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.
