Duking it out with the Duchess

Dear Kate,

Allow me to be one of the envious first to congratulate you.  I must admit when I first encountered your farm-fresh looks, I didn’t think you had the ability to hook those less than perfectly-manicured claws on Will.  And not just the ability, but the looks.  You were just one among the many eager co-eds milling about on that antiquated campus, excited about the college boys, and possessing, perhaps, a pretty-enough face.  But certainly, nothing to indicate that you had what it took, that you were going to succeed beyond every pubescent girl’s wildest royal fantasies!

For a while there, I thought you were another one of those groupies just practically dying to land my David, giddy at meeting a virile man simply soaked in athletic pheromones.  Who would have thought your ambitions went so much higher than bedding the magazine pin-up that he is, or mingling among the global celebrities that we were?

But you have succeeded, Kate, you have.  And how.  To have wormed your way into Will’s affections, so deep that it was enough to keep him occupied for an entire decade.  To have resisted the temptation to tell-all during those boring break-ups, to the extent you nearly became a tiresome tight-lipped spinster.  Bravo, dearest.  Such fortitude!  And not just that, but to have orchestrated your wedding so beautifully! You shed those pesky pounds and slimmed down enough to look positively svelte, and you carried that gown so well, never mind you had to rip off another commoner’s design vision in the process.  What a coup!  The Palace’s last minute preparations to take into account a runaway-bride scenario was a complete waste of time, wasn’t it?  You would have been the last person to back out of that nuptials, much less likely than dear Will.

And now, what luck, your family has found itself amongst the elite!  What use now do I have for them?  I will undoubtedly no longer be able to book your mum’s party planner company.  She will not be around to think of devilish delights to amuse my guests, and to bring those quaint mid-priced canapés and cheap buntings that look so festive during my less stellar events.  And certainly, Tippi can no longer be relied upon to pitch in at the last minute.  So sad.  It was so comforting to have someone as comely as her walk about the guests, serving cocktails in that cute French maid you outgrew so soon.

But we should be ready to shake off the past, and look to the future.  I must say I am looking forward to calling at your new residence in Cambridge.  You must squeeze me into your now very busy schedule, and let me deliver my warmest greetings in person.  I hear the gardens are extensive, a tad bigger than that cute plot your mother used to scrabble around in her valiant efforts to create a flower bed.

Now that I muse upon it, a walk amongst the summer foliage would be exceedingly pleasant, and redolent of memories of those gardeners you used to have an eye for.  (Oops, we mustn’t bring up such tawdry recollections, must we?  Fleet Street would certainly salivate at hearing the exploits of the commoner turned queen-in-waiting. But assuredly, my dear, you can count on me to be the soul of discretion. Mum’s the word for those whose confidences I feel are surely deserving to be kept!)

So let me know when the best time to pay a visit is, dearest Kate.  (Should I call you Catherine now? Although even that might still exceed the bounds of propriety.  But what’s propriety between old chums, eh?)   David’s schedule is soon to ease, what with football season about to end.  I will make sure to bring him along, so you can play coy with him again.  Perhaps, enhanced by your new titles, he will be more receptive this time.  And needless to say, I have no qualms about letting you savour what you’ve been long been hankering for, provided you only let me partake of Will’s charms.  His goofy looks do sometimes succeed in arousing my interest, enough for the brief diversions I allow myself once in a while.

So let me know darling. Kate   I await your response to this missive with bated breath.  Yours truly,

Victoria B.

(Note: I have Tracy Chevalier’s ‘Falling Angels’ to thank (or blame) for this latest absurdity.)