Imagining Diana

by Diane Clehane

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  Charles kept to his word and stopped in to see Diana every day while she was waiting to be released. Since she’d come home, he rang up frequently in the evening to see how she was feeling, but those calls had dropped off, no doubt at Camilla’s urging. The prime minister’s office had twice inquired about scheduling a meeting to talk about Diana’s role as a roving ambassador that was first discussed in July, but she’d had her office tell them she needed more time to ease back into public life. She felt unbearably lonely.

  Just last week, Diana had attempted to go to The Ivy one day for lunch with her dear friend Rosa, who for some time had been encouraging her to get out. She’d gotten dressed in a simple pale pink Catherine Walker suit and beige Chanel pumps with matching handbag. That was her usual armor for when she wanted to feel polished and put together. Sam McKnight came to KP to do her hair, which she hadn’t cut since the accident. They decided she could grow out the sides and with a bit of doing, her hair could be brought forward to cover the sides of her face, but not completely.

  Diana had never worn foundation before, but now she was eager to try the heavy camouflage makeup the plastic surgeon recommended. She opened the jar and patted some on the line that snaked down the right side of her face. At least it isn’t on my good side, she thought. The makeup didn’t cover the scar completely, but it did make it slightly less noticeable. Earlier that day, Diana’s facialist had come to Kensington Palace and given her some products to help soothe her skin and supposedly fade the scar, but it still looked just as it had the first time she’d seen it.

  Fortified by her friend’s words of encouragement, Diana tried to convince herself she could do it, but at the last minute she was overcome with anxiety and phoned her friend to beg off, saying she just wasn’t ready.

  Rosa had been such a good friend; she didn’t mind the change of plans and popped over to the palace for lunch instead of meeting Diana at the restaurant.

  This morning, Diana’s scar looked red and angry since she’d just gotten out of a warm bath and was a bit flushed. She moved over to the bedroom window with a hand mirror to see how she looked in daylight. If she looked at herself straight on, it was almost as if nothing had ever happened to her. Her porcelain cream-colored complexion had nary a wrinkle or a freckle.

  But if she moved her head slightly to the left, the crooked, spidery line that ran from her ear to her jawline looked like she’d slashed her face with a crimson marker. She vacillated between obsessively checking her profile every time she passed a mirror and avoiding her reflection altogether.

  Even though Diana felt terribly insecure about her scar, she knew the time had come to show the press that she wasn’t going to barricade herself at the palace forever. With that ugly story in today’s paper, she had no choice. She’d gotten her doctor’s approval to begin a light exercise routine that, he noted, would also help her mood. Diana’s twice-weekly therapy appointments seemed to help her while she was there, but they weren’t really doing anything to vanquish the waves of anxiety when she wasn’t.

  She was adamantly opposed to taking any kind of prescription medication, but she was secretly worried the stress of it all would plunge her back into a deep depression or, God forbid, another vicious cycle with the bulimia that she had thought she finally conquered all those years ago.

  She decided she’d ask Paul to drive her to the Chelsea Harbour Club for a quick workout. Diana made sure she was wearing her Versace sunglasses and pulled a baseball cap down to hide her face. When they arrived, she spotted one of the more aggressive photographers, who always seemed to have a sixth sense about where she might turn up, standing across the street. He was talking to two other men when they pulled into a spot near the club’s door.

  He immediately recognized the BMW and came running towards them with the shutter of his camera already clicking away. Diana didn’t even get out of the car. Nothing had changed. It had gotten worse. Hasnat had been right—she was now an even bigger target.

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  When she got home, she turned on the television and saw Mohamed Al Fayed speaking in front of Harrods. He was talking, as he had been since the crash, about the tragic love story of his son and Diana. He continued to harp on his claim that the Establishment did not want Diana to marry a Muslim. With each passing day that she did not say anything to dispute his version of events, the story took deeper root as the truth. A few days ago, Mohamed’s office had rung to ask if she would like to have lunch or dinner with him, but Diana begged off, saying she was not yet strong enough to venture out or to entertain guests—just in case he’d offer to come to her.

  She talked on the phone at all hours with friends, discussing what she should do about the growing myth of her plans to marry Dodi. Diana would ring them up sometimes in tears, other times certain she should go on television and give an interview, only to dissolve into uncertainty once she heard herself lay out her plan. Some people told her she should say nothing and hold herself above the fray. Others, like Elton John, advised her to give one interview to a sympathetic television presenter and explain that she had been a friend of the Fayed family for many years—after all Mohamed and her father had been close—and she was enjoying a summer romance, without mentioning Hasnat.

  Mohamed had sent six dozen bouquets of red roses to Kensington Palace every week, which Diana found depressingly funereal. She’d packed them off to Royal Brompton Hospital for the cancer wing and dutifully sent a handwritten note of thanks to him on her monogrammed cards after every delivery. But enough was enough. Last week, Mohamed had given a press conference in front of a shrine he’d erected to his dead son on the basement level of Harrods. Diana was relieved that there was no physical trace of her at the monument, but the implication was there. The plaque underneath the enormous photograph of Dodi in an ornate golden frame spoke of him in glowing terms and ended with the words He died in the pursuit of true love. Mohamed claimed Prince Philip was involved in a plot to “murder” his son.

  The preceding week, at Prince Charles’s insistence, Diana had asked Paul to ring the Harrods offices and arrange a meeting with Mohamed in hopes of convincing him to stop these inflammatory press conferences. A date was set for the following week at the country estate of Lady Meredith Smithington, a good friend of the princess’s, who lived outside of London, in hopes of avoiding the cameras. Diana sent a note ahead of their meeting.

  Dearest Mohamed,

  I am so looking forward to seeing you again and having a good talk about everything. I know this is such a difficult time for you and I want to do what I can to help you get through the pain. When we visit next week, let’s keep it very quiet so we can meet in peace.

  With Love, Diana

  Mohamed was already there by the time Diana pulled up with Paul in her BMW. He was sitting in the back of his Rolls-Royce staring absent-mindedly out the window. In that unguarded moment, Diana saw incredible sadness in his eyes. She felt for him and didn’t want to add to his unhappiness, but the stories of Dodi and Diana planning to marry and Mohamed’s claims that MI6, working for the royal family, was responsible for the crash were making her life hell.

  When Mohamed began talking to whomever would listen about Diana and Dodi and their supposed plans to marry, he upset William and Harry greatly. They were still coming to terms with their parents being divorced. Diana had to explain to them that she never had any intention of marrying Dodi. The news came as a huge relief to William who, she’d told friends, didn’t approve of Dodi’s jet-set lifestyle. He had been a bit quiet during their summer holiday in the South of France. Harry was too young to understand everything that was happening but seemed disappointed there would likely be no more vacations aboard any of Mohamed’s yachts. The boys knew about her relationship with Hasnat and were unaware she was no longer seeing him. They liked the unassuming, unpretentious heart surgeon. They’d sit and watch sports together at KP, and Hasnat would patiently answer
the boys’ questions about what it was like to operate on the human body.

  Then, she had to tell them that it was simply not true that the crash was anything more than a terrible accident. The last time she called William at school, it was clear all the rumors were getting to him. “Granny and Granddad would never let anyone hurt you. Why is Mr. Fayed saying these things?” he asked his mother.

  “No, they would not. When people are hurting they sometimes do things that they haven’t thought through,” she explained. “Mr. Fayed has lost his son. He is very upset and is trying to come to terms with it in his own way.”

  “I wish he would stop talking about you.”

  Diana nodded in silent agreement and changed the subject to the upcoming Christmas holiday in hopes of ending the call on a happier note.

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  Even if she succeeded in getting Mohamed to stop all this talk about her marrying Dodi, he had already succeeded in making his son this larger-than-life romantic hero whom the press portrayed as Diana’s own ill-fated Aristotle Onassis. It was true that the Fayeds had yachts, a private jet and properties around the world, but it was Dodi’s father who controlled every dime. Dodi received a monthly allowance of $100,000—spending some of it in Hollywood, which earned him the title of film producer, and enjoying the playboy lifestyle that came along with that. He was a serial dater of actresses, including Brooke Shields and Mimi Rogers, and there were plenty of ‘friends’ who were more than willing to share stories of cocaine-fueled nights at clubs around the world.

  In hindsight, Diana saw Dodi’s lack of direction for what it was rather than the romantic devotion she ascribed to his behavior when they’d spent those days together aboard the Jonikal. He was not, as she had almost allowed herself to believe, her Aristotle Onassis. After a string of disappointing affairs and Hasnat’s unwillingness to go public with their relationship, Diana was reveling in the undivided attention she got from Dodi. It was only now, having read all the exposés in the newspapers chronicling his aimless existence—he always seemed to leave a trail of bad debts and broken promises in his wake—that Diana was coming to realize she’d been used once again. Maybe Dodi, she wondered, was also being used—by his own father.

  Dodi had been able to lavish Diana with expensive gifts during their summer holiday because Mohamed wanted his son to woo and marry Diana. What better revenge on the British Establishment that had made it abundantly clear that Mohamed Al Fayed would never be accepted into the upper echelons of society, no matter how much money he spent?

  At the time, both Fayed men with their shiny toys and promises of privacy and protection offered her an escape from what had turned out to be an emotionally fraught few months. Her closest friends knew Dodi was a summer dalliance meant as a distraction from her heartbreak over Hasnat. A few speculated—correctly—that Diana was trying to make Hasnat jealous. She’d been with the Pakistani heart surgeon for two years and felt he was “the one.” Diana had spent less than a month with Dodi. The sex was passionate and they made love with an urgency that Diana found very exciting. She had never felt more womanly, more desirable. But this was lust, not love. And the last thing Diana would ever do again is rush into an ill-conceived marriage.

  Even if she had been considering continuing to see Dodi after the summer was over, she’d changed her mind by the time they got to Paris. Diana loved the luxurious lifestyle that came along with yachts and private jets but hated being plied with romantic trinkets, albeit ones from the finest jewelers in Europe. “I’m not for sale! He is trying to buy my love with presents!” she’d said on a call to her sister Jane. Dodi had given her a seed pearl bracelet, diamond earrings and bracelet, a gold Cartier Panther watch— and a ring. It was a gold band from Bulgari with pave diamonds he chose from the store’s case. She wore it on the fourth finger of her right hand. She had no idea if he had meant for that garish monstrosity from the Parisian jeweler to be her “engagement ring,” as Mohamed referred to it; but had Dodi offered it to her with a proposal, the answer would have been no.

  She’d brought along the Bulgari ring for her meeting with Mohamed and had it tucked in her Chanel bag. She didn’t feel comfortable wearing it, and rather than stash it in a drawer, she thought Mohamed might like to have it—on the condition he not display it and use it to add to the mythology he was creating about his son. Diana decided she would wait and see how things were going during the meeting before she told him about it. She had no idea what to expect.

  She and Paul, whom she’d brought along for moral support, got out of the car and walked across the drive toward Mohamed’s car. When he saw Diana, he immediately got out of the Rolls and put his arms around her.

  “My dear Diana, how are you? You look wonderful. I am so happy to see you,” he held both her hands and looked up into her eyes, purposely not glancing at her scar.

  “It’s really good to see you, too, Mohamed. Let’s go inside.” Diana was genuinely glad to see that he seemed much better than the distraught man on the news that morning.

  Paul went off to find the kitchen and make some tea, while Diana and Mohamed went into the library. It was a cloudy afternoon, so the room was a bit dark with its heavy furnishings and tapestries and large leather couches. Diana perched on the edge of the sofa opposite Mohamed.

  “Mohamed, I know this is such a terrible time for you, but we must talk about these stories in the newspapers,” she began.

  “I want the world to know that Dodi loved you and that you would have had a beautiful life together,” he said. “I always said you would make a wonderful daughter-in-law.”

  Diana remembered he used to joke about her marrying into the Fayed family before she had ever met Dodi. “I was very, very fond of Dodi, but we were just getting to know each other,” Diana began slowly. “We were not getting married.”

  “Why do you think Dodi was bringing you to Paris? That terrible night was supposed to be the happiest night of your lives.”

  Diana could see this was not going to be easy. She had to reason with him carefully. If she had any chance of getting back together with Hasnat, the stories had to stop.

  She hadn’t even mentioned his obsession with conspiracy theories involving British intelligence and his belief that his son was murdered. Charles was adamant that Diana convince Mohamed these stories were unfounded and that “for everyone’s sake” he should stop whipping the press into a frenzy. “It’s time to move on from all this ugliness,” Charles had said when he rang her the previous evening to make sure she was still meeting with Mohamed.

  Long denied British citizenship, Mohamed Al Fayed was a self-proclaimed enemy of the Establishment and a perpetual thorn in the side of the royal family. He had actively sought out a friendship with Diana, who was intrigued by the Egyptian billionaire. One of the reasons they both so enjoyed their relationship was that they knew it displeased members of ‘The Firm’—as the royal family was known. She now deeply regretted encouraging him in thinking she disliked the royals as much as he did.

  Up until all this happened, Diana did genuinely like Mohamed, whom she found entertaining and a bit naughty. He was always trying to entice her with invitations to join him on exotic vacations that would include her sons. Last summer’s trip to St. Tropez had come at just the right time. She and Mohamed had even discussed funding for her anti-landmine campaign.

  Dodi was not interested in politics and preferred to talk about less serious topics with Diana. She had been looking for a place to take the boys before they went off to join their father at Balmoral, and Mohamed not only offered the perfect escape, but also could provide the necessary security now that Diana had given up her royal protection officers. For reasons all too clear to Diana, in the eyes of the royal family, Mohamed would have been a less- than-desirable choice as a father-in-law and his son a downright disastrous choice as stepfather to William and Harry.

  Paul arrived with the tea and put the tray down
on the table beside Diana. He shot her a quick look to see whether she was making any progress. She raised her eyebrows slightly and made a half-hearted grin. He hadn’t brought any biscuits or sandwiches because Diana hoped the meeting would be brief. He left the room without saying a word.

  She got up and poured herself a cup and offered one to Mohamed, who waved it away. “Mohamed, I am asking you as a personal favor to me to please stop talking about my relationship with Dodi. There is really nothing else to say. I would be so appreciative.”

  He looked down at his hands for a moment and twisted the large ring he wore around his finger before he spoke. He was not smiling. “I see they have gotten to you, too. Are they threatening to take away your sons if you don’t get me to stop talking?”

  “Absolutely not.” Diana was taken aback. She expected him to be hurt, but not accusatory.

  “Then who does it hurt when I speak of Dodi’s love for you?”

  She had no intention of telling him about Hasnat or revealing just how upset Charles and the Queen had been at all the press he was getting. “It hurts me, Mohamed,” she said as she lowered her eyes. “It hurts me because it makes me relive these painful events over and over again when I see them in the newspapers and you talking about them on television.” Then she decided to try to beat him at his own game. “I know Dodi would not want that.”

  “That was never my intention,” he said quietly.

  “I know that. You are a wonderfully kind man who has always been very generous to me and to my sons,” she said feeling slightly relieved.