MEG PACKED UP her house, gave up her role in Suits. After seven seasons. A difficult moment for her, because she loved that show, loved the
character she was playing, loved her cast and crew—loved Canada. On the other hand life there had become untenable. Especially on set. The show writers were frustrated, because they were often advised by the Palace comms team to change lines of dialogue, what her character would do, how she would act.
She’d also shut down her website and abandoned all social media, again at the behest of the Palace comms team. She’d said goodbye to her friends, goodbye to her car, goodbye to one of her dogs—Bogart. He’d been so traumatized by the siege of her house, by the constant ringing of the doorbell, that his demeanor changed when Meg was around. He’d become an aggressive guard dog. Meg’s neighbors had graciously agreed to adopt him.
But Guy came. Not my friend, Meg’s other dog, her beat-up little beagle, who was even more beat-up of late. He missed Bogart, of course, but more, he was badly injured. Days before Meg left Canada, Guy had run away from his minder. (Meg was at work.) He’d been found miles from Meg’s house, unable to walk. His legs were now in casts.
I often had to hold him upright so he could pee.
I didn’t mind in the least. I loved that dog. I couldn’t stop kissing him, petting him. Yes, my intense feelings for Meg spilled over onto anyone or anything she loved, but also I’d wanted a dog for so long, and I’d never been able to have one because I’d been such a nomad. One night, not long after Meg’s arrival in Britain, we were at home, making dinner, playing with Guy, and the kitchen of Nott Cott was as full of love as any room I’d ever been in.
I opened a bottle of champagne—an old, old gift I’d been saving for a special occasion.
Meg smiled. What’s the occasion? No occasion.
I scooped up Guy, carried him outside, into the walled garden, put him down on a blanket I’d spread on the grass. Then I ran back inside and asked Meg to grab her champagne flute and come with me.
What’s up? Nothing.
I led her out to the garden. Cold night. We were both wrapped in big coats, and hers had a hood lined with fake fur that framed her face like a cameo. I set electric candles around the blanket. I wanted it to look like Botswana, the bush, where I’d first thought of proposing.
Now I knelt on the blanket, Guy at my side. Both of us looked up searchingly at Meg.
My eyes already full of tears, I brought the ring out of my pocket and said my piece. I was shivering, and my heart was audibly thumping, and my voice was unsteady, but she got the idea.
Spend your life with me? Make me the happiest guy on this planet? Yes.
Yes?
Yes!
I laughed. She laughed. What other reaction could there be? In this mixed-up world, this pain-filled life, we’d done it. We’d managed to find each other.
Then we were crying and laughing, and petting Guy, who looked frozen solid.
We started for the house.
Oh, wait. Don’t you want to see the ring, my love?
She hadn’t even thought about it.
We hurried inside, finished our celebration in the warmth of the kitchen. It was November 4.
We managed to keep it secret for about two weeks.
