“Of course, some members of my family will never forgive me for writing a book. They will never forgive me for lots of things.” I stopped dead, almost dropping the glass I was holding; my face hot, my hands trembling. I turned the interview up, rewinding the snippet again and again until my daughter, puzzled, asked me what I was doing.
How could Prince Harry be speaking to my darkest preoccupation? What on earth could we share? Not palaces, not riches, not global stardom (or infamy) but this: we both dared to write about our families. Correction: I wrote the book I published alongside my mother; he had his ghosted. It’s irrelevant. We’re both estranged from our families because of it. Call it the memoir blues, call it all’s fair play in publishing, call it hubris if you like, but it’s a peculiar kind of agony.
