The Question Diana Asked After She Signed

In 1980, Charles invited her to see a painting. She wore yellow overalls. He looked at her trousers and said nothing. She remembered the look. She remembered the painting too, a dark horse in a field, but not the artist’s name.

The night before the wedding, she watched Charles fix his cufflinks. They had a “C” on them. She asked, “Is that for Camilla?” He said, “Yes.” She smiled. “It’s nice.” She turned to her makeup. The powder compact was in her hand. She applied it three times before it looked even. The third time, the powder cracked.

She carried William out of the delivery room. Charles was at the end of the corridor, on the phone. As she got closer, she heard him say, “I’ll call you later.” She stopped. She turned and gave William to the nurse. The nurse asked, “Your Royal Highness, where are you going?” She said, “The bathroom.” She stayed there forty minutes. When she came out, her eyes were red. The nurse did not ask. The nurse looked at the clipboard instead.

The night the BBC interview aired, she sat alone in front of the television at Kensington Palace. On the screen, she said, “There were three of us in this marriage, so it was a bit crowded.” She turned it off. In the kitchen, she poured a glass of water. She did not drink it. She left it on the table. A pothos plant sat next to the glass. One leaf had turned yellow. She pulled it off and threw it in the bin. The bin was empty otherwise.

The Queen’s letter came. She read it four times. She folded it and put it in the back of a drawer. William’s baby tooth was in that drawer, wrapped in tissue. She stood up and smiled at the mirror. Her lips shook. She pressed her hand against them and kept smiling. Then she went to the bathroom, turned on the tap, and sat on the tiles. The water was loud. She stayed until it ran cold.

On the day of the signing, she picked up the phone and dialed William’s number. It rang once. She hung up. In the office, the agreement lay open on the desk. She picked up the pen. Tears fell on the four letters “HRH.” The ink bled. After she signed, she asked the equerry, “Will I have to curtsy to William now?” He did not answer. She reached out and straightened his tie. She walked out. Her heels clicked seven times on the floor.

William had told her, “Don’t worry, Mummy. When I am King, I will give it back to you.” She smiled and said nothing. She had given the palace two heirs. The palace took her HRH. It kept the jewels and the curtsy. She kept the title “Princess of Wales,” the apartment at Kensington, the annual allowance, and the cameras. She did not keep the right to stand beside her sons as their mother. The tears on signing day came when she understood she would bow to her own child.

The first morning after the divorce, she made two cups of tea. She carried them to the door of Charles’s study. The door was locked. She stood there. Then she drank both cups. One was hot. One was cold. She washed the cups and put them back.

Angola. A minefield. She walked in front in a protective suit. The suit was too big at the wrists. Someone behind her shouted, “Your Royal Highness, be careful.” She did not turn around. She crouched and brushed the dirt away with her hand. A piece of shrapnel lay in the soil. She picked it up and put it in her pocket. She stood up and kept walking. The person behind her did not shout again.