In any case, the Princess’s sights were soon set on more colourful and exciting work than visiting hospital patients in grey Britain. Solo overseas tours offered a glittering prospect of independent celebrity and in the years that followed I devoted increasing amounts of time and energy – not to mention taxpayers’ money – to organizing a growing number of foreign expeditions. These became the basis of her rise to global icon status.
As is now well known, the talent she had for making people happy in British geriatric wards – or at British film premieres, for that matter – worked just as well in comparable foreign locations. In fact, it worked better and, to put it crudely, because solo foreign trips earned her more favourable recognition per hour worked, they came to dominate her programme. She quickly acquired a taste for international celebrity and it was a game she mastered with increasing confidence.
SEVEN
GAMEPLAY
The Princess’s first major solo tour – and mine – was to New York in the winter of 1989. I was sent out with a detective, Graham Smith, and a press secretary, Dickie Arbiter, as the advance party. Anne Beckwith-Smith was running the programme, had already carried out the recce (a task made more onerous by the requirement also to recce Richard Branson’s Necker Island, which HRH had borrowed for a family holiday) and would be arriving on Concorde three days later with the Princess. We were being sent to make straight the way and, fresh from the instructive rigours of the Gulf, I could not wait to get on the plane.
I still held the complacent belief that Americans loved our royal family without serious qualification, despite having been harangued at a tender age by a Philadelphia taxi driver on the enduring evils of King George III. Now I began to learn that the taxi driver was only an outspoken member of a large group of Americans with a keen sense of history and no real love for the former colonial owners. Drawing on my upbringing in an even younger republic, I felt some sympathy with their point of view and resolved to dispel my complacency forthwith, lest it be mistaken for the English arrogance which had caused the problem in the first place.
Some years later Ray Seitz, the American Ambassador in London, courteously described for me another good reason for caution. It had become an easy option, he said, for British fundraisers to recruit a handful of ‘American Friends of (insert good cause here)’ and sit back and wait for the money to roll in. It did so reliably, particularly if a royal patron – however minor – could be persuaded to fly over to visit the Friends and say a few encouraging words at a dinner. However, what he wryly characterized as these ‘Viking raids’ on American goodwill (or gullibility) were becoming a little too frequent, he thought, and were straining the considerable pro-British sentiment that had survived the War of Independence.
In this, as in so much else, the Princess was to prove the exception. New York was already agog at the prospect of her visit, in what turned out to be the first stages of an enduring reciprocal love affair. As always when the love is true, the initial fascination promised to develop into a mutual regard that might have led to a more permanent relationship. There was never any shortage of speculation on this point, and if ever it showed signs of flagging, some enterprising realtor would stoke it up again, if only by sending me glossy details of apartments on the Upper East Side, or – a popular perennial – the Trump Tower. Sadly, having charted its progress from the start, it seems to me that this was probably one of those romances which was unlikely to survive the loss of the early enchantment, however long postponed. Eventually voracious New York and its society queens would surely have found devouring a real princess a challenge too tempting to resist.
Waiting to greet us at Kennedy airport was the irrepressible Sally O’Brien, a protocol officer sent from our Embassy in Washington and rightly regarded as the complete expert on the sometimes tricky subject of royal visits to the USA. As we arrived at the Plaza Athenee on East 64th Street, I was mentally trying to run through the recce checklist of items that had seemed so vital in the blazing heat of Arabia. What possible relevance could they have to the Big Apple in midwinter?
Feeling dazed, we followed in Sally’s wake to find that the hotel had strained every sinew to help us. The royal suite was on two levels, elegantly furnished and with panoramic views of Manhattan. We commandeered the corresponding rooms on the other side of the building, giving Anne the upper floor of the suite and keeping the lower for a combined office/press-centre/bar. In honour of his impending arrival from Washington we christened this the Cornish Suite after Francis Cornish, Counsellor at the Embassy, former member of the Prince’s office and one of the most flamboyant and distinguished diplomats I have ever met.
He arrived some hours later in a flurry of snow and enthusiasm, and immediately ordered champagne. His carefree style and general bonhomie hid a razor-sharp professionalism beside which I felt, quite rightly, a complete amateur. He and Sally made a formidable team and between gulps they ran us through the programme with an assurance that practically relegated me to the role of spectator. That’s fine by me, I thought, and began to relax.
In its content, the programme set many of the themes which were to recur in the Princess’s public work all over the world, not least in her return visits to New York. There was fundraising – for Birthright, one of her British charities. There was social concern – a visit to a community housing project called the Henry Street Center. There was commercial promotion for British exports – including a toy fair in the cavernous F.A.O. Schwarz toy store. There was culture – a performance by the Welsh National Opera (one of her patronages) at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, and a drinks reception for the American Foundation of the Royal Academy of Music (another patronage). There was also work on behalf of AIDS.
Years later, it is perhaps hard to believe that at the time of the Princess’s first visit to New York AIDS was predicted to become a potential twentieth-century Black Death. To be fair, there were those who found that hard to believe even then. I was probably one of these sceptics, albeit a closet one for obvious reasons. Nonetheless, in the poorest quarters of American cities and, as the Princess went on to demonstrate, in Africa and South America too, the epidemic was tragically real enough.
At the time, however, we had a greater concern weighing on our minds. Demonstrations by Irish Republican sympathizers were not uncommon on royal visits to America, but for the Princess something special was being arranged. In numbers and vociferousness, the demonstrations planned to exploit her visit were expected to break all records.
Our friendly American security experts – never knowingly understated – were clearly taking the threat of disruption very seriously. ‘CRACK POLICE TEAM KEEPS GUARD ON DI’ shouted the Evening Standard, alongside a picture of what looked like Robocop. Even Graham was looking unusually preoccupied as we shared a beer on our first night. The gloom deepened when we learned that the director of the AIDS unit which the Princess was due to visit was an avowed and outspoken critic of British policy in Ulster.
Suddenly I felt much less relaxed. In a reaction that became almost routine as the years passed, imaginary lurid headlines swam before my eyes: ‘PRINCESS SNUBBED BY REPUBLICAN GRANNY’ or ‘REPUBLICAN DOC WRECKS TOUR’, and somewhere further down the page a damning indictment of the Palace official responsible for the blunder, with a picture of me looking clueless to prove the point.
It would not always be so, but this time at least blessed help was at hand. I never quite discovered how he did it, but Francis achieved an unsung but in my book unsurpassed triumph of British diplomacy. On the day of the visit to the AIDS unit, before the world’s cameras and microphones the demon doctor was seen chatting amicably with the future British Queen, a Union Jack badge clearly visible on the lapel of her white coat.
Three days after our arrival, the advance party was back at Kennedy airport, shivering on the tarmac as we awaited the Concorde flight which was bringing the Princess from London. Ambassador and Lady Acland had travelled from Washington to greet her and at our backs a modes
t 15-car convoy sat in a fog of exhaust vapour as it prepared to whisk us downtown.
As soon as the Princess emerged from the aircraft’s door, events followed at a breathless pace, as though seen on a video on fast forward. In London police escorts take pride in the discreet way they shepherd their charges through the densest traffic, a polite toot on a whistle being the citizen’s only warning that he should kindly step aside. In New York I felt as if I was caught up in a mechanized marching band armed with ululating sirens as we blared our way through streets filled with homebound commuters. Traffic scattered before us and any who hesitated were treated to terrifying Brooklynese police invective at maximum volume over a loud-hailer. ‘The yellow cab! DON’T EVEN THINK OF PULLING OUT!’
I cringed. Even though I saw the same performance repeated over the years, I still do not understand why an enraged populace did not rise up and dismantle the motorcade and its occupants with their bare hands. Of course, it could have had something to do with the blue pick-up shadowing the royal limo. After a quick glance inside I could see that it might have won the world record for cramming the highest number of heavily armed agents into a small space. Oh well, I thought to myself, at least they know we’re here.
The only engagement that evening was a reception to promote British textiles. The worthy event was good, standard royal stuff and the Princess took care to give the exporters and their guests their full money’s worth. Outside, as crowds strained against the NYPD’s blue wooden crowd barriers and flashbulbs and TV lights bathed the sidewalk in a high-energy glare, the scene was more like Hollywood on Oscars night. Celebrity met royalty in the world’s brashest and most cynical city – no wonder it was love at first sight.
Back at the hotel the Princess, with a last smile for the cameras, was bowed into a lift by the manager, bowed out again 36 floors higher and bowed finally to the door of her suite. There we left her, alone with the telephone and whatever fears or triumphs she felt the day had brought her. That was how it was done.
We left New York’s finest to patrol the adjoining corridors and descended to our temporary office. Filled with a sudden sense of release, we noisily compared notes and laughed too loud. Anne issued her instructions for the morning and retired to bed. Dickie watched the TV bulletins of our arrival. Graham poured beer while I studied the room service menu. Francis ordered champagne.
Meanwhile, alone in her room, the Princess sat in the hotel bathrobe and watched late-night TV. When I told her that a thoughtful management had tuned her set not to receive any of the ‘adult’ channels, she was theatrically disappointed. ‘Typical! I can’t even watch sex. I might as well be a nun!’
They were still taking away the empties when I returned to the office next morning. Always an early riser, I was especially keen to get to grips with the New York breakfast. I was joined by Graham and, while we waited for our orders, we stood companionably admiring the morning mist on the famous skyline and talked about the coming day’s events. I was about to be forcibly reminded of the dangers that lay in wait round every corner.
The phone rang and I answered it. ‘May I speak to Princess Di, please?’ said an American voice.
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment,’ I replied, sounding terribly pompous even to my own ears.
‘Then who is this, please?’ asked the voice.
‘I’m Her Royal Highness’s equerry, Patrick Jephson,’ I said, more pompous than ever.
Suddenly I was aware of a strange background noise, as if the caller was using a loudspeaker. Too late! ‘Well, Patrick, how does it feel to be talking live on New York’s biggest breakfast radio show?’ The receiver froze in my hand. My mouth opened and closed. My pomposity vanished in a paralysis of terror.
Just at that moment salvation appeared in the form of the press secretary, who had hurried in looking for breakfast. Putting my hand over the mouthpiece, I waved him over. ‘It’s for you, Dickie,’ I said, reasoning that a former LBC professional broadcaster was the right man for the job. So it proved. Twenty minutes later he was still talking.
At 10.15 Anne and I assembled outside the Princess’s suite. In the lift, in the lobby, in the street and at our destination a huge number of people waited in readiness, each playing a part in a dozen separate but interlocking timetables. For some, like Doug the taciturn leader of our security detail, or the news crews clustered round the hotel door, it was just another routine job. For others, like the head of the housing project we were about to visit, it was the climax of weeks of preparation. For hundreds more, who gathered just for a glimpse of the glamorous visitor, it was a moment of excited anticipation. Here in this hotel corridor, however, at the centre of so many concentric rings of activity, there was simply silence as we waited for the door to open and the Princess of Wales to set the whole machine in motion.
Of course there would be times when there was no such tranquillity, as dressers and valets bustled about their private kingdom, phones rang and papers were nervously shuffled. Often, especially in later times, I would be invited to give a last-minute briefing, or just share gossip, or even adjudicate on the choice of shoes in the final seconds before the show hit the road. Even then I was always aware of the chain of events we were about to initiate. Every one of them would have to synchronize according to the plan if we were all to return at the end of the day in the happy daze of mutual congratulation which was, I now admit, a kind of drug.
Punctual to the minute, the door flew open and the Princess emerged in mid-stride. Galvanized by her energy, her penetrating gaze and her speed over the ground, the waiting machine sprang into action. I took up my station in the fragrant wake, trying to look bored, and gave myself up to the inexorable passage of events.
Our drive to the housing project was a repeat of the previous night’s convoy, although by this time I was beginning to feel more comfortable with our noisy progress. After all, if you cannot make a scene in New York, where can you? This was obviously also the motto of a glamorous contingent of Princess Di lookalikes who greeted us vociferously as we emerged from the hotel. The couture and make-up were quite convincing, as was the authentically regal wrist action in their enthusiastic waving. It was only as the cars pulled away that I realized they were all in drag.
The engagement itself resembled its equivalent back home, right down to the point where I thought things were going so smoothly that I could slip away from the main action for a quiet cigarette. I was joined in my chosen stretch of deserted corridor by Doug, our security chief, his eyes wearing that vacant look which comes from listening to two radio conversations at once, one in each earpiece.
Communications were plainly proving a problem as he called for reports from his agents deployed around the building. ‘All units! This is Rattlesnake!’ he hissed into his cuff, from which peeped a small, strangely obscene, pink plastic microphone. The vacant look returned as the voices spoke in his head – all except one, apparently. ‘Kowalski! Report my signal!’ The absentee did not reply, however, and a further lengthy roll call ensued.
Stubbing out my illicit cigarette, I poked my head round the door of the room in which the Princess was meeting residents and a clutch of publicity – hungry politicians. I noticed the Mayor and his wife, listening with intense sincerity. Eye contact was quickly made with Anne and Graham, who were in close attendance. Even without the benefit of Doug’s technology, such nonverbal signalling – with a little practice – could convey a surprising amount of information. All is well, said Anne’s eyes, but I’m getting anxious about the time and we should be leaving soon.
For a second longer I paused in the doorway. A recently destitute resident of the project was recounting a fragment of her life story as the Princess listened intently. What a contrast that story made to the experiences of the young, aristocratic Englishwoman who sat next to her.
By the angle of her head, with each sympathetic nod, with every gentle prompt when the story faltered, the visitor gave notice that this was a private conversati
on. Around the two of them an invisible wall excluded the politicians, the officials, the photographers and the police. We were all eavesdroppers to this most public of shared confidences. I saw this phenomenon countless times. The Princess could create an island of quiet intimacy on which she seemed to be alone with whoever she was speaking to at the time. The most nervous, displaced or tongue-tied person found a new confidence in the private space she created.
I returned to Doug, who seemed to have solved his radio problem. ‘How’s it goin’ in there?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘We’ll be leaving soon.’
He stiffened into action and spoke urgently into the sleeve of his Burberry. ‘All units! This is Rattlesnake! Empire will egress the facility momentarily!’
I just had to ask. ‘Exactly what does that mean, Doug?’
Not a flicker of amusement disturbed his steady grey eyes. ‘We’ll be leaving soon,’ he said.
That night the Princess went to the opera – Falstaff at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, performed by the Welsh National Opera. As departure time approached, Doug and I took our places by the door of her suite. In our short time together we had, I thought, developed a happy working relationship, mainly characterized by long silences as Doug stared into infinity while the voices chirruped in his ears. He was still in mid-trance as the door opened.
Fashion correspondents from a hundred syrupy magazines have described the Princess’s beauty and dress sense, but even they might have given up the task that night. She looked like the proverbial million dollars, distractingly bare shouldered. Doug’s trance deepened, the voices forgotten. As we bowed our good evenings, her hand unexpectedly reached out to touch an angular shape just visible under Doug’s dress shirt (I had failed to spot it, of course).
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