Camilla bursts into the drawing room to find Harry fuming, and Meghan leafing angrily through a magazine.
“Bloody Aunt Anne,” Harry is saying, sourly.
“What’s going orn?” Camilla wants to know.
“Princess Anne’s in Vanity Fair,” Meghan says, pained. She looks at Charles. “It’s a magazine for rich Americans who don’t have the attention span for books.” Then she wails, “She’s the COVER.”
“She’s given an interview, slagging us off,” adds Harry.
“Come, come,” says Charles. “I think it’s mostly harmless. She spends a page and half talking about the benefits of tweed.”
“Oh, tweed is frightfully practical,” agrees Camilla. “It’s perfect for the saddle and, with the right tiara, a state banquet.” She settles herself on a fat sofa. “And why wash anything that’s already the colour of dog?”
“She says ‘younger Royals’ want to reinvent the wheel by trying new ways of doing things,” says Meghan. “She says we should follow the example set by wiser, older royals. Like you guys.”
“What are you doing, Pa?” Harry asks Charles, who has just begun scribbing furiously.
“I’m writing a memo to the New Zealand Prime Minister, asking her to consider a homeopathic way forward,” says Charles. “It’s my opinion that bergamot has anti-viral qualities warranting further examination.” He puts down his pen. “I’m also suggesting talking to plants.”
“I say this with love,” continues Meghan, “But this family hasn’t lived in the real world for, like, a really long time. You guys think everybody’s butter comes stamped with a coat of arms.
“You know, I liked Anne. I thought we had a connection. I mean,” she waves a hand, uncertainly, “I like oats. She likes oats.”
“What I don’t understand is why you both had to dump us and move to America,” says Camilla.
“Malibu isn’t America,” says Harry. “It’s better.”
“In the same way that celebrities aren’t people,” adds Meghan. “They’re better.”
“And why are you even here?” Camilla goes on. “I thought you were buying Mel Gibson’s house.”
“We were,” says Meghan, “But Donald Trump talked Mel out of it.”
“So we’ll probably buy Cher’s,” says Harry. “Once our allowance comes through.” He and Meghan stare pointedly at Charles, who nervously tugs an ear.
“While we’re here, we’re determined to make a difference in our own way,” says Meghan, defiantly tossing her hair.
“How do you propose doing that?” asks Camilla, tartly.
“We’ll do good works privately and humbly, without attracting attention,” replies Meghan, “And then we’ll post the photos on Instagram, and tip off Good Morning America.
“You know, on the drive through Karori today, the deprivation was obvious,” she goes on. “I didn’t see a single Trader Joe’s, or Nobu, or Soho House. How do people here keep themselves healthy? Or network?”
“It’s not all bad,” says Camilla. “There is a One Fat Bird. Kids eat free on Sundays.”
“We drove past the mall and I was horrified, right, Harry?” says Meghan. “No Chanel. No Stella McCartney. No Victoria Beckham.”
“There’s Brumby’s the baker in the village,” adds Harry, “but no paleo bread.”
“Can you imagine how glutinous their diets must be around here?” implores Meghan. “They’re all walking around in their bubbles with their chakras blocked. And why have a headstone engraving business on the main street? It sends the wrong message to people. Instead of saying, Welcome to Karori! We know how to live! It says, Welcome to Karori! This is where you’ll die!”
“You must admit, Karori has kerb appeal,” says Camilla. “It’s obvious the ladies of Hatton, Homewood and Friend Streets keep their herbaceous borders beautifully trimmed.”
“An enormous relief to their husbands,” adds Charles.
“I want to nourish the people, and feed their souls,” declares Meghan. “Starting right now. Come on, Harry – I have an idea.” She sweeps out of the room, and Harry trots after her.
“There are three people in that marriage, Charles,” says Camilla. “Him. Her. And Oprah Winfrey.”
In their bedroom, Meghan is slicing open a box. It has GOOP written across the side. “Gwyneth sent me a care package,” she’s saying, excitedly. “I think this will be perfect to boost everyone’s spirits.”
Harry peers inside, to see a jumble of jade eggs and scented candles. “Are you sure about this, Meghan?” he asks.
“Harry. Was I wrong when I wrote on bananas to sex-workers?”
Meghan winds a Givenchy scarf around her nose and mouth and tugs on a baseball cap. “This is a guerrilla act of kindness. Karori needs it. Karori needs us. They just don’t know it yet.”
She snatches the box, and disappears into the night.
In the next riveting instalment, uproar at Karori Mall and the Windsors Zoom the Queen on her birthday