Even now, I’m always asked about the first time I met Diana. What was she like? Did she seem very young? How did I feel? The terrible truth is I just can’t remember.
But what I do remember is the moment I was asked to be a bridesmaid. I was on holiday in the Bahamas when a call came through from the Prince of Wales, my godfather. I was horrified. I was going to have to wear a dress. I was 13.
I had been a bridesmaid before. In fact, I was virtually a professional at it. I’d been one for the Duke of Westminster, Lady Joanna Knatchbull, Lord and Lady Romsey, my nanny — and all of them entailed wearing awful dresses. I was a tomboy, never out of my jodhpurs.
I even cut off my waist-length hair, a mistake indeed. And that’s why I made my TV debut in front of 750 million viewers with shorn-off hair.
But Charles was, and still is, a remarkable godfather — caring, considerate and involved. I adored him then and still do now. When I was growing up, his birthday and Christmas presents were always well thought-out.
For many years I would receive a china teacup or gravy dish — confusing for a child, but now as an adult I have full sets of beautiful china.
One year, a gold and silver bracelet he had commissioned arrived that had my initials interlocking on it. Another year, a picnic blanket in the family tartan.
So despite the thought that I would have to wear a dress at the wedding, I glowed with pride to have been asked.My mother, Lady Pamela Mountbatten, had been a royal bridesmaid before me.
But she was 18 when the Queen married Prince Philip and was pleased with her first grown-up dress. She fondly remembers how women sent in their clothing coupons from all over Britain (rationing was still in force) so the Queen could afford a wedding gown.
My grandparents were Viceroy and Vicereine of India at the time, so my mother was based with them in Delhi. Travelling back and forth from Delhi to London for fittings and rehearsals was, of course, impossible. But my mother, with her gracious, impeccable manners, needed little rehearsing.
Hooligan tomboys like me from rural Oxfordshire, however, did need practice. It was during these occasions I got to know Diana. And saw glimpses of the hell it must be to live besieged by the prurient interest of the Press.
I would secretly be taken out from boarding school and driven to London — where we were rushed past the world’s photographers lying ready to attack like snipers. The fittings would take place inside David and Elizabeth Emanuel’s creamy, lily-strewn studio in Mayfair.
Frill after frill, pin after pin, hour after hour, we stood silently as minions brought the Emanuels’ creations to life. Although I found all those petticoats, puff sleeves and bows hard to forgive, it was an intimate and informal time with Diana.
Each page and bridesmaid had been chosen for reasons personal to the couple. I knew most of them, but was especially relieved to have 17-year-old Sarah Armstrong-Jones (the Queen’s niece), there to guide us at the rehearsals.
Sarah and I had the responsibility of Diana’s 25ft train. This length was unheard of, record-breaking — and a complete nightmare. Manipulating so much ivory taffeta and antique lace in and out of small state carriages posed considerable complications.
We practised at rehearsals. A dust cloth was tied at Diana’s waist and we were shown how to effortlessly fold and unfold the fabric so it would glide behind the bride. (On the day itself, needless to say — with 750 million people watching — panic took over and we resorted to rather a lot of pushing and creasing.)
I remember one moment during these rehearsals when the Lord Chamberlain brought us chocolate money — payment for a good day’s work, perhaps?
As the weeks wore on, the frenzy over the royal wedding grew. The government named the date a public holiday. People prepared to celebrate with parties. I was photographed for the cover of Tatler. The legendary fashion photographer Norman Parkinson and his elegant entourage came down to my parents’ home.
I recall an icy lunch following the photoshoot. My father had been asked by an assistant if he could lend them some electrical wire. ‘Do I look like an electrician?’ he retorted. And my mother was appalled that her innocent 13-year-old lamb had been made up with eyeliner and provocative jewels.
On the eve of the wedding, July 28, the guns of the King’s Troop Royal Horse Artillery fired a salute in Hyde Park to mark the first marriage of a Prince of Wales for 118 years.
This was followed by an unprecedented firework display. Half a million rejoicing people flocked to Hyde Park. My sister and I joined Sarah Armstrong-Jones and the rest of the Royal Family to watch the fireworks in the royal enclosure.
After this, it became apparent that, with the surging crowds and halted traffic, we were never going to make it back home for the night. So Princess Margaret suggested I spend the night with her in Kensington Palace, as we were practically on the doorstep.
I will never forget her appearing in her nightie, offering me the use of her toothbrush. In her practical way, she put me in an old nanny’s room, with rather sparse furnishings and a dour single bed instead of wasting the clean sheets of a luxurious guest room. I did not sleep well.
Early the next morning, Sarah and I were at Clarence House, the London residence of the Queen Mother, saying good morning to a fresh-faced Diana, who was dressed in old jeans with a diamond tiara on top of her head.
Diana was amused to watch herself on a tiny television screen that had been found in the nursery; she would flick away anyone who got in the way.
During a commercial break, the advert for Cornetto ice-cream came on and she started singing. Soon we all joined in. ‘Just one Cornneeeettttoooo’ could be heard from the top floor.
At 10.20am, the bridesmaids were ushered downstairs by scarlet-tailcoated footmen, leaving Diana to put on her wedding dress. I clearly remember the moment Diana appeared at the top of the staircase. Everyone fell silent. The bride was radiant and ready to become the most famous of princesses.
The streets were lined with police holding back screaming crowds as the public tried desperately to catch a glimpse of Diana, and her dress, as she rode past in the glass coach.
Sarah and I waited for Diana in the Chapel of St George, one of the many small side chapels within St Paul’s Cathedral.
As the glass coach arrived, Sarah and I went down the steps of the cathedral to help Diana out and arrange the train and veil. Trumpeters sounded a fanfare. A hushed silence followed before the wedding march began.
It took Diana — on the shaky arm of her father Earl Spencer, with five bridesmaids and two pages in attendance — three-and-a-half minutes to walk up the aisle in front of the biggest ever gathering of European and foreign royals, an invited congregation of 3,500, plus that vast television audience.
I sat munchkin-like on a small red velvet stool, close to the King of Tonga, who relaxed in his specially commissioned chair, made to accommodate his impressive 35st. His wife, Queen Mata’aho, passed sweets down the pew to me. In Tonga, importance is demonstrated by your size. We needed to keep eating.
The Archbishop of Canterbury led the traditional Church of England service, assisted by clergymen from many denominations. I only really remember my buttercup-yellow satin shoes pinching, as they were a size too small.
The bride’s nerves showed briefly when she mixed up the Prince’s names, calling him Philip Charles, rather than Charles Philip. (I was neither frightened nor nervous. It was only in hindsight that I recognised the world was watching.)