The royals - Kitty Kelley [137]
“She was pretty, but not staggeringly so,” he recalled. “She had charm, but no magic. Yet, before my eyes, she performed a miracle and transformed herself into the most glamorous woman in the world, worshipped by the media and the masses.”
The portly reporter, who wore silk handkerchiefs in the breast pocket of gold-buttoned blazers, became to Diana what the fairy godmother had been to Cinderella. Whitaker waved his magic wand of publicity and, in story after story, presented her as “the most suitable choice for our future Queen.” He praised her “innocence,” her “delightful charm,” her “blessed modesty.” He rhapsodized about her “abundant freshness” and her “regal carriage.” His colleagues followed his lead in varying degrees.
Within two months the Earl’s sweet daughter had captivated the kingdom that wanted nothing more for its bachelor Prince than a beautiful blond princess. Diana was perfect. More British than Charles, who was her sixteenth cousin through King James I, she was an aristocrat with five lines of descent from Charles II. “She’s also related to practically every single person in the French aristocracy,” said Harold Brooks-Baker, editor of Debrett’s, the bible of bloodlines. “She’s even related to Napoleon’s brother and eight American presidents, including George Washington.”
Most important, Lady Diana Spencer was a Protestant without a past. Her virginity validated her as the most worthy candidate to become Queen and beget an heir. Even Prince Philip approved. “She can breed height into the line,” he said as if she were a brood mare.
The British press was as beguiled as the public and couldn’t get enough of the young woman they glorified as “Shy Di.” They put her picture on the front pages of newspapers and magazines, with her head tilted coyly to one side or her eyes demurely cast down. “She’s 19 and a perfect English rose,” gushed the Sun. In her frilly blouses, she was the epitome of schoolgirl innocence. “DIvine” raved the Mirror. Reporters dogged her on foot, chased her small red car through traffic, and climbed over rooftops to photograph her. They pursued her every day down the street, on the phone, to her job.
“Darling, how do you put up with the bloody creatures?” Charles asked.
“I love working with children, and I have learned to be very patient with them,” said Diana. “I simply treat the press as though they were children.”
She gently reprimanded photographers who became too familiar. “Hey, Di,” hollered one. “Cheat [turn] to the left.”
She smiled sweetly. “My name is Diana,” she said evenly. She never stopped smiling.
Unshakably poised at first, she gave way to tears when a posse of press cars almost drove her off the road. On another occasion, contrite reporters left a note on the windshield of her car: “We didn’t mean this to happen. Our full apologies.” She agreed to pose only after a photographer frightened the children at her nursery school by crawling through the lavatory window with his clattering gear.
“You’ve got two minutes,” she told him sternly. He fired off four flashes, startling two nursery school tots, who clung to her for protection. The photographs became the world’s first glimpse and most lasting impression of the winsome beauty. Balancing one child on her hip and holding the hand of another, she did not realize the sun was shining through her gauzy skirt and revealing what Prince Charles appreciatively described as “a great pair of legs.” The caption was “Lady Diana’s Slip.” British newspapers called on Charles to make the guileless girl England’s future queen.
The Sunday Times said she was perfect: “serious but not boring; sweet but not too sweet; funny, not silly; sporty, not horsey; and sexy without being brassy.”
“I’m told she’s ideal,” said the Daily Mail’s Nigel Dempster. “She has been pronounced physically sound to produce