The royals - Kitty Kelley [229]
“I came into Buckingham Palace in 1993 at the bidding of Prince Charles, who wanted me to do the decoration for a dinner he planned for the Royal Shakespeare Theatre. I surveyed a few rooms with one of the Queen’s men and asked that the chairs be rearranged for a softer, more hospitable setting.
“ ‘Absolutely not,’ said the Queen’s man. ‘Her Majesty would not approve.’
“I asked another man for assistance with the lighting.
“ ‘Her Majesty likes the lights as they are.’
“I inquired about moving some tables, saying that the Prince was having a dinner for three hundred people and we needed a bit more space.
“ ‘Her Majesty prefers the tables to remain in place.’
“I was nearly around the bend with frustration,” said the decorator. “I couldn’t address the subject of candles because ‘Her Majesty does not approve of dining by candlelight.’
“It was a disaster trying to represent Charles in his mother’s domain, but I finally managed to pull it all together for him, and he was very gracious. He said that Buckingham Palace had never looked lovelier than it did that evening. Of course, I aged fifty years trying to negotiate arrangements with all the Queen’s men….”
That evening, with his mother not in residence, Charles flew the Prince of Wales flag from Buckingham Palace. He endeared himself to his guests with his after-dinner remarks. “I’ve become quite familiar with the works of Shakespeare in the last year,” he said. “I’ve lived through The Merry Wives of Windsor, Love’s Labours Lost, and The Taming of the Shrew.… It’s about time for All’s Well That Ends Well.” He brought down the house.
On occasion, Diana, too, poked fun at her plight. While visiting a London hostel for battered wives, she sat in on a therapy session and listened to the women talk about rebuilding their lives. When she was asked if she wanted to join in, she flapped her blouse and fanned herself: “I have a hot flush coming on.”
Her regular tabloid press pack enjoyed her sly levities, especially when she targeted their counterparts in the upmarket press. “Oh, you’re from the Financial Times?” she said to one man. “We took that at home. Yes, I believe we used to line the budgie’s cage with it.” One of her regular reporters complimented her on how fit she was looking. She startled the group by asking if they remembered her when she was younger and had had a large bosom.
“Oh, yes, ma’am, and weren’t those the good old days,” joked her favorite photographer, Arthur Edwards. He had covered her since she was nineteen and waiting for the Prince of Wales to propose. During that period she had ventured out the front door of her apartment at Coleherne Court and burst into tears when she found a horde of press men blocking her car. Edwards had barreled through the mob to help her. “Don’t let them see you cry,” he’d advised. “It’s Queen Di for you, and when you finally get the job, it’s Sir Arthur for me!”
After that, Diana rewarded the tabloid photographer with her sweetest smiles. When he fell ill, she took him medicine. “She calls me by my Christian name and has done [so] from the beginning,” he said. “Prince Charles still calls me Mr. Edwards and is very formal. I think in this age it is out of place.”
The Sun photographer did not flatter himself about why the Princess courted him. “The reason is most likely that thirteen million readers will see her at her gorgeous best,” he said. “Funnily enough, it is always the papers with the highest circulation to whom Diana is the most cooperative.”
Whenever the Princess appeared in a spectacular new gown, the photographer hollered approvingly, “You look lovely tonight, ma’am.” When she wore something she had worn before, he complained. “Oh, not that one again.”
She shot back, “Arthur, I suppose you’d prefer it if I turned up naked.”
He countered, “Well, at least I could get a picture of you in the paper that way.”
“I’ll tell the jokes, Arthur,” she said reprovingly.
He later used her retort as the title for his book of royal reminiscences.