By Norman Steele, former tabloid journalist and divorcee
I COULD never forget Diana. Her radiance, her kindness, her compassion, and the identity of every man with whom she violated the sanctity of her marriage.
‘We’ll forget her soon enough,’ or so her brother says Charles callously told him. Nonsense. Forget the Princess of Hearts? Forget England’s Rose? Why, I can’t even forget Oliver Hoare.
Don’t pretend the name isn’t familiar. Oliver Hoare, the married art dealer who received many, many late-night anonymous heavy-breathing calls from Kensington Palace, apparently 300 in one evening? If all of us had been so lucky.
And the name of James Gilbey cannot fail but to trigger reminiscence. Squidgygate? The tape of their conversation in which she bore the charming nickname Squidge, for entirely innocent non-genital reasons?
Though of course he is overshadowed in our collective memory by James Hewitt, the dashing polo player who whacked the ball of his devotion into the open goal of Diana’s heart. Such a wonderful head of red hair he had, I remember particularly for no reason.
Also there was Barry Mannakee, her protection officer, and England rugby captain Will Carling, and oh, such a Proustian rush of recollection on just hearing those names. JFK Jr, Bryan Adams, each one so evocative of times of happiness now long gone.
So forget your ‘forget Diana’, Charles. I have not forgotten a single one of her lovers and often spend whole evenings, curtains drawn, imagining I am one of those so blessed. And so, I firmly believe, does the British public.