It is almost 12 months since they starred in their own Netflix documentary. So how has 2023 been for the first couple of Montecito? Harry’s diary (as imagined by Hilary Rose) reveals all.
Winter 2022
We’ve been reflecting quietly for a few months on how awesome we are, and yet how cruelly misunderstood. “We’re humanitarians!” I yelled at the chickens only this morning. “It is in the very DNA of our foundation, because Archewell is from the Greek word for… arches? Wellness?” The chickens only look at me and cluck.
“They are chickens,” says the gardener, who is wise, “and they cluck.”
“You are wise,” I tell him, and he nods and passes me the spliff. Later, a call comes through from the PR guy.
“Great news,” he says. “You’ve been nominated for an award. It’s for being awesome but misunderstood.”
“Really?” I say.
“No,” he says. “You’re being honoured for addressing injustices.”
“Wonderful,” I say. “Have we?”
“Yes,” says Meg. “But please understand that everything we do isn’t about us,” she tells the PR guy. “We’re not in this for awards. It’s about living a life of service.”
“Really?” says the PR guy.
“Kind of,” says Meg. “It’s an amazing new form of self-service. And did I mention our boundless respect and deference for the late Queen?”
“You didn’t,” he says, “but I already knew. And the new Queen?”
“Not so much,” I say.
Spring 2023
So I think the plan is we fly to New York, pick up our award, then go home.
“Are you kidding? Booor-ring,” says Meg, but with love. “We need to make a splash.” She snaps her fingers and the PR guy comes on speakerphone and says how about a visit to a school in a deprived area where Meghan can read her children’s book, The Bench? Meg says, “That’s a terrific idea. Let’s bat this around a little.” She’s thinking soft, berry-coloured separates, children sitting cross-legged on the floor gazing up at her raptly. The PR guy nods and says he’s thinking neutral soft furnishings with taupe accents to complement the berry shades, fresh flowers and a single spotlight on Meg. “And I’m thinking five-year-old kids would be the optimal size,” he adds. “Any younger and they’re too short. Any taller, they might get in the way.”
“And the school?” I ask. “The area, the levels of deprivation, the kids – what’s it all like?”
“A little primary-coloured at the moment,” says the PR guy. “Blues and reds and a really harsh yellow on the doors, but we can fix that.”
“I love your can-do attitude,” says Meg.
Meeting with the press release woman ahead of the trip.
“So we’ve been thinking,” she says. “People of your calibre don’t just read books aloud to children. That’s not an accurate reflection of how serious and substantial you are.” Meg writes “serious and substantial” in her notebook and asks what she suggests.
“How about this?” the press release woman says. “You are not reading a picture book, you’re showcasing community support for the arts. And in case any journalists get the wrong idea and think you’re just reading aloud to some school kids, we won’t invite them. And if the teachers and kids get the wrong idea, we’ll make them sign NDAs.”
“We can do that?” I say admiringly.
“We can do anything,” she says. “Our gig. Our gagging order.”
“But if the press aren’t there,” says Meg, “how will we get any press? Because if we don’t, what’s the point?”
“Service?” I say, but nobody hears me.
“You deserve always to be reported with reverence and respect,” says the press release woman, “and yet a free press can make this difficult to achieve. So we thought about…”
“Censorship!” I cry. “Brilliant. I can’t believe those losers at Buckingham Palace never thought of that. God bless America and its can-do spirit.” The press release woman looks at Meg, who pats my arm and says, “Hush, honey, that’s not quite what she meant.”
“We’ve invited Oprah and Vogue,” finishes the PR woman, and we all agree that, journalistically, that covers all the bases.
“At least until we can get this censorship thing off the ground,” I say.
Meg’s pretending to write an oat milk investment strategy, but is secretly looking at the coverage of Willy and Kate taking the children to church on Easter Sunday. “Ugh,” she says. “Such attention-seekers. Who do they think they are? And leveraging their royal links by using their children. Pathetic.”
“Isn’t that why you called your daughter Lilibet?” says the comms guy, who lives in the porch for our convenience, but realistically not for much longer. As soon as he says it, he clamps his hand over his mouth. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” he says.
“No problem,” I say, “I can see why you might think that, but it’s actually very different. We called her Lilibet out of an excess of respect and deference for my late grandmother, Queen Elizabeth.”
“And by the way, you’re fired,” says Meg. “Vacate the porch with immediate effect.” She points to the door, but with love, because that’s just who she is. “Why are we so misunderstood?” I ask and she shrugs and turns back to the oat milk investment strategy.
Omid’s popped in to say he’s writing a new book about how the royal family is doomed.
“Doomed without me?” says Meghan. “Or just doomed more generally?” Omid says, “Both,” and Meg pouts. “But mostly without you,” he says and she smiles.
“How do you know?” I ask. He says something about working for Harper’s Bazaar, which doesn’t seem to explain it at all, but Meg says, “Don’t overthink it, honey.” Anyway, Omid wants to know if we’d like to tell him anything about the doomed royal family and how beastly they are. “Anything at all,” he says helpfully, “however beastly.”
“We couldn’t possibly give quotes to a journalist,” I say, “because they can’t be relied on to write about us with reverence and respect.” Omid says oh, but we can rely on him.
“No,” I say, “I’m sorry, but it’s out of the question. And by the way, how did you know all that stuff in Finding Freedom that happened when it was just Meg and me behind closed doors?” Omid looks at Meg and Meg looks at me strangely and starts scribbling notes, which she passes to the comms guy, who passes them to Omid, who says, “Thank you.”
“Look!” says Meg with a dazzling smile. “No hands!”
Omid says his book will start with an intimate behind-the-scenes look at my grandmother’s final days, and I start to feel a feeling that I think might be confusion. I make a note to ask my therapist.
“Sounds amazing,” I say, “except you weren’t there, were you? Either behind the scenes. Or a curtain. Or anywhere. Were you?” Omid says of course not, he’s just some guy who used to work for Harper’s Bazaar and maybe still does and am I questioning his truth? I recoil and say, “Woooah! No, I would never do that. Truth is truth, even when it isn’t, and maybe especially when it isn’t.”
“And what’s the best truth of all?” says Meg with an encouraging smile.
“Half-truth?” I say and she shakes her head.
“Post-truth?” and she says, “No, honey. Try again.”
“OUR truth!” I shout triumphantly and she pats my arm.
Meg tells Omid that the world has been waiting for an important book like this and he must tell us more. He says that Chapter 2 is called Shaky Ground: the Queen Is Dead and the Monarchy Faces Trouble. Meg claps her hands delightedly and says what an incredible achievement ― almost none of that sentence is true and all her favourite stories about the royal family are the ones that aren’t true. “The ground was never shaky and the monarchy was never in trouble,” she says. “You are a genius.” Omid smiles humbly. Chapter 3, he says, will focus with laser-like intensity and yet also compassion on our humanitarian ventures and philanthropic aims.
“Out of interest,” I ask, “do you talk like this all the time?” He shrugs and says it’s a skill. “Also,” I say to Meg later as we get ready for bed, “remind me what humanit… humanira… the human word means.” She rolls her eyes, but with love, and hands me my copy of English for Dummies. I get into bed, punch the cushion with Willy’s face on, like I do every night, and settle down to read.
Not long after we announce that we haven’t received an invitation to Pa’s coronation, Meg says that actually we have, but the PR people thought that didn’t sit well with our narrative.
“It’s time for us to own our truth,” she says, “or, in this case, deny their truth, which is that they sent us an invitation and we didn’t get it, or maybe we did, but too late. Whatever. Details are for the little people,” she says, snapping her fingers for the comms guy, who runs in from the porch holding a half-eaten ham sandwich. Meg stares at it. “Carbs?” she says. “In the house? Really not cool.” The comms guy lobs it over his shoulder, where it hits the gardener on the head.
“We need to control the coronation narrative and take it to the next stage,” says Meg. The comms guy says that controlling the coronation narrative is ambitious but possibly undeliverable, what with our having no control over it at all. Meg tells him that his role is to be a positive solutions person.
“Out of interest,” I ask Meg, because I’ve been wondering this for a while and it’s giving me a headache, “what is our narrative? No, wait.” I get my notebook out of my pocket and start to feel a feeling that I think might be anxiety. “Let’s start with what ‘narrative’ actually means, because our PR people use that word a lot.” Meg yells for someone to bring my juggling balls to help calm me, but the guy takes ages, so she thumps him on the arm, but with love, and says, “Final warning.” It’s weird, those unfounded bullying allegations. You only have to look at her to know they weren’t true. How could someone so hot ever be horrid?
So Meg has decided I’ll be going to the coronation on my own, because no one has been able to give any guarantees that any of the spotlight will be on her at any stage, even if she is carried away by the emotion and spectacle and sheds a single, perfect tear. “It’s shocking, my love,” I tell her. “No reverence. No respect.” She looks sad but stoic, and also hot. I call the palace to ask the King’s private secretary, Clive, where I can stay while I’m there.
“We’re just finalising that,” he says, “but let’s just say bring a sleeping bag and realistically a tent too, and bear in mind that the pavement on Whitehall is convenient for the Abbey and particularly spacious.”
Coronation Day
I decided to tuck a small photo of Willy into my trouser pocket, so I could rip it to shreds during the ceremony. I spoke to nobody and nobody spoke to me, unless you count a property developer and a tequila salesman, which obviously I don’t because I’m still HRH Prince Henry of Wales, the Duke of Sussex, the late Queen’s grandson, so put that in your tequila shot and down it. Then I flew home without my tent. The homeless guy who slept next to me on Whitehall said, “Dude, don’t you want it?” and I said, “No, you have it, because my life is about charity and service. And more to the point, my other home is a mansion.”
Summer
So Meg’s podcast has been cancelled and I stage a tactical retreat to the chicken coop, where I find the gardener. I sometimes wonder if he ever does any actual gardening, or if he spends all his time with the chickens smoking spliffs. “I went over towards the house not long ago,” he says, “but man, did I have a bad trip. My head turned into a sandwich. The coop is my safe space.” I tell him I know exactly how he feels, “because empathy for others is in my DNA, unless you’re related to me, in which case piss off’. He passes me the spliff.
“It’s so unjust,” I say. “Her podcast was all about the labels that hold women back, but it’s been cancelled before she got to the bit about the positive impact marrying a prince can have on your life chances.”
“I don’t mind about the podcast being cancelled,” Meg says later, “because what I found was that other people are always so much less interesting than you might think. So I’m writing a memoir instead. About me,” she adds helpfully, “which is for the best, don’t you think?”
She tells me she has this amazing story about the time she changed the entire course of human history and western civilisation by complaining about a washing-up liquid advert. “They’ll never believe it,” I tell her. “I know,” she says humbly, “because I’ve only told it 107 times so far. I’ll just have to keep on until they do believe it. And by then, it may even be true.”
“Our truth,” I say and she nods. “I want you to know,” I tell her, taking her into my arms, “that I admire your brains and your humaita… human-ness. And also other things about you.”
I pick up the phone to call a friend, but then I remember that I don’t have any, so I call our lawyer instead.
“It’s so unfair,” I say. “First we were mocked for complaining in our documentary about how hard it was to find a mansion to call our own before lockdown. Now this guy at Spotify says we’re grifters, but I don’t understand. Willy had a bike called a Raleigh Grifter and I had a Chopper, but so what? Why does that make us bad people? What does he mean?” The lawyer whistles and says, “Your childhood bikes were called Grifter and Chopper? Seriously? Have you mentioned this to your therapist?”
I tell him I haven’t had time, because I’ve been researching a podcast series about how trauma can shape your life. I’m going to interview Vladimir Putin and Donald Trump for it, I tell him. “And,” I say, “I’m going to do another podcast where I talk to Pope Francis about religion.” The lawyer says, “That’s a brilliant idea. How about combining the two ideas ― trauma and religion ― and asking Jesus for an interview?”
“Wait,” I say, “he’s available? Who’s his agent?”
Autumn
Off to Japan to talk about myself in English to an audience who don’t speak it. They bow at everyone, not just me, which is odd, but applaud me with due reverence. “My life is about charity,” I tell a sea of uncomprehending faces. “Always has been, always will be. And where does charity begin?” I finish triumphantly. “At home!” The comms guy afterwards says that wasn’t in the script, and I tell him that’s how we always finish at home and he puts his head in his hands.
Next up: Düsseldorf for the Invictus Games. Meg says I should stop off in London because it’s on the way there. Who knew? She reminds me that my trip will coincide with the first anniversary of the death of my grandmother, the late Queen and, as a sign of our continued respect and deference, I could visit her grave and remind her that I was always her favourite grandson. “And maybe get someone to tell Omid,” she adds. “Out of interest, is it true? That you were her favourite grandson?”
“No idea,” I shrug. “Does it matter?” and she says no, she was just wondering, but by the way Netflix and the book people have called to ask if I’ve remembered anything else about my family that I might like to share, however beastly, or memories of being the Queen’s favourite grandson?
“Misremembered is fine too,” she adds. “It’s not like they’ll sue, right?” We laugh and laugh and when we’ve stopped, I call Pa on his mobile.
“Yo, Pa,” I say, but Clive, his private secretary, answers. “Why are you answering my father’s phone?” I ask him. “I don’t usually,” he says, “just when it’s you. How can I help?” I tell him I’m stopping off in London on my way to Düsseldorf, because you have to fly over England to get to Germany. Who knew? Clive says, “Who indeed? And don’t forget your sleeping bag.” “So,” I ask, “can I see my father?” and he says, “That depends.” “On what?” I ask. “On me,” he says. “So, no. I’m afraid your father’s busy. And also not here. Busy and not here when you are. How long are you going to be here for? Just a day? What a pity. Never mind. Goodbye,” and he hangs up. “Wait,” I say, calling him back. “I need somewhere to stay. Is there room at Windsor Castle?” Clive says no, but there’s room at the inn, as in the Premier Inn in Windsor, which has an excellent reputation and is very reasonably priced, breakfast included. Then he hangs up again.
I’ve arrived in Düsseldorf and I’m staying in the royal suite, so everything’s fine on the reverence front. My security team are tooled up, because the Germans are OK with that, unlike the pernickety Brits, who are making me sue for the armed police protection that is my birthright. As I said to Meg, what happens when we want to fly over and stay at Soho Farmhouse and meet all our friends? How are we supposed to protect ourselves from the clear and present danger posed to private citizens in rural west Oxfordshire? We have no choice but to sue. Meg shrugs and says Oxfordshire isn’t really part of our narrative any more.
“Meghan, my love,” I say, “you are right. But let’s keep suing everyone anyway. It passes the time.”
Two weeks later, I walk into the kitchen and Meg’s talking to a woman. “Hi,” she says, “my name’s Melissa and I’m in charge of your narrative this week.”
“Family Guy are mocking us,” says Meg, looking serious.
“And cartoons that mock you are unkind and unjust and not part of the narrative,” confirms Melissa. “Yet creative freedom has led us to a point where there’s a scene of you both lounging by the pool in the sunshine doing nothing, while a butler hands you a pay cheque from Netflix and says it’s for no one knows what.”
“Horrifying,” I say, “and so untrue. Can we sue? Because we are busy, doing stuff. Busy stuff, literally all the time, stuff that keeps us busy, like suing people. AND,” I say, jabbing my finger at her, but in a non-angry way because I don’t have anger management issues, unlike Willy, “I’m a ginger. I would never lie out in the sun.” Melissa says the problem isn’t the sunbathing, more that we look like talentless grifters.
“But I’m not a grifter!” I yell, in a non-angry way. “That was Willy’s bike. Mine was a Chopper and I’m a member of the British royal family and the deal is that we exist and you are grateful. That’s how it works and that’s why they pay us the big bucks.” Melissa says that might not be quite how Hollywood works.
Just back from Vegas on a private jet with Cameron Diaz, to watch our friend Katy Perry.
“Say that again,” says Meg wonderingly. “Out loud.” So I do. The comms guy arrives with all the papers to say that people are calling us hypocrites. “Hippo whats?” I say and he says, “Never mind. The private jet looks bad.”
“But why can’t we fly by private jet?” I ask sulkily. “It’s quick. And nice.”
“Well,” he says, “you give speeches about the dangers of climate change and tell everyone else to stay at home.”
“Look,” I say. “Be reasonable. It’s not as if the little people have anywhere interesting to go, is it? Cameron Diaz didn’t ask them if they wanted to fly to Vegas on a private jet, did she? She asked us. So we went. Or maybe we asked her. Whatever. They’re just nasty jealous little people who should get out more. By bus.”
“But you once said that you seldom fly private and only ever to protect your family,” says the comms guy.
“That’s exactly what he was doing,” says Meg, walking in wearing a sweater that says “You’ve come a long way, baby”. “He was protecting his family from boredom.” She kisses me on the cheek and gives the comms guy her most dazzling smile. He sighs and asks if there is anything else he should know. “Yes,” Meg says. “Tomorrow Haz is going to protect me from the LA traffic by flying me to brunch at Oprah’s.”
“But that’s literally next door,” says the comms guy.
“Yes,” says Meg, “so we’re going by helicopter. Now off you go. Chop, chop, as they say in England!” She snaps her fingers in his face. “Good vibesonly, remember?”
Two days later
I burst into the kitchen waving a stiffie. “It’s the invitation to Pa’s 75th birthday party!” I say.
“No, it isn’t,” says Meg without looking up. I look at it again and hold it close to my eyes and spell out the words almost without moving my lips. “But it says, ‘Come to my birthday party,’ " I tell her, “and there’s a gift list consisting of china ornaments and fountain pens. It’s definitely him.” She shrugs.
“We’ve announced that we haven’t been invited. It’s for the best. Our spokesman just went out and said, ‘I’m sure the duke will find a way to reach out privately to wish His Majesty a happy birthday, like he has always done.’”
“Does he always talk like that?” I say and Meg says, “Yes. Sunshine Sachs say to aim for a slightly strangulated, pompous, courtier-lite way of talking, something that reminds everyone that we are still royals, but only a bit, and from a sunlounger.”
“But I won’t call him,” I say. “Or text. Or reach out. So it’s pompous and also untrue.” Meg shrugs again and says, “What’s your point?”
“Well, the birthday party might be a way to build bridges with the family,” I say. She looks startled. “Why would we want to do that? We have a living to earn, and besides, I don’t want to build bridges with my own father. Why would I care about yours?” The comms guy nods and says she’s got me there.
“Plus, it’s a private party,” she says. “No photographers. No one would see us. No one would know we were even there. What’s the point?”
Winter
“Happy anniversary!” says Meg when I wake up, which is odd because I’m sure we got married in May.
“I’ve just finalised the press release,” she says. “It is the one-year anniversary of our groundbreaking Netflix documentary becoming the most popular television programme ever made and breaking all known records for everything.”
“Wow!” I say. “Is that true? Did it?” She looks at me puzzled, as if I’m missing the point. “I have no idea,” she says. “You’re missing the point. We’re also going to have a party next month celebrating one year since the publication of your memoir, Spare, and looking forward to the publication of mine.”
“What’s yours going to be called?”I ask and she says the team are working on something humble but haute, powerful yet poignant. The author photo ― “That’s me,” she adds helpfully ― will feature a smoky eye, a nude lip. “And we’re thinking also a sculpted arm in a sleeveless top,” says her assistant, who’s sitting cross-legged at her feet looking up, because Meg says it’s easiest that way. “Your upper arms truly deserve a global audience,” continues the assistant. “So much feminine power. So many Pilates classes. So much better than Michelle Obama’s.” Meg smiles down at her and prods her gently with her toe, but with love. “Green tea,” she says. “Now.”
We never read the press, obviously. That would be beneath us. But we employ a team of people to scour everything, especially the anonymous reader comments online, and write the key takeaway points for us in invisible ink. “Deniability,” Meg said when I asked why it was invisible. “If we’ve learnt nothing else from all those signed witness statements and variable recollections, it’s the vital importance of deniability. Remember how I dealt with that Omid guy? Look, no hands!” and she waves them cheerily in front of my face.
Anyway, by scouring the tabloids and working ourselves into a righteous fury, we’ve read that Pa misses me, and possibly us, and wants peace talks. He’s even considering including a photo of us in his Christmas address as an olive branch. Meg says in case he doesn’t have room for a family pic, she’ll send over a high-res of her on her own, with a smoky eye and a nude lip, wearing a chic but affordable item of jewellery that’s widely available for $299, link in bio. I’m not entirely sure what she means, but she’s working on the oat milk stuff again and just says, “Trust me,” without looking up.
“I think I miss my family,” I tell her. “It comes in waves, especially when we’ve just had a meeting with the publishing guy and he asks what my next book is going to be about, or when Netflix show up at the door looking hopeful.” Meg says, “Well, my love, you must go back to England then, and talk to them. But first, you must work on your righteous fury.”
She reaches for our copy of Dispute Resolution for Dummies and turns to my favourite chapter on family relationships. “Own your truth and stand in your knowing,” she reads out loud. “You are right, everyone else is wrong and nobody else’s point of view is valid. Also,” she adds, closing the book and looking me in the eye, “my advice? Avoid dog bowls.”
Three weeks later I’m at Clarence House and I’m furious. I’m waiting for Pa to arrive and apologise for everything, starting with the day I was born, because he wanted a girl and that upset Mummy. Bastard. Apologise! Meg says it’s important not to hold grudges, unless they’re really important ones, and all of ours are. One day in early June 1987, for example, Willy got a Penguin, which is chocolate, but I only got a Ginger Nut.
Anyway, today Clive’s buzzing around and I’m pretty sure he needs to say sorry too. Meg says most people do, especially the men, possibly the dogs, definitely the horses and also the women, starting with Kate. Her actual title is now princess, even though Meg’s isn’t. Can you believe it? Can we sue? We can’t? So unfair. And don’t get me started on how Camilla’s title is somehow now Queen but Meg’s isn’t. Explain that if you can. We totally don’t care about titles unless they’re titles we don’t have, or might need. You might think this is trivial but you’d be wrong, so apologise. Do you seriously think, “Hi, it’s Meghan Markle’s husband” will cut it? Or, “Hi, I used to be an actress but I married well?”
Anyway, today, while I wait for Pa, I’m trying to remember if I called Sir Clive the fly or the wasp in my book. It was definitely an annoying buzzy thing, but he says not to worry and how about today I just call him “Sir”. Then Pa walks in with his arms outstretched and says, “Darling boy!” and I shout, “ACTION!” by mistake and Pa looks startled and asks if we’re filming. “Yes,” I say by mistake. “I mean no. I mean yes, but secretly, out of respect for my late grandmother,” and Pa looks puzzled.
In my ear, Meg yells, “Cut! Tell them we’ll switch to audio only,” and Pa looks at Sir, and Sir looks at me and says, “No.” “No?” I say incredulously. “No cameras OR audio? Not even a little bit?” and he shakes his head. “But we were doing it secretly,” I yell, “out of respect for my late grandmother! And,” I add, not quite stamping my foot because it’s Willy who has the bad temper, not me. I keep chickens and juggle. He should try it, the angry bastard. “AND,” I yell triumphantly, jabbing my finger at Sir, “everyone knows that if something’s secret, it means you don’t know about it, and what you don’t know can’t hurt you!” Pa looks at Sir and Sir looks at me and says nothing. I feel a feeling that might be annoyance, but it’s so hard to tell any more. I must ask my therapist.
“This is what they did to us at the Sandringham summit,” hisses Meg in my ear. “No cameras. No audio. And you left there with nothing. Nothing! Not even a covert photo of your grandmother, for whom we had so much respect, that we could sell to People magazine.” I nod, even though she can’t see me, because she’s thousands of miles away back home. And then Meg says she’s going to take charge and I feel a feeling that may be shock when she jumps out from behind the curtain and shouts, “SURPRISE!” and Pa looks at Sir and Sir looks at Meg.
“Not really,” he says. “Goodbye.”
Written by: Hilary Rose
© The Times of London
