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.
