Me, Kate Middleton, and The Mail on Sunday

Reminiscence as letter to oneself

A few months ago, I woke to an email from UK press The Mail on Sunday, and I’m embarrassed to say, I was thrilled.

It was a journalist reaching out to those who’d been part of the infamous Prince William/Duchess Kate fashion show at St. Andrews University twenty years prior, and given the sixth season finale of The Crown, the reporter wondered if I might be free to chat.

Well, this didn’t match my normal school-drop-off-in-yoga-pants-then-off-to-my-laptop-to-work-alone routine, and so yes, I was available.

I texted my husband.

I texted my best friends.

I had a drink at lunchtime book club to celebrate.

But what was I celebrating?

The journalist and I chatted for half an hour, he in his whispered tones from the buzz of a busy newsroom, me from the yoga mat on my home office floor.

“So, what have you been up to since graduation?” He asked.

I self-deprecated: “Oh a show off-Broadway for two years called Pieces (of ass), I produced an awful movie—don’t look it up my family couldn’t even finish it.”

“Fascinating.” He whispered. “Anything else?”

“I was a Director of Media Production? I’m a mom?”

“Oh yeah sure sure I’ll be sure to mention that.” He said.

And then I, one who has always despised the summarizing of self in bullet points as well as the incessant demand of our culture to do so as though that the ultimate of individual worth, continued rattling off my bio up to present status; first book finished, a new Substack, solitary writing, best attempts at full presence with others, field trip chaperoning, household cruise ship director, riverwalks, scraps of notes to self stuffed in pockets and purses.

Why? Why was I sharing this with a whispery stranger halfway around the world?

Was it that it transported me from the tension of reality into some kind of fantasy?

That the potential of having my life tallied up and reflected to me in glossy conclusion at an age when I’ve settled into a current category of choices (where to live, who to partner with, to parent or not, vocation—decisions I love, decisions I value), might suggest that I matter within a larger context?

My ambitions riled up via phone call and a series of rushed emails with a London journal.

My ego still very much engaged—God, may I ever be free?

Longing for the past, while blissed in the present, as way to future.

Reminiscence as letter to oneself on paper scrap pulled out of pocket.

I still so very much alive in the thick of life. This, a gratitude.

The snapshot of that long ago night is this: me, Kate (who has no clue who I am), and a handful of others, rehearsed for weeks leading up to the fashion show in the Student Union building, we strutted to Moby and The Avalanches “Frontier Psychiatrist”, Kate was still just Kate and she and Prince William appeared as friends, it was a charity fund raiser, among other wardrobe changes I wore a hot pink bikini on stage during the “lingerie” section and stood next to Kate for photos, and the next day my Dad was phoned by a British tabloid at the church where he pastored in Kentucky and told that I’d been “onstage with Prince William in my underwear”.

The whispery journalist said to keep an eye out for the article the following night. He promised to email me a link. I reminded him of my website—sure sure, he’d be sure to mention it. This, the moment I hang my head and confess I even called my agent.

            The following evening, I, who know better, who is intimately associated with the world of PR, who has worked in marketing and media and the news; refreshed my email between family dinner and a Disney movie like I was fourteen years old.

I scrolled through pop up promotions in a publication I’d never read for an audience of readers of which I knew no one, until the piece appeared: “What became of Kate's mates who walked the catwalk at the fashion show that wowed William and set a royal love story in motion? Meet the models who DIDN'T become princesses”.

Intoxicated by the possibility of a sparkling reflection of my pajama clad self, I clinked the link.

            Predigital blurry photo of the Kate I’d once orbited.

Five shiny bullet point bios and photos of former castmates: The Yoga and Pilates Guru, The Employment Expert, The Conflict Defuser, The High-flying Triathlete, The Arty Designer.

Then, nestled between a pop-up bar of trending stories and an ad for Invesco Investments: “’Rachel Hollon James, now 44 and living in Texas, told the MoS: 'It was a very special moment in time' and acknowledged 'this legend that surrounds the night'.”

I large sipped my pinot noir. I spewed the link to a few friends without context. My husband and son settled on the couch near me as Elastagirl, her family at home, her husband caring for the children, contorted her body to save a speeding train on our screen.

Longing for the past, while blissed in the present, as way to future.

My Ego retreated to rest for its imminent return.

The truth that we all matter within a larger context.

It was a very special moment in time.

It is one now.