Shadows of a Princess Read online

  COPYRIGHT

  William Collins

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.WilliamCollinsBooks.com

  This eBook first published in Great Britain by William Collins in 2017

  Copyright © 2017 Prospect Media Ltd

  Cover photograph © Tim Graham / Getty Images

  Patrick Jephson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins

  Source ISBN: 978-0-00-825929-7

  Ebook Edition © July 2017 ISBN: 9780008260125

  Version: 2017-07-17

  PRAISE FOR SHADOWS OF A PRINCESS

  ‘The most indelible, authentic word-portrait ever painted of the People’s Princess’

  Daily Mail

  ‘Jephson’s revelations are important. They are a stark corrective to the baroque fantasies constructed around the Princess immediately after her death’

  Evening Standard

  DEDICATION

  For Mary Jo, with love and thanks

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Praise

  Dedication

  Introduction to the 2017 Edition

  Preface

  PART ONE – IN

  ONE Over the Top

  TWO In the Pink

  THREE Under the Thumb

  FOUR Double Up

  FIVE Double Take

  SIX Toychest

  SEVEN Gameplay

  EIGHT Jump at Shadows

  NINE Hot and Cold

  TEN Roses

  ELEVEN Guns

  TWELVE Sphinx

  THIRTEEN Truth or Dare

  PART TWO – OUT

  FOURTEEN Horribilissimus

  FIFTEEN Payback

  SIXTEEN Solo

  SEVENTEEN Topple

  EIGHTEEN Plummet

  NINETEEN Under the Wire

  TWENTY Over the Hills

  Epilogue

  Picture Section

  Picture Credits

  Index

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  INTRODUCTION TO THE 2017 EDITION

  You may sometimes wonder why Princess Diana still casts such a long shadow over Britain’s thousand-year-old ruling dynasty. Like me, you may welcome it as a gentle reminder that her story remains relevant, an enduring example of the good things royalty can achieve, as well as a warning of the price it can exact. Or, like some others, you may feel her shadow upon you as an irritation, since it points to the inconvenient reality of Diana’s popular and it seems permanent place among the most admired names of recent history. A few in this second group would have us believe that Diana and her admirers are classic examples of the modern fashion for emotional incontinence – a betrayal of the traditional British stiff upper lip: that in reality she was flawed and frail, a symbol of weakness not strength, and so whoever replaces her in the national shop window must now be more deserving of our interest and approval.

  Yet twenty years after her death, the memory of Princess Diana is still obviously alive and well. The world’s media are once again graced by her image and by tributes to how much she achieved in her tragically short life. The causes she championed – from mental health, old age and homelessness to AIDS, addiction and leprosy – are living tributes to her effectiveness as a globally admired force for good; and her greatest living legacies, her sons, are inviting us to remember her with gratitude and affection. In their words: ‘The time is right to remember her positive impact’, and their tributes to her – symbolized by the commissioning of a statue at Kensington Palace – strike a chord with ordinary people of all ages all over the world.

  Like many she felt ill-prepared and untrained for the role in which she found herself. Alone in a tradition-bound environment in which her successes seemed to count for little and her errors for a lot, she believed she had been left to sink or swim. And but for her sons, her private life offered no consolation, with a husband who, it appeared to many observers, saw her as a rival to be feared rather than a companion to be cherished. Instead his energy, time and attention were devoted to the older, more experienced wife of a former courtier who, like many of their secretive social circle, seemed impervious to the vulnerable princess’s anguish.

  No wonder Diana suffered from chronic self-doubt, poor self-image and a persistent eating disorder. Through her eyes, there was no comfort in the trappings and privileges of palace life, let alone the adoration of a world that praised her for virtues she never truly felt she possessed. She looked to her in-laws and the palace hierarchy for advice and support and too often found that goodwill on both sides couldn’t stop relations descending from misunderstanding to mistrust, and worse.

  Of course, Diana was not perfect, and never claimed to be. As I had good reason to know, she could be a capricious employer who rightly expected a royal standard of perfection from her small and at times beleaguered support staff – just as she demanded it from herself. But though there were days when I wished I could have had a more conventional boss, I never doubted that she was well worth the toil, sweat and occasional tears. Her gutsy response to such a daunting array of misfortunes had won my lasting admiration, just as it earned her a deserved place in the hearts of millions around the world.

  Finding herself in what amounted to a professional, personal and marital trap, she would have been forgiven for surrendering to despair. She could have looked into the future and seen herself as just a pitiable bystander, exiled to the shadows as her husband’s mistress claimed not just her place in his home and household but also eventually on the throne as joint head of state.

  Instead, Diana discovered in herself reserves of strength and determination – at times even reckless defiance – to frustrate those who would have consigned her to the life of a royal cast-off. The hurt and indignation that might have destroyed her she chose to recycle as energy to power her life as a princess with a new purpose. As early as 1989, with her first solo overseas tour, when she went to New York and publicly identified herself with the plight of HIV-positive mothers and babies, she recognized that her predicament could be turned to good for outcasts everywhere – the lepers (real and metaphorical) who found in the glamorous figure from the fairy-tale world of palaces and gold coaches an unlikely but increasingly effective advocate.

  I would sometimes ask her about her motives for diverting her brand of royalty into such unfamiliar and emotionally demanding new directions. ‘Don’t you see, Patrick,’ she would answer, ‘I can talk to them because I am one of them.’

  And so she was: an outsider whom many insecure insiders wished they could control and, when they failed, wished they could airbrush out of the Windsor universe. Their chosen weapon was a vile diagnosis that she had a clinical personality disorder, a slur then systematically spread by royal spin doctors, and still whispered to this day by royal toadies. It would be hard to imagine a more cowardly attack on a woman who had already acknowledged her experience of conditions such as bulimia – an example of refreshingly sane self-knowledge now em
ulated by Prince Harry, to deserved universal applause.

  Instead, they can reflect on the sight of her sons and daughter-in-law continuing her work of inclusion for those with minds in need of healing, or who for other reasons find themselves exiled from society. Perhaps now her detractors will recognize that the princess’s achievements deserve to be remembered happily and often; that they cast a welcome light on her children’s determination, like her, to find new ways to put their royal status to good use for good causes that might otherwise be overlooked.

  Remembering Diana gladly is more than just legitimate and timely: it’s also required therapy for the future health of the monarchy, as the focus of national unity and symbol of the best British values. It’s not just about the need to learn from the past to avoid future mistakes, though that neglected skill should be second nature to royal advisers. It’s a principle even more fundamental to the long-term purpose and viability of the ancient royal experiment. It can be summed up in one word – a word traditionally synonymous with the British Crown, exemplified by Elizabeth II’s lifetime of service.

  The word is decency.

  Yet in some corners of the royal establishment, two decades of spin doctors and a naive fondness for the slippery arts of news management have put the word and the idea at risk. With his coronation plans already the subject of unfriendly speculation, especially on the divisive issue of Queen Camilla, Elizabeth’s successor faces an acceptability hurdle that some courtiers may be slow to recognize. A little perspective from recent history might guide them.

  Diana alive was a decency test for the Windsors, which some of them failed; this book gives one close-up view of that failure, especially my part in it. But that failure need not lead to another: a Diana who lives on in the hearts of her admirers worldwide is a test tomorrow’s monarchy can yet pass. Success, as her sons have shown, only needs royal people to rediscover the authentic, uncontrived decency that hallmarked the monarchy’s finest hours in the twentieth century, and which is still its best hope for what may be even more testing times in the twenty-first and beyond.

  Leaving aside such lofty thoughts, back in 1987 when this story starts there was no doubt in my mind that Charles and Diana were the best thing to happen to the monarchy in my lifetime. The perfect royal superstar double act. And so they were. Try to keep that image in mind as you read what follows, and draw your own conclusions about what might have been …

  Patrick Jephson

  PREFACE

  For more than seven years, from 1988 to 1996, I shadowed the Princess of Wales. As her private secretary – her closest adviser – I was with her throughout the events leading up to her separation from Prince Charles. I helped her carve out a new life as an independent Princess on the world stage. I watched her struggle with enemies from outside as well as others, more murky, that threatened her from within.

  As the darkness finally gathered around her, our paths parted. By then she was standing in her own light, obscuring the way ahead for herself and for many who would have acknowledged her as a global force for good.

  Since her death in 1997 I have come to question the credentials of some of the self-appointed guardians of her thoughts, motives and values. It seemed to me that history was recording an image which bore little resemblance to the Princess I knew better than most.

  It is common sense, not treason, to believe that the truth will do her no harm now. Neglecting the truth will profit only those who seek to gain, personally, financially or constitutionally, from letting the weeds of misrepresentation slowly overgrow her memory.

  Of the many others who shared those years with me, I ask forbearance where their recollections differ from mine. Of the many more who did not, I ask nothing but an open mind. What follows, so far as it lies in my power, is the truth.

  Patrick Jephson

  PART ONE

  IN

  ONE

  OVER THE TOP

  The Princess of Wales was watching the man with unusual intensity. She leaned forward in her chair, anxious not to miss any of the action she had just been promised. Her eyes widened with anticipation.

  The man obviously did not know he was being watched, but he was ill at ease, definitely shifty. He seemed to be waiting for someone, and was losing patience. He took a few paces to the left, then a few to the right. He scratched his tangled, dirty hair and looked anxiously up and down the street. I did not like the look of him.

  Then a second man appeared, dodging between a couple of pedestrians. If anything, the newcomer was even more nervous. He looked jumpy and his arms made strange twitching movements as he spoke rapidly into the other man’s ear. They seemed to be making some kind of deal because I saw money changing hands, but I could not hear what they said. Suddenly they were walking off together, slipping into a deserted alleyway next to the station. Still they did not know they were being watched.

  What happened next made the Princess shriek with a kind of thrilled horror. As we watched, with a final furtive look around, the first man loosened his jeans and crouched forward. There was a look of fixed concentration on his face. For five seconds he did not move. I had just realized he was defecating when his hand disappeared down the seat of his pants and emerged a few seconds later clutching a small package. Quickly he passed it to the other man, clearly his customer. Then, without a backward glance, the pusher adjusted his belt and returned to his position on the street.

  The police officer stretched across the Princess and switched off the video with a click. Her hands were still clutched theatrically to her face, the shock of what she had seen still obvious in her eyes as she peeped from between her fingers. She caught my glance and giggled. Obscenity usually made her giggle.

  ‘Ugh! Talk about a video nasty. I hope you arrested him.’

  ‘Oh, he’s an old friend, Ma’am. And so are most of his customers. We keep them under surveillance with these TV cameras. Then we move in when we’ve got the evidence we need.’

  The inspector stood up and reached for his leather jacket. There was a whiff of aftershave. He looked every inch TV’s idea of an undercover cop. I had noticed the Princess register his star quality as we arrived at his office half an hour earlier. That was good. An attractive male lead always brought out the best in our unpredictable royal performer. ‘If you’re ready …’ he said, heading for the door with an athlete’s easy grace. His amused expression promised further treats in store.

  The Princess followed him meekly. Her eyes were demurely lowered, as if to retain the image she had just seen. I knew she was enjoying herself – she was fascinated by the forbidden.

  Two minutes later we were outside on the late rush-hour streets of King’s Cross. Night had fallen. It started to rain. Out of the darkness a solitary flashbulb popped. I heard the Nikon’s motor drive as my boss reacted with a loud sigh of exasperation. ‘Oh! Wretched press! They follow me everywhere.’ The plaintive note was easy to hear. Too easy, I thought. You’re overdoing it. But it earned her a sympathetic look from our handsome guide, so that was good too.

  As we moved unnoticed into the hurrying crowds, I took up my familiar position slightly behind the tall figure with the expensively casual hairdo. Tonight she was in black jeans and a short, sexy jacket. This was our version of incognito. The Princess of Wales, icon of the oppressed and champion of the socially excluded, was beginning another ‘secret’ fact-finding tour.

  Tramping round King’s Cross that night, I felt again the familiar wrench in my gut. It always came when I thought of where the Princess had been and where she was going. The sensation was becoming much more frequent. It was the same feeling you get on a roller coaster as it stops climbing and begins to dive towards the ground.

  She had been so high: the future Queen. Now she was still high, at least with the people we were meeting on the street, and the papers said she was a phenomenon – the looks of a supermodel and the heart of a saint. But I knew the truth.

  I had seen many saintly things done in her name, and
even if she was not exactly saint material herself – as she would be quick, even too quick, to agree – she had certainly done a lot of suffering. Not all of it had been done in public either, as some would have you believe. Now, however, she was floundering. Where once she had been the ideal young wife and mother, now she was a self-proclaimed adulteress. Where once she had been worshipped by charities, now she was worshipped for her photo-spreads. Where once she had summoned Air Force jets, now she cadged lifts in planes smelling of rich men’s cologne.

  True, there were always going to be causes begging for this kind of celebrity patronage; and she had built up deep reserves of public sympathy. She still had that magical forgivability. But I knew these were the gifts more of others’ mistakes than of her shining virtues. I knew she had begun to believe her own publicity, just as I was believing it less and less. I feared that others, like me, were every day seeing more of the steady fraying of her fragile mental stability, and I felt there was now no way back to the happy certainties of my early days at the Palace.

  How had it all changed? Eight years earlier it had all been so different – another world, almost another universe.

  Autumn 1987. Somewhere on the long journey from Scotland I had lost my cuff links. Summoned from the frigate Arethusa while she was pausing in her patrol to refuel in a stormy west-coast sea loch, I had taken a boat, two buses, an aeroplane and a taxi to reach the Kensington hotel that was my base for the coming ordeal. Along the way the cuff links, with their family crest and a wealth of sentimental value, had disappeared, never to return.

  Some frantic improvisation was called for. Dejectedly I substituted collar studs, one of the archaic pieces of kit which gave the Navy its charm for me. It seemed a bad omen, not least because in those days any meeting with royalty was a signal for sartorial precision of the highest order. This was no ordinary meeting either: it was a job interview. By some quirk of fate, I had been chosen – along with five others – as a candidate to be the next equerry to the Princess of Wales.