WE GOT WORDย from Sara thatย The Sunย 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 newspaperโs showbiz editor, was said to be the lead reporter on the story.
Why him? Why, of all people, the showbiz guy?
Because lately heโd refashioned himself into some sort of quasi royal correspondent, largely on the strength of his secret relationship with one particularly close friend of Willyโs comms secretaryโwho fed him trivial (and mostly fake) gossip.
He was sure to get everything wrong, as heโd got everything wrong on his last big โexclusive,โ 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 didnโt want that. We didnโt want anyone else breaking our news,ย twistingย our news.
Weโd have to rush out a statement.
I phoned Granny again, told her aboutย The Sun, told her we might need to hurry out a statement. She understood. Sheโd allow it, so long as it didnโt โadd to speculation.โ
I didnโt tell her exactly what our statement would say. She didnโt ask. But also I didnโt fully know yet. I gave her the gist, however, and mentioned some of the basic details Iโd outlined in the memo Pa had demanded and which sheโd seen.
The wording needed to be precise. And it needed to be blandโcalm. We didnโt want to assign any blame, didnโt want to stoke the fires. Mustnโt add to speculation.
Formidable writing challenge.
We soon realized it wasnโt possible; we didnโt have time to get our statement out there first.
We opened a bottle of wine. Proceed, sad little man, proceed.
He did.ย The Sunย posted his story late that night, and again on the morningโs front page.
Headline: WEโRE ORF!
As expected, the story depicted our departure as a rollicking, carefree, hedonisticย tapping out, rather than a careful retreat and attempt at self-preservation. It also included the telling detail that weโd offered to relinquish our Sussex titles. There was only one document on earth in which that detail was mentionedโmy private and confidential letter to my father.
To which a shockingly, damningly small number of people had access. We hadnโt 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.
Iโd 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 soโฆroyal?
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 โpalace.โ These led to a room in which Iโd attended countless cocktail parties. I thought back on those gatherings, on all the good times Iโd 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:ย No one will miss โem.
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 sixย 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. Willyโs guy replied immediately:ย 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 theyโd understand.
One of the staffers said:ย Are we doing this?
Meg and I both said:
Yes. Thereโs 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. Megโs 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.