The royals - Kitty Kelley [173]
Sarah raved to her father about her weekends at Windsor Castle. “She’s either in love with Andrew or in love with the royal family,” Major Ron told the press, “and I think it’s the latter.” The royal family welcomed Sarah Ferguson into their midst, but other people questioned her suitability. Some patricians felt she would make royalty a roadkill. “Mark my words,” predicted Ruth Fermoy, lady-in-waiting to the Queen Mother. “Nothing good will come from that common girl.”
At least one Fleet Street editor agreed with the straitlaced aristocrat. “Fergie will topple the House of Windsor,” predicted Brian Vine of the Daily Mail.
The fashion press took Sarah to task for being “stout,” “full figured,” and “Rubenesque.” One columnist called her “the future Duchess of Pork.” Another said, “She’s as hearty and down-to-earth as a potato.”
“I am not fat,” she said defensively, “and I do not diet. I do not have a problem. A woman should have a trim waist, a good ‘up top,’ and enough down the bottom but not too big—a good womanly figure.”
When hers was displayed at Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum, the sculptor, who had taken her measurements, would not divulge them. So one newspaper gleefully estimated 39-49-59 and said: “Here comes the bride, 41 inches wide.” During a ride up an escalator, the wind blew Fergie’s skirt above her knees as photographers snapped away. The picture was published over the caption: “Her Royal Thighness.”
“Fergie is a jolly hockey-sticks type of girl,” said one fashion editor. “A breath of fresh air. Lots of bounce. Yes, bounce. Very bouncy. Rather like a bouncing ball.”
Without makeup and her hair in a ponytail, Fergie looked like the country cousin lost in the city. Snobbish fashion designers considered her a disaster—all freckles and frizzy hair—but the public embraced her freshness and accepted her oversize dresses and run-down heels. So did the Queen, whose only advice to her future daughter-in-law was to wave more slowly. Fergie imitated the Queen’s wave, which she called “screwing in lightbulbs.” But she was as herky-jerky as a week-old puppy, never learned restraint. Instead she bounded into crowds like a glad-handing politician. “Hi ya, hi ya, hi ya,” she would say, pumping hands and collecting bouquets.
By then the Princess of Wales had become the darling of the British fashion industry, and in her designer clothes she radiated so much cinematic glamour that she was called the popcorn Princess. Reader’s Digest called her “The World’s Number One Celebrity.” An international survey of magazines in 1986 reported her face graced more covers than that of any other woman, including Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. Fergie in her baggy jumpers and horizontal stripes was relegated to covers of Saddle Up and Weight Watchers.
“Some of the clothes Sarah wore were awful,” admitted her father, “but she would not be told.” Understandably, she was wounded by the unkind fashion commentary, especially the comparisons with the Princess of Wales. “I don’t want to be a Diana clone,” she wailed.
“Not to worry,” retorted British Vogue.
Fergie tried to pretend she didn’t care about being svelte and elegant, but she begged her wedding dress designer Lindka Cierach to make her look beautiful. She felt the pressure of five hundred million people who would be watching the wedding on television.
On the morning of the wedding, July 23, 1986, the Queen invested her son with the titles of Duke of York, Earl of Inverness, and Baron Killyleagh. His bride, Sarah, became Her Royal Highness the Duchess of York. The title had not been conferred since 1936, when the previous Duchess of York became the consort Queen. She was now Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, and at the age of eighty-six she remained the most beloved figure in the country. Sarah’s sudden elevation to royalty entitled her to be addressed as Your Highness and to receive a respectful bob of the neck from men and deep curtsies from women, except for the only three in the realm who outranked her—the Queen, the Queen Mother, and the Princess