No. 26: Receive a royal invitation“I’m here to meet the prince.”
The unimpressed guard doesn’t hide a snicker as he takes in my diamond-patterned tights and buckled combat boots, and I wonder if I shouldn’t have worn something else.
“My name is Erica Morris,” I offer, using my best I-belong-to-be-here-voice. The lift of his eyebrow tells me my American accent has done little to convince.
“I’m going to need to see some identification.”
The plastic square is already in my palm and outstretched for him to look at. As he glances at the license I see him squint at the part that says Florida, USA. The gesture causes his bulky bell-shaped hat to ride down low on his forehead, weakening his intimidating glare.
He motions to a man holding a clipboard and the pair flips skeptically through a sheaf of papers.
“Here you are,” bell-hat concedes. “With the London Jewish News?”
I nod, tucking a piece of brown hair behind my ear, and head left as his fingers point me in the right direction.
I knock on a thick black door with a sign that reads ‘Office of the Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall.’
The door opens slowly and a stocky man jerks his head to the right. I walk to a room that looks like it’s attempting to put the occupier at ease but fails at the task. Tiny silver soldiers adorn a wooden bookcase filled with heavy tomes and a set of flowery china sits atop a fireplace. I lean in closer to the bookcase and spy a framed photo of Prince Charles in a meadow, a royal stamp above his head.
Looking around I feel outnumbered. Four middle-aged men are standing in the home of the heir to the throne and they’re staring at me like I’m the strangest part of this scenario. I shift my weight and give them a thin smile before sinking into an armchair. I pick up a newspaper and try to melt into the wallpaper.
“You been with him all week?” a mustachioed man carrying an imposing camera asks a fellow next to him. His heavy accent tells me he’s with the Israeli convoy and I grimace thinking about the flimsy Nokia 200 stowed in my bag.
“Just got in,” answers a wiry man with a television camera on his back. The two men are holding their bulky equipment like golf bags and I realize I’m in the middle of a boys’ club that no one is going to ask me to join.
As the gentlemen begin complaining about the trials of international journalism, I pull out my notepad and earnestly start taking notes.
I am in over my head.
I look like an idiot.
Prince Charles has flowered china over his mantle.
“You must be Erica, Zeddy’s girl.”
I look up to see a friendly looking blond woman. About the same age as me, she’s in her mid-twenties, clean and smiling, wearing a smart gray suit. We look like a before and after picture of what not to wear when meeting royalty.
“I knew the Jewish News got someone new in. Are you covering the Kindertransport event next week?”
I manage a nod as she briskly shakes my hand and passes me a sky blue press badge that I hang from a button on my pea coat.
Sarah leads us out of the holding room, chatting animatedly about the prince’s scheduling conflicts, and the team of professionals trails us as we pass corridors and rooms that beg exploration. There are ornate golden tapestries and floor to ceiling portraits of 16th century figures who I can only guess are cousins of the home’s owner.
“Clarence House is impressive,” Sarah states in a conspiring voice.
“Yeah,” I answer. “I didn’t even know Prince Charles had a house. I mean, obviously he has a house, he’s not homeless. But I thought they all lived in Buckingham Palace.”
“It’s a common mistake,” she tells me with a warm grin that gives me the feeling it is not, in fact, a common mistake.
We’ve stopped walking and are standing in a little arboretum with a teeming outdoor garden behind us, surrounded by pinks and greens that are otherwise extinct in the British autumn weather.
“Right, so the prince will walk out here and the president will come in from there. They’ll shake hands, smile for the cameras and then move inside. No one may address the prince or ask any questions. Understood?”
My colleagues begin testing the light against the flash of their bulbs and I scrounge around in my purse for my Nokia. The bag is a mess of maps, beauty products and one old sock, and I pull the camera out and start playing with the buttons. I rotate through flash, no flash, automatic, and back to flash, giving a self-satisfied nod of mission accomplished.
“Here they come.”
I look up as a limo pulls into the garden and Israeli President Shimon Peres steps out. I’m blinded by the white lights of the flashes, but dutifully hold my lens up as Peres walks to stand in front of the French doors in front of us. The 85-year-old president looks preoccupied but patient as he stands still, before the doors open and Charles, Prince of Wales, appears in a blue suit with an apology for his tardiness.
The men shake hands and exchange polite greetings, turning to allow the journalists to take their picture. I’m spending more time staring at Charles than looking through my lens, fascinated that a face I know so well from a lifetime of Access Hollywood is five feet away from me.
As quickly as it starts it’s over and the doors close shut with finality, the two leaders off to discuss climate change, hunger and world peace. I look down at a set of gardening trowels and wonder vaguely if they belong to Camilla.
“Did you get what you needed?” Sarah asks as she escorts me down a hidden foot path away from Clarence House. I nod as I scroll through the three pictures I was able to snap, each one blurrier than the next.
“It was perfect.”
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