Chapter 22
Princess Diana had been determined not to lose touch with Tony. Shortly after we moved into Number 10, Maggie Rae let us know that the Princess was keen to see him again, and she wanted to bring William and Harry to Chequers. Alex Allan, Tony’s principal private secretary, nearly had apoplexy when he found out.
It would be quite wrong, he said, for Tony to see Diana before he’d officially seen Prince Charles. So sometime in those few weeks, Tony did in fact see the Prince, and Diana and William duly turned up at Chequers one Sunday in early July.
Over lunch she talked again about wanting to play a more prominent role in public life. She was determined that William be given a normal, modern upbringing, to make him, as she put it, “fit to be king.”
Again she was very relaxed, this time chatting with my mum and being lovely with Kathryn. She talked about how she would like to have more children and how she longed for a little girl. We sat there on the grass, with Kathryn tucked between Diana’s knees, watching the three boys and Tony play soccer on the north lawn. Later, when she and Tony went for a walk, William came with us to the swimming pool, where my lot all had a great time showing off. William was really sweet to Kathryn. She was totally in awe, not because he was a prince, but because he was a handsome fifteen-year-old, and she was only nine.
The afternoon was deemed a success, relaxed and normal, and in the Blair household Princess Diana was regarded as a good thing.
That summer we went to Tuscany for our vacation, staying at a friend’s house, and had the usual jolly, relaxing time. Nothing had really changed, we told ourselves, as Ros’s swimming gala got under way. Yes, we had to pose for the press at the beginning of the trip — for which it agreed to leave us in peace for the rest of the time — and yes, the garden girls were somewhere in the village and the ’tecs were somewhere in the shadows, but we could forget about them. Or at least try to.
Arriving back in England at the end of August, we went straight to Myrobella. The following weekend was the annual Prime Minister’s visit to Balmoral, so we had a few days to relax. The Prime Minister is never really on vacation, however. The Mail on Sunday was threatening to publish the name of a British spy in some far-flung part of the world, and Tony became convinced that if his name was revealed, the guy would be killed.
That Saturday night we went to bed in the hope that Alastair had managed to sort it out, but at around three in the morning the phone rang. I have a vague memory of it ringing somewhere out of reach, then I drifted back into a deep sleep. The next thing I heard was the intercom buzzing outside our bedroom. As Tony rushed to the landing, I thought, Oh, God. The Mail has done it. It’s printed the spy’s name, and he’s been killed.
A minute later he was back, as white as a sheet. It was the police, he said. There had been an accident. “It’s Diana.” The bell on our bedside phone hadn’t been working, which was why we hadn’t heard it. He picked up the receiver and called the duty clerk in Downing Street.
I watched him as he listened, saying nothing.
“A car crash in Paris,” he said eventually. “She’s in a coma. They don’t think she’ll pull through.”
It was awful. I saw her sitting there on the grass, hugging her knees, only a few weeks back, and thought how full of life she’d been, talking about wanting to have more kids.
Finally the call nobody wanted. All I heard was Tony repeating, “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe this.” We were to say nothing to anyone. It would be announced to the press shortly.
He was shocked and genuinely upset. During what remained of the night, Tony was on the phone, watching television, or doing both. There were so many things to think about. There was the issue of the photographers, but he didn’t want to make a knee-jerk response. He didn’t know whether he should speak to the Queen or to Prince Charles.
When the kids woke up, we told them what had happened. They were so upset, because they felt they knew her, and they liked her.
Tony agreed with Alastair that he should make a statement before morning service. Alastair was usually anti anything that involved the church or God, but on this occasion even he agreed it might be appropriate. Diana’s death had sent a shudder through the nation, and Tony needed to say something to express what people were feeling.
St. John Fisher, the Catholic church in Sedgefield, was deemed inappropriate for his statement, as there was nowhere for the press to stand. So we went to St. Mary Magdalene in Trimdon, where Lily Burton, John’s wife, played the organ. By the time we arrived, the television cameras were in position. Tony delivered his statement and, it’s fair to say, caught the mood of the nation with his observation “She was the people’s princess.”
We returned to London that night and got Terry to drive us past Buckingham Palace to see the flowers that were already piling up round the base of the gates. Back in Downing Street, we opened a book of condolences, which everyone signed.
Now, of course, the film The Queen has somehow become the official record of that extraordinary week, but it wasn’t quite like that. For example, from a pedantic perspective, the way that Number 10 is portrayed in the film is completely wrong, not to mention the way Tony and I are portrayed. (I never swear, and Tony is a good deal taller than Michael Sheen, the actor who plays him.) But there are more serious points to be made.
For a start, I never felt there was any opposition from Buckingham Palace to what Tony was suggesting; in fact he had been asked to become involved in the arrangements, for both the return of the princess’s body and the funeral. The royal family’s main concern over those first few days was to protect the boys, because they were so young and so upset and the family really didn’t want them exposed to anything more. They weren’t thinking beyond that. They just wanted to pull together as a family and didn’t see why they should share their grief with the rest of the world. And in a sense, why should they have? I think they hoped that they could just get on with it — accept what had happened, do what had to be done.
I think that’s what Tony really wanted, too, but as the days went by, it became apparent that this wouldn’t be enough.
When we had first arrived at Number 10, we were told of detailed plans that existed in the event of the death of the Queen Mother. The protocol people had it all set out, exactly what was to happen and when. Tony and I even had to take suitable black outfits with us on holiday every year in case she died. And now, with the death of Princess Diana, they were treating this as a similar event. Their main concern was that the plan should be carried out with all due deference to precedent and protocol, including the business about how Diana wasn’t Her Royal Highness — even in death, that had to be observed. When the body was flown back to England, the question arose of who was going to meet it. Tony suggested that he do so, and the Queen agreed. But then Prince Charles decided that he wanted to go, although the protocol people clearly would rather he didn’t.
The last remaining question was the flag. Protocol decreed that it should be flown at half-mast only when the sovereign dies. Princess Diana was not the sovereign, QED.
The business of who should be invited to the funeral was another protocol issue, yet it seemed important to Tony that Diana’s charities be given priority over foreign dignitaries, and even members of the government, who had had no involvement with her. I don’t believe the family themselves had much to do with this scrabbling and squabbling. They were really too upset to do anything except hold themselves and the children together. Of course Tony did talk to the Queen, but she’s a reserved sort of person, and from my understanding, it was less her personally than the system that was creating the difficulties.
Throughout it all, Tony believed that as Prime Minister, his priority was to make sure that all this didn’t damage the monarchy, that the royal family got through unscathed, and he succeeded.
For obvious reasons, the traditional Balmoral weekend didn’t happen that year. Instead we were invited for lunch. It was very low-key, just the Queen and Prince Philip and some old family friends, with the conversation revolving around agriculture, stag hunting, and fishing. Sitting there, I thought, This is really weird. Yesterday, at the lunch in Number 10 following the funeral, there I was sitting next to Hillary Clinton and Queen Noor of Jordan, talking about current affairs, and here I am today with our head of state talking about the price of sheep.
No mention was made of Princess Diana or of the previous day’s events. The Queen and Prince Philip were very kind, however. The Queen loves driving, and that afternoon she drove us in her Range Rover on a tour round the Balmoral estate, with the Queen providing a running commentary, talking about the landscape that she had known since she was a girl.
At one point I made a real faux pas, butting in when the Queen was talking to somebody else. We had been given a list of instructions of what to do and how to behave, but what with one thing and another, the rule that you talk to the Queen only when the Queen talks to you had slipped my mind. It never would again: one of the courtiers gave me a look I will never forget.
That winter I learned that Tony’s driver Sylvie had breast cancer. Not that it stopped her from living. Motorbikes had always been her thing — there was always a specialist magazine in the glove compartment of the Jaguar — and shortly after the diagnosis, she went out and bought a Ducati, the ultimate Italian bike. Then, on December 3, came news of a tragic accident. Sylvie was in a collision with a truck and didn’t survive. We went to her funeral a week later, and Tony spoke for everyone who knew her.
For both of us, the people we work with are central to our lives. This is nothing to do with politics — although it should be. I never forget that my grandma worked as a housecleaner, and I never want anybody to be treated as she was treated in Blundellsands. What is important is not what people do for a living, but that they are treated with respect.
Christmas 1997 was our first at Chequers. Everybody came to us, as they had at Myrobella, and in some ways it was just the same, although on a much bigger scale, starting with the tree. At about twenty feet tall, it took several people just to get it in the front door. Its home was the corner of the Great Hall, and by the time Christmas Eve arrived, it was decorated and surrounded by the usual array of colorful presents. With all that, and the kids’ stockings hanging up beside the great fireplace, it’s hard to imagine there could be anywhere more perfect to spend Christmas.
Rituals developed over the ten years we were there. We still went to midnight Mass, and there was still the usual early-morning chaos as in any family with young children. We paid a visit to the police bothy, beside the entrance, before lunch to hand over our presents for the officers. Then it was more presents and champagne for the staff on duty, including, at my insistence, a few carols to get us in the mood. Finally, our cook Alan served his wonderful lunch. This was one definite change in the proceedings from Myrobella: my turkey routine was no longer needed. Alan’s Christmas puddings were in a class of their own. As early as October, the children would help him prepare both the puddings and the cake, everyone taking their turn stirring the huge bowl of sticky mixture.
That first December, however, Alan came to me very perturbed.
“Whatever is the matter, Alan? Why so down in the mouth?”
“Number Ten has said I can’t have the usual Christmas turkey,” he said. Every year, he told me, representatives of the British Turkey Federation would turn up at Downing Street with a huge bird to be given to charity, and a photograph would be taken of them presenting it to the Prime Minister. They would also present a smaller bird for use by the family and staff on Christmas Day; this was the one that was sent down to Alan. It turned out that Alastair had seen this in the schedule and vetoed it. His worst nightmare, he said, was having a photograph of Tony and a turkey, looking foolish, on the front cover of Private Eye, Britain’s leading satirical magazine. As I was quite used to looking foolish by then, I offered myself up as an alternative. Luckily the Turkey Federation agreed, so that became a regular fixture on my Advent calendar, and Alan got his turkey.
The plan had been for Tony and me to go away on our own — a week in the Seychelles — just after Boxing Day, the British holiday celebrated the day after Christmas. Everything was organized. My mum would look after the kids, and then Ros would take over for the last few days. It didn’t happen. In the end I couldn’t bear the thought of being without them, so we all went: Tony and me, my mum, and three extremely lucky kids. We had a wonderful time, despite the fact that the press had a field day when it discovered that twenty years earlier, the villa we were staying in had been used as a location for the infamous soft-porn movie Emmanuelle.
In January 1998 the Monica Lewinsky scandal finally broke, and my heart bled for Hillary Clinton, coming on top, as it did, of the Paula Jones sexual harassment suit. Inevitably I thought back to all those young interns and our guided tour of the West Wing by the President himself, of the Oval Office and the little room off it with the photocopier. My reaction was basically Oh, Bill, how could you?
From the young woman’s point of view, I can quite see how it happened. Bill Clinton is a tremendously charismatic man, who is able to mesmerize almost everybody he meets and make them feel that he is totally interested in them and what they are saying, which is clearly not always the case. As for him, I thought he was bloody stupid.
Just a few weeks later, we were due in Washington for Tony’s first formal visit as head of government. If I had been impressed by Hillary before, I was doubly impressed by her now. Dignity is not the word.
Yet I could see for myself how angry she was with him, not just for humiliating her, but for jeopardizing their joint project, and I could also see how desperately he was trying to win back her approval. The shining light in all this was Chelsea. She is a fantastic young woman, incredibly sensible, intelligent, and talented, and very much her own person, with her feet firmly on the ground. I think that says something about the parenting they’ve both given her. In many ways she reminds me of Tony’s brother, Bill, one of those people who was always grown-up, even when he was a boy. Chelsea is terribly reliable, and you know exactly where you are with her. During this time she was a very important link between her parents. I think the fact that Chelsea was both supportive of her mum, understanding how she was feeling, and yet able to forgive her dad was a very important part of why they stayed together.
People have wondered whether Tony or I felt ourselves placed in a difficult situation with them, given our Christian beliefs. The same thing had been asked a few months earlier when Robin Cook, Tony’s Foreign Secretary, was outed by the press as being involved in an extramarital affair. The answer in both cases is no. Obviously we both believe in marriage. Once that ring is on your finger and the promises are made before God, you should be faithful. But how people conduct their lives is ultimately their own business, and as far as Bill Clinton is concerned, a British Prime Minister is never going to undermine an American President. As for me, I was never even tempted to raise the subject with him — nothing to do with him being President of the United States. It wasn’t me he had betrayed, and with my father’s track record, I am not unused to men’s infidelity.
I did, however, discuss it with Hillary. In her view, the way the right wing relentlessly pursued the affair was all part of a wider attempt by their enemies to discredit Bill. The most important aspect, she said, was not to let it undermine the presidency. So on a political, strategic level, that was the line they took. On a personal level, however, there was no doubt that she was furious and hurt.
The idea that men just can’t help behaving like that is nonsense. It’s a myth that actually leads to a lot of mischief in the world. It’s why women are stuck behind burkas. I don’t for a second believe that men are inflamed by the slightest glimpse of an available body. Uncontrollable sexual urges are nothing of the sort. Of course men can control them, just as women can. What I find particularly worrying is that so often these situations involve the powerful boss and the vulnerable young woman.
When Tony was still Leader of the Opposition, I was approached in chambers for help by Catherine Laylle. Her children, ages seven and nine, had been abducted by their German father, and in a breach of all the conventions, the German courts had done nothing to help her get them back. Sadly, I could do little for her at the time. Later she sent me a book she had written about her experiences. And imagine my surprise when, in 1998, I met the newly appointed British Ambassador to the United States, Christopher Meyer, and his wife in Washington.
“You probably don’t remember me,” she said. It was Catherine. She was determined to ensure that other parents did not suffer as she was, and she asked Hillary and me to be among the first patrons of Parents and Children Together (PACT), the charity she was setting up to deal with the tragedy of abducted children. That afternoon we both spoke at PACT’s inaugural reception. For a woman under extraordinary emotional pressure, Hillary coped magnificently. I could only thank her for being such a wonderful role model, both for career women in general and for me in particular. Thanks to her example, I was getting better at making off-the-cuff speeches. In America this was expected of the First Lady, whereas Number 10 was still coming to grips with the fact that I could walk and talk. The system was simply not geared to a Prime Minister’s spouse who wanted to be involved. As for Catherine Meyer, her story eventually had a happy ending, although it would be nearly ten years before she saw her boys again.
That night an official banquet was held in our honor. It was one of those times when you are skin-tinglingly aware that what is happening is extraordinary. There we were, lined up beside the President and First Lady, shaking hands with some of America’s finest entertainers, including Barbra Streisand, Robert Redford, Harrison Ford, and Steven Spielberg. The dinner was followed by a full-length concert, in which Elton John and Stevie Wonder performed, although Stevie’s version of “My Cherie Amour” couldn’t match the classic Tony Blair rendition. Sitting there, with the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes both very much in evidence, I experienced a feeling of awe.
That trip was the first time André was acknowledged as a semiofficial member of our party, in that his name appeared on schedule lists as “A. Suard, Personal Assistant to Mrs. Blair.” Even so, he was always treated differently from the rest of the group, and that still makes me angry.
What triggered the change in attitude was our first trip to Japan a few days into the new year. I had insisted on his coming along. Alastair could stamp his feet as much as he wanted; I was not going to turn up looking anything less than my best. And it wasn’t only that. There was the constant packing and unpacking, not to mention the sheer organization required to keep us looking up to the mark. We were representing the country after all. André was more than happy to do it, and God knows we needed him.
The NATO summits and other bilateral visits Tony had made without me in the previous six months had been personally chaotic. He was traveling more than any Prime Minister had before — everyone wanted to meet Britain’s new, dynamic leader, and his schedule was ridiculous — yet he was operating in a twentieth-century world with nineteenth-century backup. When the bags weren’t outside his door at the appropriate time, the garden girls would end up throwing whatever they could find into his suitcases. It wasn’t their fault — that wasn’t their job — but things were disappearing at an alarming rate: watches, cuff links, socks, the odd shoe, shirts, and trousers. At the next stop on the itinerary, it would all need pressing, and crucial things couldn’t be found. Gradually it dawned on them that having André around wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
After years of being reasonably laid-back when it came to the Blairs and travel, these visits were unbelievably concentrated. You might leave Heathrow in the winter, then land in glaring sunshine with temperatures in the nineties, yet be forbidden to wear sunglasses or even blink. The clothes you had left in were stashed away in suit carriers before you landed, while those you would arrive in were ready to put on, crease-free and appropriate for both the temperature and the welcoming committee.
There were so many things that needed to be thought of when traveling — jet lag, getting up in the middle of the night, preparing in advance what you were going to wear coming down the steps onto the tarmac when all you could think of was throwing off the previous night’s outfit and crashing into bed before a dawn flight to the next destination. André took care of everything. In the morning he would come in and wake us up, then run the bath.
“Just five minutes more, André . . .”
“No. Get up. If you don’t, I’ll open the curtains.” The ultimate cruelty. Somehow he’d always manage to find a fresh lemon for my morning hot water. (I don’t drink tea.) Ordering such a basic thing from room service was more or less impossible, and I rarely succeeded.
Also, Tony was used to André. After all, he’d been part of our lives since 1994. Tony could write his speeches — as he often did on those trips — sitting in his underpants, and if André was around, it didn’t matter. But if an unknown chambermaid or hairdresser walked in, he’d freeze. In those early days, things were so disorganized. We couldn’t guarantee we’d get a separate sitting room, so Tony would be having a meeting while I’d need to get dressed. (Much as I love my country, I draw the line at displaying my fleshier parts to senior members of the Foreign Office.) I’d just end up grabbing my clothes and going along to André’s room.
He was also good company. The second night in Tokyo, as Tony was at a men-only function, André and I joined some of the other nonparticipants from the office and went to a noodle bar. I loved it, particularly the warm drink that came in a small bottle, which I didn’t realize you were supposed to share. Tony’s staff members were far better traveled than I was and later admitted that they didn’t know how to tell me that sake wasn’t just a Japanese version of tea, even though it did come in little cups.
By the time I got back to our room, I was feeling very happy indeed, having laughed and sung my way through the second half of the evening. My poor husband was not impressed — largely, I suspect, because he’d had an extremely dull dinner himself.
I was beginning to realize that I didn’t have to be simply an appendage on these trips, that I could play a role that would be of real benefit. It didn’t happen overnight. It’s fair to say, however, that the Foreign Office proved much more open to my having a public role than did Civil Service, perhaps because ambassadors’ wives have always had a public role, whereas wives of UK-based civil servants remain largely anonymous. Although our embassies abroad often found that I was useful, once back in Blighty, I was surplus baggage.
From the moment Tony arrived in Downing Street, Northern Ireland was a priority. Within six months of Mo Mowlam beginning talks with Sinn Féin, Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness were in and out of Number 10.
The children made full use of the “secret staircase” that led directly from the Number 11 flat to the Downing Street garden. Once, I had brought Euan and Nicholas skateboards from a trip to Washington, and they were trying out their skills one day after school when I had an irate phone call from Alastair.
“Get those kids out of the garden,” he said.
“Whatever for? They’re just having a bit of fun.”
“Well, take a look out the window, then get them out before the press gets wind of it.”
So I did. And there, to my astonishment, were Gerry and Martin on the skateboards, showing the boys a few tricks.
A few weeks later, I happened to be taking Ralph Lauren around, and as we came into the White Room, there were Gerry and Martin. Naturally I introduced them to my visitor and was intrigued when Gerry began talking rather knowledgeably about clothes. Nothing daunted, I carried on with my tour patter.
“This room has a very famous ceiling,” I continued. “Each corner has an emblem representing part of the United Kingdom.” And one by one I pointed them out. “The rose is for England, the daffodil for Wales, the thistle for Scotland —”
“And I think the last one,” Gerry butted in, “is about to fall off!” This was the flax, the emblem of Northern Ireland.
“No, no,” I said, smiling. “It’s the symbol of friendship between our people.” Then I whisked Ralph away before I did permanent damage to the peace process.
Easter 1998 was crunch time in regard to Northern Ireland. Tony was still in Belfast when the children and I set off on our planned Easter break to Spain. First we had an official visit with the Spanish premier, José María Aznar, and his wife, then we were on to Cordoba to stay with our friend Paco Peña, the Spanish flamenco guitarist, and his wife, Karin, whom we had got to know through Derry many years before.
We arrived at the Spanish Premier’s official country residence outside Seville on Wednesday. Located within the boundaries of the Doñana, a national nature reserve and World Heritage site, it’s right by the Mediterranean, utterly wild and with fabulous dunes. The whole area was closed to the public, so the kids and I were able to spend time there feeling unfettered. We were supposed to be staying only one night, but the talks at Hillsborough Castle, the official government residence in Northern Ireland, were still going on, and Tony was determined not to let this chance slip through his fingers. He felt that if he were to leave, the whole thing might fall apart. Thursday came and went, then Friday. The whole world seemed to be teetering on a knife-edge. The Aznars were very understanding; there was no question of our having to move on, they said. Children are a wonderful bridge at times like this, and as the Aznars’ children were similar in age to ours, everyone was getting on fine, including my mother, who had come with us. Then, with a huge sense of relief all around, came what became known as the Good Friday Agreement, a major step forward in the journey toward a lasting peace in Northern Ireland.
Tony finally arrived on Saturday, and it’s fair to say that by then the Aznars and the Blairs knew each other pretty well. Perhaps it helped that we were all lawyers. José María’s wife, Ana Botella, was also a TV journalist, very independent and popular in her own right. On Maundy Thursday she had taken us to watch the traditional Easter parade, and everywhere we went, she was greeted warmly by the crowds. She had achieved a lot in her role as the premier’s wife, and I was not surprised when, a few years later, she was elected to the Madrid City Council. Over those few days we had some useful discussions, and I became even more determined not to sit on the sidelines and do nothing.
People often wonder how politicians on one side of the political spectrum deal with politicians on the other side — something that happens all the time at the head-of-government level. The answer is, pretty well. Foreign policy is largely concerned with mutual interests. With America, for example, whether the administration is right or left, chances are that the mutual interests with outside powers remain the same. Obviously there can be areas of dissent, and in the case of Spain, Gibraltar comes to mind.
That Easter Euan had just turned fourteen, and although the Today program was no longer required listening in the Blair household, he was comparatively well-informed politically. With the insouciance of youth, he decided to bring up the issue of Gibraltar with José María. After the first shocked gulp on both sides — the hosts and an embarrassed mum — there was much laughter, and we went on to have an interesting discussion, something that would never have happened in ordinary diplomatic circumstances.
When Alastair heard the story, he decided it was too good to waste, but as we had long since agreed that our kids would stay beneath the parapet and out of the newspapers, my mum agreed to take the “blame” on this occasion.
Immediately after our return from Spain, Tony and I set off for the Middle East, first Egypt and then Israel. The embassy there had asked if there was anything I particularly wanted to do. As a result of the various special education cases I’d been involved in, I’d heard of a diagnostic process called the Feuerstein method, named after a psychologist practicing in Jerusalem. I asked if I could meet him. It was a fascinating encounter. He ran a center that helped both Israeli and Arab children with disabilities, particularly Down syndrome. Expectations for these children, he believed, were too low and they could do far more than people imagined. They also had a particular empathy with the elderly. The center had developed a program in which these young people would visit older people in their homes. He told me how one old man had collapsed when he was being visited by a boy with quite severe Down syndrome, and this young man had been able to ring the emergency services and get him aid. Through my charity work I had met a lot of Down’s children, and it was a joy to see how happy they appeared.
The contrast with what I saw the following day couldn’t have been starker. Gaza is essentially just one big refugee camp, and I was taken by Yasir Arafat’s wife to a school for special-needs children in Ramallah which she herself had set up. The children were provided with loving care but little else, and they were desperately in need of equipment and toys. As a result of the constant shelling, she explained, the proportion of premature babies in Gaza is high, and many babies are damaged at birth. It was all very upsetting, particularly when I thought of the facilities I had just seen only a few miles away.
The entire visit kept switching from one extreme to the other. That evening we landed in Saudi Arabia. As a special sign of respect for Tony, not only was I allowed to walk by his side but the Foreign Minister also shook my hand. That night, however, it was Saudi business as usual. While Tony went off to a men-only dinner, I attended a women-only dinner, where even the servers were women.
When in the male world, these women were completely covered up, but underneath, I discovered, they were far better dressed than I was. One woman recounted how her small son would pay great attention to what shoes she was wearing before they went out, as he was terrified that he would lose her. Once she was covered up, the shoes were the only way he had of identifying her. We were talking in English, and it was clear that many of these women were well educated and were familiar with London and Paris.
“Don’t you find it restricting not being able to drive or go out?” I asked.
Not at all, they answered, with a laugh. “We live such easy lives, it’s fine.”
Yet over the following years, when I met these same educated women again — and others like them — it was clear it was increasingly not so fine. They were in a gilded cage, and once they had seen a broader horizon, it was hard to put up with the cage. This is why I think change will come as people realize there are other things they can do.
The next day, back in London, when I was donning my own black robe before going into court, I couldn’t help but think of both the similarities and the differences between these women and me.