That same media which for years he had cursed for being intrusive, and for cynically disbelieving his denials of adultery, had now become his ally. Rather than revile their misrepresentations, he encouraged Mark Bolland to welcome more editors to St James’s Palace and to drip-feed stories: about Camilla wearing a brooch from him as a token of love; about the smiles towards the couple during further visits to the theatre; and, to please the Sun, a visit to the Soho gay pub that had been nail-bombed by a neo-Nazi fanatic.
Just before flying to New York in 1999 to promote Camilla, Bolland met the senior editors of Rupert Murdoch’s tabloid newspapers at Wapping, News Corporation’s London headquarters. Both the Sun and the News of the World continued to reflect their readers’ love for Diana and their dislike of Charles and Camilla. Winning over working-class women – who made up many of the newspapers’ readers – was a priority. Bolland’s hosts were Les Hinton, the corporation’s chief executive, and Rebekah Wade, an editorial director at the Sun. Both distrusted the royals’ spokesmen. Too often their journalists had approached the palaces’ media officials for a comment about a murky revelation only to be rebutted with an outright lie. All that, Bolland promised, would change. He would speak the truth, not least because he needed the Murdoch press’s support against the queen. ‘We were turning up the gas,’ he would later say, ‘because the queen was unmovable.’
Nine months after the New York trip, in early June 2000, Bolland returned to Wapping for lunch with Rebekah Wade, who by then had been introduced to Charles and Camilla. Using Wade as an ally posed no difficulty for Bolland, but the alliance led to a standoff between Wade and the normally unflappable Robin Janvrin, who was surprised when she asked, ‘When is Her Majesty going to give the green light for Charles and Camilla to marry?’
‘Public opinion is against it,’ he replied.
‘Well,’ said Wade, ‘we would have to go against the queen, because our readers are for Camilla. The queen should think again.’ She added, ‘We might move to support an abdication and let Charles take over.’
Days later, the headline on the Sun’s front page blared ‘Marry Her, Sir’. Inside the same edition was a prominent report, with photographs of Charles, dressed in military uniform, taking the salute in France for seven hundred Dunkirk veterans on the sixtieth anniversary of their evacuation. ‘This is very much the Dunkirk spirit,’ he told them. That weekend was a victory for Charles, Camilla and Bolland; they were starting to dictate the agenda.
In Buckingham Palace, the normally even-handed Janvrin was shocked. The Sun’s threat to campaign against the queen was typical of the divisiveness masterminded by Bolland. Ever since he had been hired, the battle between the palaces had turned into a public brawl.
In June 1999, a poll had shown that 57 per cent of the British public supported a marriage between Charles and Camilla, up from 30 per cent two years earlier. More relaxed than previously, Charles now entered receptions looking confident – but also, Roy Strong observed, unfashionably ‘Hanoverian’ and often surrounded by courtiers chosen apparently because they were shorter than him. Tony Blair also noticed Charles’s new self-confidence. Anji Hunter, his special assistant, was sent to ask Bolland if Charles was intent on marrying Camilla. Officially, Hunter was instructed not to interfere, but privately she told Blair about Charles’s resolve.
To neutralise the Earl of Carnarvon’s support for the queen’s opposition to his remarriage, Charles recruited Angus Ogilvy, the brother-in-law of Lord Airlie, to negotiate on his behalf. Ogilvy was married to Princess Alexandra, a trusted cousin of the queen. Briefed by Charles, he relayed to the queen that her son would not compromise or surrender. This was not the rebellion of a petulant prince, but reflected a man unafraid, even delighted, to challenge authority.
6
Charles wanted the monarchy to champion unfashionable causes. His most potent weapon to promote his status was his charities, about twenty organisations engaged in a diverse range of activities helping tens of thousands of people and many valuable causes every year. Charles had decided that only being forthright would guarantee an impact, and his charities gave him a powerful platform. Stoking controversy risked his being accused of breaking constitutional expectations of political impartiality, but the brave savoured risks. Ever since the Prince’s Trust had been created in 1976, an initiative of pure altruism, financing his charities had become a preoccupation. However, Charles and his officials did not anticipate the financial problems that would accumulate.
Charles’s insatiable appetite for money for his charities attracted Manuel Colonques, the founder of Porcelanosa, a Spanish tile manufacturer. Colonques had successfully promoted his company across the world by paying celebrities including Kevin Costner and George Clooney to endorse Porcelanosa’s expanding empire. One by-product of his philosophy – ‘The more you give, the more you receive’ was his motto – was regular features in ¡Hola!, the Spanish Hello! magazine.
Always searching for new superstars, Pedro Pseudo, a Porcelanosa director, had hit on Charles in the mid-1990s. In his efforts to meet the prince he approached Chrysanthi Lemos, the wife of a Greek ship-owner and a fundraiser for the Philharmonia Orchestra in London. Lemos had no difficulty persuading Pseudo to give money to the orchestra; in return he would receive an invitation to its concert at Highgrove. Included among the audience were Luciano Pavarotti, Richard Branson, Donatella Versace and other celebrities. Lemos told Charles about Colonques’s enthusiasm for Charles’s charities, and after the concert Charles took the Spaniard and his party on a tour of his garden. ‘After that meeting,’ Lemos recalled, ‘Fawcett took over. I wasn’t needed any more.’ With Fawcett as intermediary, Charles hosted a party in 1998 at St James’s Palace to celebrate Porcelanosa’s twenty-fifth anniversary, and another to thank the company for a donation to the Prince’s Foundation. The pattern of selling access to himself funded Charles’s principal achievement. But this success had also bred embarrassing controversies.
In 1976 Charles’s office had telephoned the television journalist Jon Snow, interested in replicating Snow’s small charity for disadvantaged youths. ‘I want to make a difference,’ the prince explained. Together they invented the name ‘the Prince’s Trust’, with an initial fund of £7,471, Charles’s pay-off from the Royal Navy. Thereafter, fundraising by Tom Shebbeare, the trust’s chief executive, was uncomplicated. When Charles and Diana patronised a London pop concert, the charity received £1 million. With a minimum of red tape, the trust’s administrators were empowered to write out cheques for disadvantaged young people, to finance travel for an interview, or set up a business, even to remove tattoos. As its funds increased, the Prince’s Trust became noted for taking unusual risks. ‘If I don’t do it,’ Charles said purposely, ‘it won’t exist.’
Encouraged by public acclaim, he next supported Stephen O’Brien, the founder of Business in the Community, a new charity for galvanising entrepreneurs to invest in deprived areas. ‘What really worries me