was no way around it: Meg had to get back. I had to fly to the capital, Gaborone, to meet the president of Botswana, to discuss conservation issues, after which I was embarking on a three-phase lads’ trip, months in the planning.
I would cancel, I told Meg, but my mates would never forgive me.
We said goodbye; Meg began to cry.
When will I see you again?
Soon.
Not soon enough.
No. Not nearly.
Teej put an arm around her and promised to take good care of her until her flight, several hours away.
Then one last kiss. And a wave.
Mike and I jumped into his white cruiser and headed to Maun airport, where we climbed into his small prop plane and, though it broke my heart, flew away.
8.
There were eleven of us. Marko, of course. Adi, of course. Two Mikes. Brent. Bidders. David. Jakie. Skippy. Viv. The whole gang. I met up with them in Maun. We loaded three silver flat-bottomed boats and set off. Days of floating, drifting, fishing, dancing. In the evenings we got fairly loud and very naughty. In the mornings we cooked bacon and eggs over open fires, went for cold swims. I drank bush cocktails, and African beer, and ingested certain controlled substances.
When the weather got really hot, we decided to break out the Jet Ski. I had the presence of mind, beforehand, to remove my iPhone from my pocket and stow it in the Jet Ski console. I congratulated myself on being so prudent. Then Adi jumped on the back of the Jet Ski, followed by a very anarchic Jakie.
So much for prudent.
I told Jakie to get off. Three’s too many. He wouldn’t hear me.
What could I do?
Away we went.
We were cruising around, laughing, trying to avoid the hippos. We roared past a sandbar on which a ten-foot crocodile was sleeping in the sun. Just as I curved the Jet Ski to the left I saw the croc open its eyes and slither into the water.
Moments later, Adi’s hat flew off.
Go back, go back, he said.
I did a U-turn, not easy with three onboard. I brought us alongside the hat, and Adi leaned over to snatch it. Then Jakie leaned over to help. We all fell into the river.
I felt my sunglasses slip from my face, saw them plunk into the water. I dived after them. The moment I came up, I remembered the croc.
I could see Adi and Jakie thinking the same thing. Then I looked at the Jet Ski. Floating on its side. Shit.
My iPhone!
With all my photos! And phone numbers!
MEG!
The Jet Ski came to rest on the sandbar. We flipped it right and I grabbed my phone from the console. Soaked. Ruined. All the photos Meg and I had taken!
Plus all our texts!
I’d known this lads’ trip would be wild, so I’d sent some photos to Meg and other mates before leaving, as a precaution. Still, the rest were surely lost.
More, how was I going to be in touch with her?
Adi said not to worry, we’d put the phone in rice, a surefire way to dry it out.
Hours later, the moment we got back to camp, that was just what we did. We submerged the phone in a big bucket of uncooked white rice.
I looked down, highly dubious. How long will this take?
Day or two.
No good. I need a solution now.
Mike and I worked out a plan. I could write a letter to Meg, which he’d take home with him to Maun. Teej could then photograph the letter and text it to Meg. (She had Meg’s number on her phone: I’d given it to her when she first went to collect Meg from the airport.)
Now I just had to write that letter.
The first challenge was finding a pen among that bunch of muppets.
Does anyone have a pen?
A what?
A pen.
I’ve got an EpiPen!
No! A pen. A biro! My kingdom for a biro!
Oh. A biro. Wow.
Somehow I found one. The next challenge was finding a place to compose.
I went off under a tree.
I thought. I stared into space. I wrote:
Hey Beautiful. OK you got me—can’t stop thinking about you, missing you, LOTS. Phone went in river. Sad face…Apart from that, having an amazing time. Wish u were here.
Mike left, letter in hand.
Days later, wrapping up the boat part of the lads’ trip, we returned to Maun. We met up with Teej, who immediately said: Relax, I’ve already had a reply.
So it hadn’t been a dream. Meg was real. All of it was real.
Among other things, Meg said in her reply that she was eager to speak to me.
Jubilant, I went off on the second part of the lads’ trip, into the Moremi forest. This time I brought a sat phone. While everyone was finishing dinner I found a clearing and climbed the tallest tree, thinking the reception might be better.
I dialed Meg. She answered.
Before I could speak she blurted: I shouldn’t say this but I miss you!
I shouldn’t say this as well but I miss you too!
And then we just laughed and listened to each other breathe.
9.
I felt enormous pressure, the next day, sitting down to write the next letter. A paralyzing case of writer’s block. I just couldn’t find the words to express my excitement, my contentment, my longing. My hopes.
The next best thing, I figured, in the absence of lyricism, would be to make the letter physically beautiful.
Alas, I wasn’t in a location conducive to arts and crafts. The lads’ trip was now moving into phase three—an eight-hour game drive into the arse end of nowhere.
What to do?
At a break I jumped out of the truck, ran into the bush.
Spike, where you going?
I didn’t answer.
What’s with him?
Wandering wasn’t advisable in these parts. We were deep in lion country. But I was hell-bent on finding…something.
I stumbled, staggered, saw nothing but endless brown grass. Are we in the bloody Outback?
Adi had taught me how to look for flowers in the desert. When it came to thornbushes, he always said, check the highest branches. So I did. And sure enough: Bingo! I climbed the thornbush, picked the flowers, put them into a little bag slung over my shoulder.
Later in our drive we came into a mopani forest, where I spotted two bright pink impala lilies.
I picked them too.
Soon enough I’d assembled a small bouquet.
We now came to a part of the forest scorched by recent fires. Within the charred landscape I spotted an interesting piece of bark from a leadwood. I grabbed it, nestled it into my bag.
We got back to camp at sunset. I wrote the second letter, singed the paper’s edges, surrounded it with my flowers and placed it inside the burned bark, then took a photo of it with Adi’s phone. I sent this to Meg and counted the seconds until I got a reply, which she signed “Your girl.”
By means of improvisation, and sheer determination, I managed somehow, throughout that lads’ trip, to stay in constant contact. When I finally returned to Britain I felt a huge sense of accomplishment. I hadn’t let soaked phones, drunken mates, lack of mobile reception, or a dozen other obstacles, scuttle the beginning of this beautiful…
What to call it?
Sitting in Nott Cott, bags all around me, I stared at the wall and quizzed myself. What is this? What’s the word?
Is it…
The One?
Have I found her?
At long, long last?
I’d always told myself that there were firm rules about relationships, at least when it came to royalty, and the main one was that you absolutely must date a woman for three years before taking the plunge. How else could you know about her? How else could she know about you—and your royal life? How else could both of you be sure that this was what you wanted, that it was a thing you could endure together?
It wasn’t for everybody.
But Meg seemed the shining exception to this rule. All rules. I knew her straightaway, and she knew me. The true me. Might seem rash, I thought, might seem illogical, but it’s true: For the first time, in fact, I felt myself to be living in truth.
10.
A frenzy of texting and FaceTiming. Though we were thousands of miles apart, we were never actually apart. I’d wake up to a text. Instantly reply. Then: text, text, text. Then, after lunch: FaceTime. Then, throughout the afternoon: text, text, text. Then, late at night, another marathon FaceTime.
And still it wasn’t enough. We were desperate to see each other again. We circled the last days of August, about ten days away, for our next meeting.
We agreed it would be best if she came to London.
On the big day, just after her arrival, she phoned as she was walking into her room at Soho House.
I’m here. Come see me!
I can’t, I’m in the car…
Doing what?
Something for my mum.
Your mum? Where?
Althorp.
What’s Althorp?
Where my uncle Charles lives.
I told her I’d explain later. We still hadn’t talked about…all that.
I felt pretty sure she hadn’t googled me, because she was always asking questions. She seemed to know almost nothing—so refreshing. It showed that she wasn’t impressed by royalty, which I thought the first step to surviving it. More, since she hadn’t done a deep dive into the literature, the public record, her head wasn’t filled with disinformation.
After Willy and I had laid flowers at Mummy’s grave, we drove together back to London. I phoned Meg, told her I was on my way. I tried to keep my voice nonchalant, not wanting to give myself away to Willy.
There’s a secret way into the hotel, she said. Then a freight lift.
Her friend Vanessa, who worked for Soho House, would meet me and usher me in.
All went according to plan. After I’d met the friend and navigated a sort of maze through the bowels of Soho House, I finally reached Meg’s door.
I knocked and suspended breathing while I waited.
The door flew open.
That smile.
Her hair was partly covering her eyes. Her arms were reaching for me. She pulled me inside and thanked her friend in one fluid motion, then slammed the door quickly before anyone saw.
I want to say we hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the door.
But I don’t think there was time.
11.
In the morning we needed sustenance. We phoned room service. When they knocked at the door, I looked around frantically for a place to hide.
The room had nothing. No cubbyhole or wardrobes, no armoire.
So I lay flat on the bed and pulled the duvet over my head. Meg whispered to go into the bathroom but I preferred my hiding place.
Alas, our breakfast wasn’t delivered by just any anonymous waiter. It was brought by a hotel assistant manager who loved Meg, and whom she loved, so he wanted to chat. He didn’t notice that there were two breakfasts on the tray. He didn’t notice the prince-shaped lump under the duvet. He talked and talked, and caught her up on all the latest, while I, in my duvet cave, started to run out of air.
Thank goodness for all that practice riding in the boot of Billy’s police car.
When the man finally left, I sat up, gasping.
Then we both gasped, we were laughing so hard.
We decided to have dinner that night at my place, invite some friends over. We’d cook. Fun, we said, but it would mean food shopping first. There was nothing in my fridge besides grapes and cottage pies.
We could go to Waitrose, I said.
Of course we couldn’t actually go to Waitrose together: that would cause a riot. So we drew up a plan to shop simultaneously, in parallel, and in disguise, without visibly acknowledging each other.
Meg got there minutes before me. She wore a flannel shirt, a bulky overcoat and a beanie, but I was still surprised that no one was recognizing her. Plenty of Brits watched Suits, surely, yet no one was staring. I’d have spotted her in a crowd of thousands.
Also, no one looked twice at her trolley, which was filled with her suitcases, and two large Soho House bags containing fluffy dressing-gowns she’d bought for us on checking out.
Equally anonymous, I grabbed a basket, walked casually up and down the aisles. Beside the fruit and veg I felt her stroll past me. Actually, it was more a saunter than a stroll. Very saucy. We slid our eyes towards each other, just an instant, then quickly away.
Meg had cut out a roasted-salmon recipe from Food & Wine and with that we’d made a list and divided it in two. She was in charge of finding a baking sheet, while I was tasked with finding parchment paper.
I texted her: What the F is parchment paper?
She talked me onto the target.
Above your head.
I spun around. She was a few feet away, peering from behind a display.
We both laughed.
I looked back to the shelf.
This?
No, the one next to it.
We were cackling.
When we’d got through our list, I paid at the checkout, then texted Meg about where to meet. Down the parking ramp, under the shop, people-carrier with blacked out windows. Moments later, our shopping snug in the boot, Billy the Rock at the wheel, we roared out of the car park, heading for Nott Cott. I watched the city going past, all the houses and people, and I thought: I can’t wait for you all to meet her.
12.
I was excited to welcome Meg to my home, but also embarrassed: Nott Cott was no palace. Nott Cott was palace adjacent—that was the best you could say for it. I watched her as she walked up the front path, through the white picket fence. To my relief she made no sign of dismay, gave no indication of disillusionment.
Until she got inside. Then she said something about a frat house.
I glanced around. She wasn’t far off.
Union Jack in the corner. (The one I’d waved at the North Pole.) Old rifle on the TV stand. (A gift from Oman, after an official visit.) Xbox console.
Just a place to keep my stuff, I explained, moving around some papers and clothes. I’m not here much.
It was also constructed for smaller people, humans of a bygone era. Thus the rooms were tiny and the ceilings were doll’s house low. I gave her a quick tour, which took thirty seconds. Mind your head!
I’d never noticed until then just how shabby the furniture was. Brown sofa, browner beanbag chair. Meg paused before the beanbag.
I know. I know.
Our dinner guests were my cousin Euge, her boyfriend Jack, and my mate Charlie. The salmon turned out perfectly and everyone complimented Meg on her culinary talents. They also devoured her stories. They wanted to hear all about Suits. And her travels. I was grateful for their interest, their warmth.
The wine was as good as the company, and there was plenty of it, and after dinner we moved into the snug, put on music and silly hats, and danced. I have a fuzzy memory, and a grainy video on my phone, of Charlie and me rolling on the floor while Meg sat nearby laughing.
Then we got into the tequila.
I remember Euge hugging Meg, as if they were sisters. I remember Charlie giving me a thumbs-up. I remember thinking: If meeting the rest of my family goes like this, we’re home free. But then I noticed that Meg was feeling poorly. She complained of an upset stomach and looked terribly pale.
I thought: Uh-oh, lightweight.
She took herself off to bed. After a nightcap I saw our guests out and tidied up a bit. I got into bed around midnight and crashed out, but I woke at two a.m. to hear her in the bathroom, being sick, truly sick, not the drunken sick I’d imagined. Something else was going on.
Food poisoning.
She revealed that she’d had squid for lunch at a restaurant.
British calamari! Mystery solved.
From the floor she said softly: Please tell me you’re not having to hold back my hair while I’m vomiting.
Yes. I am.
I rubbed her back and eventually put her to bed. Weak, near tears, she said she’d imagined a very different end to Date Four.
Stop, I said. Taking care of each other? That’s the point.
That’s love, I thought, though I managed to keep the words inside.
13.
Just before Meg returned to Canada we went to Frogmore gardens for a walk.
It was on the way to the airport.
A favorite spot of mine, I said. It spoke to her as well. She especially loved the swans, and especially one that was very grumpy. (We named him Steve.) Most swans are grumpy, I said. Majestic, but sourpusses. I always wondered why, since every British swan was the property of Her Majesty, and any abuse of them, thereby, was a criminal offense.
We chatted about Euge and Jack, whom she loved. We talked about Meg’s work. We talked about mine. But mostly we talked about this relationship, a subject so immense it seemed inexhaustible. We continued the talk as we got back into the car and drove to the airport, and kept talking in the car park, where I dropped her on the sly. We agreed that if we were serious about giving ourselves a chance, a real chance, we’d need a serious plan. Which meant, among other things, making a vow never to let more than two weeks pass without seeing each other.
We’d both had long-distance relationships, and they’d always been hard, and part of the reason had always been lack of serious planning. Effort. You had to fight the distance, defeat that distance. Meaning, travel. Lots and lots of travel.
Alas, my movements attracted more attention, more press. Governments had to be alerted when I crossed international borders, local police had to be notified. All my bodyguards had to be shuffled. The burden therefore would fall on Meg. In the early days, it would have to be her spending time on planes, her crisscrossing the ocean—while still working full-time on Suits. Many days the car came for her at 4:15 a.m. to take her to set.
It wasn’t fair for her to shoulder the burden, but she was willing, she said. No choice, she said. The alternative was not seeing me, and that, she said, wasn’t feasible. Or bearable.
For the hundredth time since July 1, my heart cracked open.
Then we said goodbye again.
See you in two weeks.
Two weeks. God. Yes.
14.
Soon after that day, Willy and Kate invited me over to dinner.
They knew something was going on with me and they wanted to find out what it was.
I wasn’t sure I was ready to tell them. I wasn’t sure I wanted anyone else to know just yet. But then, as we sat around their TV room, both kids tucked into bed, the
