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.
