THE CONDITIONS ARE RIGHT FOR CONFESSION.
It is a beautiful August day in Montecito, in a beautiful sitting room, in a beautiful home. Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor, a lively 3-year-old with a shock of ginger curls identical to his father's, toddles into the room demanding Momma listen to his heartbeat with a wooden toy stethoscope. He stands, tummy protruding, while his mother, Meghan, convincingly performs her glee at hearing the thump-thump, thump-thump in his chest. Archie giggles and, satisfied, toddles right back out again.
Meghan, relaxing in a cozy chair, gazes over all that is climate-controlled and high-ceilinged and sun-dappled and perfectly marshmallowy, and hers. An invisible hand has lit a Soho Housebranded rose-water candle (the founder, Nick Jones, is a friend from long before I met Harry, she says), and that scent fills the air, mingling with the gentle tones of a flamenco-inflected guitar floating from a speaker. Then, in the lull in the conversation, Meghan turns to me and leans forward to ask in a conspiratorial hush, Do you want to know a secret?
Meghan, silenced no more, looks around, making sure nobody (who would be?) is listening in. Then the top-secret drop: I'm getting back... on Instagram, she says, her eyes alight and devilish.
This story is from the August 29, 2022 edition of New York magazine.
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This story is from the August 29, 2022 edition of New York magazine.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
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