But, as I quickly realize, it is actually news. This could have been a troll: Delivering a nothing with such gravitas feels as if Meghan, who has been so trolled by the media, is serving it back, just a little. Then the top-secret drop: “I’m getting back … on Instagram,” she says, her eyes alight and devilish. Meghan, silen ced no more, looks around, making sure nobody (who would be?) is listening in. Then, in the lull in conversation, Meghan turns to me and leans forward to ask in a conspiratorial hush, “Do you want to know a secret?” An invisible hand has lit a Soho House–branded rose-water candle (the founder, Nick Jones, is a friend from “long before I met Harry,” she says), and that scent fills the air, mingling with the gentle tones of a flamenco-inflected guitar floating from a speaker. Meghan, relaxing in a cozy chair, gazes over all that is climate-controlled and high-ceilinged and sun-dappled and perfectly marshmallowy, and hers. Archie giggles and, satisfied, toddles right back out again. He stands, tummy protruding, while his mother, Meghan, convincingly performs her glee at hearing the thump-thump, thump-thump in his chest. Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor, a lively 3-year-old with a shock of ginger curls identical to his father’s, toddles into the room demanding “Momma” listen to his heartbeat with a wooden toy stethoscope.
It is a beautiful August day in Montecito, in a beautiful sitting room, in a beautiful home.
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