Audible subscribers can listen to all episodes of British scandal, ad-free right now. Join Audible today by downloading the Audible app. Some house notices before we start. There's strong language in this episode, and just so you know, this series hasn't been timed deliberately to coincide with what's happening, but we obviously couldn't release a Royal series at the moment without addressing the ongoing case against Andrew Mampatt and Windsor. Yes, so we thought we'd borrow some words from the King himself to summarize our position. Fucking hell, Andrew, you've rightfully fucked it up. But with all that said, my family and I will continue to do our duty and service to you all. March 2019, Kensington Palace, London. Prince William crosses the sunken garden. It's perfectly symmetrical tulips swaying gently in the spring sunshine. As he arrives at the door of the picture postcard cottage, he thums his signet ring, ever mindful of its royal crest and what it means. William loads conversations like the one he's about to have. But if he's to protect the family, the crown itself, he must get through to his brother. William takes him in. His easy smile, creased shirt, scruffy hair. And all the tensions of the last few years melt away. It's just the two of them again. Great to see you, Harold. Hi, Willie. William follows Harry into the cramped sitting room. It used to be full of souvenirs from Harry's overseas tours with him and Pa. Now it's all carefully arranged white pianes, Kashmere throws, and almost every picture has been replaced with photos of her. William bristles, but keeps his tone casual, warm. Listen, it gives me no pleasure saying this, but I've been hearing rumors about Meg. What do you mean rumors? William eyeballs Harry as he stiffens. He didn't want to have to spell it out. That she's being increasingly difficult, rude, abrasive. Bullshit, you're just parroting tabloid crap. William sighs, struggling to keep the frustration from his voice. You can't keep blindly defending her. She's your sister-in-law. You should be protecting her from this toxicity, not vilifying her. Kate doesn't even talk to her these days. What's that all about? At the mention of Kate, William's fists clench. No one has tried harder than Catherine. William trails off, as Harry sneers seems to deepen. Can't handle it, can you? That Meg's completely outshone her, that we're the ones the public associate with mummy now. Now William's fury overtakes him. Don't you fucking dare bring her into this. It's time you woke up and heard your own mistakes. You stupid little fucking prick. OK, so he's annoyed. He is, and we should remember to send it from God. So this really is Jesus speaking now. I don't remember this passage in the Bible. As William stands, shaking with anger, Harry eyes him with pity. I can't speak to you when you like this. William feels a red mist descent, as Harry disappears into the kitchen. He's sick of his brother's condescension, his pig-headed superiority. He charges after him and grabs him by the collar, ripping the chain from around his neck as he pushes him to the floor. Harry hits the hard tile with a sickening thud, crashing into the dog bowl. William sucks in his breath, staggers back. Harry, I get out. William stumbles backwards. I didn't mean. I said, "Get out! Get out! Get the fuck out of my house!" William's eyes widen in horror, at the blood seeping through the back of Harry's shirt. Oh, God! Then he looked through the window. She's a groundsman stare back at him shocked. He feels sick to the stomach. He's just attacked his brother. His little brother. The little fucking prick. Their relationship is over now for sure. But maybe this spells the end of something else too. The thing he cherishes more than anyone in the world. More than Harry. More than even Catherine. Could what he's done bring down the British monarchy. Alison Matt here from British scandal. Matt's a news for you. British scandal is going to Broadway! What? Sorry, not literally. I just mean we're taking it to the stage. Is this your festival, "Crossed Wires"? Where all the UK's biggest podcast do live shows across iconic venues in Sheffield between the second and fifth of July? That was a beautiful read. Matt and I cordially invite you to our British scandal live show on Sunday, July the 5th. And if we're doing the story I think we are, it is potentially one of the most ridiculous scandals we've ever told. So grab a ticket at crossedwires.live That's c-r-o-s-s-e-d-wires.live. I'm Leon Nefak. What happens when only fans becomes more than just a side hustle? Only fantasy is an in-depth look at the world's newest profession and how the rules of human intimacy are being rewritten online. Listen wherever you get your podcasts or binge all episodes of Only Fantasy, add free, only un-audible. From audible originals, I'm Matt Fulk. And I'm Alice Levine. And this is British scandal. The show where we bring you the murkiest stories that's ever happened on these odd little I-h-h-h-h-h. British scandals come in many shapes and sizes. Some are about money, some are about sex. They're all about power. But when we look at scandals a bit closer, they turn out to be stranger, wilder, just plain weirder than we remember. So we're journeying back to ask who's to blame for what happened. And when the dust settled, did anything really change? (Music) I have got one of my favorite types of scandal for you this time, Alice. I am bringing you a pair of warring siblings. We are not doing oasis again. There's no way. It's a shame, but I accept the decision of the court. Now, you've got a younger brother. As the older, more responsible, slash, bossier sibling, did you feel the need to keep him in check? Oh my god, yes. He called me a second mom at points. I definitely felt like my parents weren't strict enough, and so I took on the disciplinary role. (Laughs) You were a hired goon for your parents. I mean, they didn't even hire me. Self-appointed. Well, let's take your petty little suburban East Midland sibling squabbles and significantly raise the stakes. How could they be higher? Well, we're taking it to the national stage. No, the international stage. Let's move from the Levine bungalow to the house of Windsor. Oh, Harry and William hasn't. was. wills and hills. Yes, those two, whatever you choose to call them. We are delving deep into probably the most talked about family feud in the history of families and in the history of feuds. And this is one we didn't really know about until it all came crashing down in the most public way possible. Prince William, the heir and Prince Harry, the spare were once bound by blood, grief and destiny. But now they don't speak to each other. William is obviously getting on with the job, preparing to be the next king. Harry has been discharged from all royal duties and is now living in America. Yes, he's very busy sprinkling edible flowers on things and bagging up little bits of pretzel. I mean, the thing is, compared to what the rules do, it's actually quite a lot of work. But we joke, this is Shakespearean in its scale. Never mind two households both alike in dignity. This is two brothers, bonded in tragedy and ripped apart, whether by an ancient grudge or by new mutiny, or by a woman. Bloody women, they sneak into every single story. Okay, I have a question for you, though, Matt. There is this huge chasm between them. There's been much discussion about it. But what the hell, or who the hell has actually caused it? Let's find out. This is episode one, Brothers in Arms. 22 years earlier. 30th August 1997. Balmoral Estate, Scotland. 15-year-old Prince William grips the handlebars of his quad bike as he leans into a sharp turn, muds, playing behind the wheels. William feels a surge of triumph until the small frame of a 12-year-old, leaning forward on his own quad bike like a jockey, with his right in front of him. Later's loser. William feels a surge of anger as Harry whizzes his head. "You little cheat!" William bears down. He revs the throttle. Soon their neck and neck wills grin. Who's the loser now? He's about to cross the finish line when Harry edges into him, forcing him to veer off course and stealing the wind. William throws down his helmet. "You cut me off. You can't do that!" Harry just grins as a housekeeper shouts across the grounds. "Boys! Your mother's on the phone!" William races towards the house. Inside, he grabs the phone first. "Hi, Mummy. How's the med?" "We're in Paris now." But William's too.
distracted by Harry rushing over to their father. "I won, Pa. It's the fastest I've ever gone." "Darling, are you there?" His mom's voice snaps William back. But his only thought now is revenge. Harry wants to talk, "Bye. Love you." William shoves the phone at Harry. Then reaches for his brother's untouched chocolate cake and takes an enormous bite. Harry's eyes widen in horror. His mouth's still full of cake. William takes off down the corridor. Anger dissolving into mischief as Harry drops the phone and gives chase through the soups of armour. Hours later, happily exhausted and tucked up in bed, William's thoughts turn to how he can get back at Harry tomorrow. He just did, didn't he? That's it, done. You need to call it now. Chocolate cake is like that ends all fights. If only the Gallagher brothers knew that. It would've been so simple, wouldn't it? Well, those years are fuding. Maybe that's where this is going to go. Harry and Will's seven nights at Wendling. Walk out holding hands, people chucking piss in celebration. Heaven. He soon drifts off into a blissful sleep. Then a ham gently shakes his shoulder. William blinks into the lamp light. Ah, William, William. I need you to wake up. Rubbing his blurry eyes. William realises par is there. His face looks strange, pale and drawn. William sits up, eyes the clock. It's 6.30 a.m., too early for a Sunday. There's been an accident. A mummy was an e-car crash. His heartbeat quikens. He stares at his par in confusion. But his father lowers his head. His eyes fixating on William's crumpled glass and villa shirt on the floor. They trod, but there was nothing they could do. Darling boy, I'm afraid she didn't make it. His father trails off. The room seems to tilt. William feels numb, disoriented. They only spoke hours ago. She was fine. She was coming home. Tias prick William's eyes as he watches his father stumble to his feet. I hear. I have to tell Harry now. And William, yes, Pa, I need you. I need you to be strong for your brother. Has there ever been a moment or a sentence that more perfectly sums up the stiff upper lip that kind of royal burden, an unnatural way to process something so traumatic? Yes, the fact that immediately William is thrust into a role of duty rather than being able to grieve, because even though it's the older brother who's still a child, is very difficult for him. William turns and looks in his powers frightened eyes in horror. But somehow he follows him zombie-like into the smaller room next door. Once there, William finds himself fixated on Harry's restful face. Blissfully unaware of how his whole world is about to be shattered. And as his father gently shakes Harry awake and he slowly yawns and opens his inner-scent eyes, William knows that he must now put petty differences aside and be strong if he and his brother are going to survive this. The following day, 31st August 1997, "Crafty Kirk, Aberdeensha." Harry sits on the church's cold bench, a hymn book open on his lap. He watches Willie beside him, silently mouthing along to the services opening prayer. And then, how the guy outing your wing is wanting to push you through here? Harry wants to join in, but he can't. He thought that he'll sit down and talk about mummy as a family. But instead, he's in this cold chapel, just like it's any ordinary Sunday. As we always do, we pray for the royal family. But to do, especially for the Prince of Wheels and the children. Harry straightens up. He stares at the vicar waiting for some wisdom, some comfort. Unknown. Let's us sing Psalm 23, "The Lord is my shepherd." He turns to Will's lost. His mummy really dead. Oh, it's heartbreaking. He says in spare, which is a great book. Quite a while, he just didn't believe she was dead, that she was going to turn up somehow. He just couldn't get his head around the fact that she was gone. That's so relatable, though, isn't it? That kind of feeling of waking up and not remembering. And you can have that even when you don't go to sleep, can't you just moment away? Is that real? Yeah, in your inner situation where no one is really addressing the death properly. So it would feel surreal. His par gently shushes him, then turns his book to the right page as Harry is forced to his feet. An hour later, back at Balmol, Harry watches in disbelief as his grandfather sets up a barbecue on the terrace with the rest of the family. He pulls William aside. Why aren't you upset? Only now does Harry see Willie's eyes moisten. I am, but we can't break down. It's not what we do. But mummy cried when she felt sad. She talked about it. That's a good point. And also, they're surrounded by images of the nation crying, how strange then to have to repress that feeling. The flowers outside Buckingham Palace, the crowds of mourners, the whole country was emotionally rocked by this. And then they're there having a barbecue. William fixes his eyes on Harry. His voice gentle but firm, an echo of their paths. It's not how this side of the family works. Harry shakes his head. He won't accept that. He can't. He pushes past William and storms over to his father, who is turning sausages over hot coals. Oh, there you are, darling boy. I was thinking about half-term. How would you like to join me on tour in Africa? I had a good authority that the space goes will be there at the same time. Harry starts to open his mouth. He wants to scream, to shout into the open sky, to smash the barbecue to pieces. But he just stands there, unable to move or find any words. And when his brother joins them, head bowed, shoulders rigid, compose your back to neutral. He loses his nerve. He adopts a steady, emotionless voice. Yes, Pa, the spice goes. Seeing relief wash over the faces around him, Harry forces a weak smile. He feels Willie's hand gently rests on his shoulder. As he realises he has to accept that the only way through this is to mask the pain. Pretend he's OK and bury his grief so deep that even he can't find it. One year later, September 1998, Eaton College, Barccia. William holds a rugby ball across the perfectly manicured lawn, knocking the receiver over. Will's chuckles as he strides over and helps him to his feet. Come on, Reddars. You will need to do better if you're going to keep the title. Fun fact, Reddars is not a Christian name. It's a nickname based on the surname of Eddie Redd-Mane. Hollywood star. Hollywood star. Old Etonian. Friend of the future king. That track, so does it, very posh. Actually, sounds like a royal. It's actually a miracle he got anywhere. William slaps him on the back and checks his watch. Got to go. I need to be in the pool by four. See you later at pop. I'm sure everybody listening knows, but I don't pop. Pop is the Etonian Society of Prefects, 21 of them, related to Prefects. So there has been some democracy. For important, we remember that. He was fairly elected a Prefect. And as a result, deserves to govern this nation. Him and Reddars, we're both part of that select group. Imagine how insufferable they would have been. I mean, Prefects are bad enough as it is, and I was one. So it's a lot of self-reflection here. Yeah, I remember the Prefects at school, not that clearly, because I was head girl, so they were kind of a mass of work abys to me. But yeah, I mean, an achievement of sorts, so you must be proud of that. I would be on your privy council, basically. I'd be some slithering little creep, your majesty. [LAUGHTER] There is trouble in the science block. [LAUGHTER] William slings his swim bag over his shoulder, and rushes past the red brick buildings lining the school yard, waving to familiar faces as he passes. He loves Eton. It's been like a haven this last year. A safe bubble shielding him from the fallout that followed his mom's death. The calls for reforming the monarchy, the hatred directed towards Granny and Pa for their coldness. Here, you can just be one of the last.
As the aquatic center comes into view, William glimpses a group of jeering lads, looming over a smaller boy in a four-num blue waistcoat, the colors of his house. Christ, even the scholarship boys dressed themselves better? Maybe his valet had a stroke this morning. William Darkens takes a detour in their direction. As House Captain, it's his job to protect the no-intake from bullying. He prepares to give the perpetrators a piece of his mind, only to stop dead when he glimpses a familiar shock of red hair. In front of him stands Harry looking painfully lost. His frame even smaller than usual in his new uniform, white bowtie a skew. I just, someone said the waistcoat goes under the tailcoat, but no wonder they held him back a year at large grip. William's jaw tightens. He starts to walk away. But his conscience makes him stop. Taking him in, the boys exchange unsure looks. Then one gives a nonchalant shrug. Your baby bro needs to let his not-imperse school anymore. William feels his face flush. The boy stays on him almost challenging. He hardens. It's really not complicated, Harry. A five-year-old could do it. William shifts his eyes to the floor as the lands laugh. The ring lead eclaps him on the shoulder as he strolls off. He feels a rush of guilt as he takes in Harry's crest fallen face. He knows his mum would want him to put an arm around him. Tell him he's got his back. But he can't risk losing what's kept him sane this last year. So instead. Look, Harold, while we're here, I don't know you and you don't know me. It's better that way, okay? William's throat tightens as he hears the words out loud. But he can't let his little brother's shortcomings drag him down. As Pa has taught him, sometimes love looks like distance. He's found his own way. Now Harry must do the same. One month later, Eaton College, Barkshire. Harry wofts the smoke from his joints through the room's open window and taps his foot to the beat of Metallica blasting from the high-fi. He watches the last of his ginger-locks fall to the floor. Then stares at his newly shaved head in the mirror, as his mate proudly holds his electric clippers a lot. Bloody hell, Harry. You look like a proper hard case now. Almost definitely not. One ever says, "You want to look out for those Eaton skinheads?" Some of them listen to Metallica for God's sake. They're really hard. Harry forces himself to smile. Love it. Absolutely love it. Even in his cannabis high, he doesn't mean it. He looks like a convict. But he's mates like it, and that's what matters. Harry's found his tribe, and it's a far cry from his brother's king of the castle's shtick. He's fully embracing his role as the dirty rascal. Right. Who's up for some corridor cricket? I have never heard something so anarchic. God, you guys are wild. Cricket in the corridor, when it's supposed to be on the lawn, stop. You rascal, Harry. You brackets dirty, rascal. Harry sprints to the corridor like a hungry dog. He takes position with a makeshift bat, wax the ball down the polished hallway. Just as William rams the corner and catches it in one hand. Harry's heart sinks as his brother's jaw drops at the sight of him. His face cycling through shock, disbelief, and finally disgust. Christ, Harold, what have you done to yourself? Yeah, so can we just concentrate on the fact that you caught that one-handed? Unreal. Because I. we can argue in a bit, but that was cool. Feeling the eyes of his pals upon him. Harry glairs back, defiant. It's called a skinhead. Knock all heads more like. What do you think Pa's going to make of. But Harry snaps back. At least I don't look like a reject from Boyzone. Oh, shot's fired. Harry waits for a reaction. Instead, his brother just throws him a cold stare before he strides off. Infuriated, Harry follows him into his perfectly ordered room. At least I don't go around acting like a robot. You're almost inhuman. Fuck what Pa would think of me. What would Mummy make of you? Harry jumps in shock as William spins around. His face twisted with fury. Suddenly, they're grappling. They crash into William's bedside table. It goes over, sending photo frames and books crashing down. Harry's grip on William Lucense, as he sees what was hidden behind it. Several showbiz mags. Is that a code for a different kind of mag? I wouldn't know. Or do you literally mean heat magazine? Let me ask some fifteen year old boys. Well, I thought it was Jazz mags. Jazz mags. Sonsophisticated. Do they say Jazz sites now? Jazz sites! Harry struggles to his feet and picks one up. Takes in the photo of their mother next to a recent pick of William. Under the headline, Diana's double. It's hard to imagine now, but William was all over these kind of trashy mags. As a bit of a heartthrob. I remember girls at school had mega crushes on William. And he had that floppy blonde hair, big smile. It was obviously well turned out. He was the one they all fancied. No one was talking about Harry back then. He grabs another, showing William is eating uniform. The line beneath reads, "Can Will's save the royals?" Alongside a smaller photo of their dad, with his long time love, Camilla Parker-Bulls. Harry stomached lurches at the sight of her. But he's distracted by an almost alien sound coming from his brother's throat. Devastated, choking sobs. There's just so much pressure all the time. I hate it. Harry shuffles awkwardly. He's never seen Willie cry before. He's unsure what to do. What? Why didn't you just say? William splutters a laugh through his tears. You've got enough problems trying to figure out how to get a decent haircut. Now Harry finds himself smiling as Will's goes on. I'd love to mess about. But I can't. I'm going to be the bloody king one day. Harry stares at him a moment. Then before he can stop himself, he steps forward and pulls Willie into a fierce hug. He feels his brother stiffened, then collapse, like a crumbling building. We don't have to be like Paul and Granny and the rest of them. We can get through this our way. Us against the world. Harry's confidence drains as Willie stays silent for an age. But then he grins. Us against the bloody world. As he sees the pain and William's eyes turn to hope, Harry's stomach stops churning for the first time since their mother died. He's been so alone. But now he has someone who really understands his pain, who can help him through this. And now they're united. Nothing and no one is going to pull them apart ever again. I'm Leon Nefak. Best known is the co-creator of Slow Burn and Fiasco. I had of course heard of Only Fans. But always with a distant and quiet skepticism, a silent judgment you might say. Who is actually using this platform? Um, I am. Hi. I'm Only Fans creator and comedian Gracie Canon. I work from home. Now I'm on Only Fans. And in case you guys don't know, Only Fans is at the Asker Husband Team. My journalistic curiosity got the best of me when I found out that my own sister had started an Only Fans account. I'm not a sister, just a clarify. It turns out a lot of what I thought I knew about Only Fans was wrong. I felt like I wasted 3.5 years for something that wasn't real. What happens when connection comes with a price tag? Listen to Only Fans to see wherever you get your podcasts. Or binge all episodes of Only Fans to see ad free right now, only on Audible. Start your Audible subscription in the Audible app or on Apple podcasts. November 1998. High Grove, Gloucestershire. Harry takes a drag from his cigarette. Then he throws his head forward and does his best air guitar to the mega-deaf blasting through the dimly lit room. He loves metal music. Because he's our Renegade. How many times? You can't be playing Dido White Flag at full blast, can you? It's a better song though, isn't it? I'm surprised to hear you, because you always say that women can't make music. No, the full quote is, "as good as men." Harry's friends, Wup and Cheer, head banging in appreciation of his performance. With its black walls, red Moroccan sofas and expensive sound system, this converted bomb shelter is like their very own private member's bar. They've even given the bar a name. Club H. He looks across at Willie, who swigs from a bottle of hooch and shouts over. Turn that shit off. Harry gives up.
gives him the finger and turns the volume up. Will's chucks a cushion at him, almost knocking his mole-re-lite from his hand. Harry grins as his brother climbs onto a table and adopts the voice of their despised classics master at Eton. Right boys, conjugate to be tedious in the present tense. They all collapse into laughter. - Will you, Harry? What's going on? - Panicked. Harry glances at Willie. - I thought he wasn't back until tomorrow. - William quickly shouts in reply. - Uh, yes, Pa. - I need to see you both in the drawing room. No. - Harry bundles his friends out of the back exit with their stash of sigs, frantically wafting the smoke out behind them. - We're dead. You mean, I'm dead. - Harry frowns. As the eldest, Willie always takes the blame. He has more scrutiny from the family. So the minute they enter the drawing room, Harry steps up. - Pa, before you start, it was my idea. But to his surprise, his father doesn't look angry. He looks nervous. - What? - Um, please, sit down. - Is everything all right, Pa? - When he turns around, his earnest expression makes Harry's heartbeat quicken. - I hear, I think it's time you met Camilla. Harry's vision seems to blur as his father fixes them both with determined eyes. She's the woman I love. It's important that you're formally introduced. - It's also important that we have some open dialogue about the really intense traumatic thing that we've all been through as a family. So, you know, once we've checked that off the list, I think then we can start talking girlfriends. Harry's mouth goes dry. He can't think of anything worse than sitting in a room with a woman who made mummy's life so miserable, who shamelessly tried to replace her, who caused her so much pain. He steals a glance at Willie, whose face is drained of color. It's sure he feels the same. So if Pa thinks that he and Willie will roll over and accept Camilla into their lives, he's got another thing coming. In fact, Harry's going to make sure that never happens. Two days later, high grove. Charles pushes down his nerves, smiles warmly as Harry and Will's enter the library. He beckons them over to the table where a lavish afternoon tears laid out. And the woman who means so much to him is waiting. Boys, I'd like you to meet Mrs. Camilla Parker Booth. There are so many things that are weird about this meeting and deeply awkward, but being introduced to your dad's new girlfriend and having her introduced by full name, bizarre, just say Camilla. Watching her step forward, Hans trembling. Charles knows she's as anxious as he is. They've waited so long for this, and now the Queen has finally given him permission to make their relationship official. On the condition, the boys are happy. Spoiler, they're not. To his relief, William shakes Camilla's hand with practised courtesy. How do you do, Mrs. Parker Booth? Please call me Camilla. It's lovely to meet you. Charles fixes his gaze on his younger son as Camilla turns his way. Hello, Harry. Charles's chest tightens as Harry's mouth stays firmly shut. His eyes hostile. He darkens as they sit, about to press his youngest for a response. When Camilla leans forward, unperturbed. Harry, I hear you're a keen polo player. Do tell me about your horse. Charles gazes at Camilla in awe of her strength. Harry rolls his eyes. My horse? Well, he has four legs. Charles tightens his fists as wills stifles a laugh. For goodness' sake, Harry. Charles feels Camilla's hand squeezes knee under the table. Not the time, Cam Cam. She likes the horse chat. Really turns me on when your kids are being rude to me. Oh, you're. It's okay. Harry has a dry sense of humour. I can appreciate. Charles feels a swell of pride as Camilla holds Harry's gaze. I'd ask what schools like, but I imagine you'd tell me it's a building made of bricks. Charles feels himself freeze, as William jumps in. Actually, it's a combination of brick and stone. Charles is delighted by the sound of Camilla's throaty laugh. Ha! Shame on me. An unforgivable error. Charles catches a glimmer of respect in William's eyes, as Camilla goes on. So, William, tell me more about Eaton. As William chats politely, Charles sneaks a look at Harry, whose face burns with barely concealed fury. He forces himself to ignore it. But a few minutes later, when Camilla steps out to take a phone call, he throws down his napkin and turns to Harry. What was that? Harry glairs back at him. Charles reminds himself he's just 14, a child. He tries to calm down. Darling boy, this is very important to me. Camilla is a home wrecker. Charles stares at him with consternation. How dare he! But just as he's preparing to ball Harry out, he sees Will's gently rest a hand on Harry's arm. Hurry up! Charles notes the skilled way Will's holds his brother's gaze. Unjudgmental, but firm. Then to his amazement, Harry turns his way. Sorry. Harry looks up to Will's. He respects him. If Charles talk to William alone, makes him realise how important this is. He sure Will's can win Harry round. Then he can get on with the work of rehabilitating his and Camilla's images and get the British monarchy back on track. I just can't help but feel that you wouldn't be moving at this pace and in this way if you were putting the children's needs first. This definitely feels self-serving. This feels like his main ambition and main motivation is to rehabilitate his image and Camilla's image because at this point they are loathed. They are at rock bottom in terms of public buy-in. In order that he can secure his place as a popular king or a king, even, but none of it feels like it's about bringing his kids up in a way that makes them secure. Later that evening, club H, high growth. William enters to find Harry lobbing darts at the board. A photo of Camilla pinned to its centre. Settle. Harry doesn't turn around. Instead he helps his next dart hitting Camilla's forehead. William settles on one of the sofas. His dad's instructions echoing in his head. Look, maybe it's time we moved on. Gave Camilla a child. Come to do past dirty work as if sucking up to her wasn't bad enough. William feels his cheeks redden. It's not that simple. Do you remember the tissues? William is Harry confused. His brother turns from the dart board. When mummy would look herself in the bathroom because of her. William stomach knots as he thinks back to when he was 11 years old, kneeling on the floor, sliding clean ex under the door while their mother sobbed. I'm with Harry. I would find it so hard to let go of this grudge. And particularly such a young person to understand the nuances, to understand that there were things happening on both sides. You just see your mum who's really vulnerable and you see her really upset. I just, nobody's explained anything to him. Nobody sat down and said, "I know you're angry. I know you're sad. Probably no one said, "Do you want some therapy?" I imagine. And adults around him are just expecting him to put it aside. And he's stoned out of his box. You don't know that. This poor thing is like a labra. I mean, he's just like his head is fried. I don't even get me started on the hooch. William feels a rush of resentment at Harry's self-righteousness. He wishes they could stay in a bubble of loyalty to mummy forever. But this is bigger than that. It's time Harry joined the real world, heard some home truths. How many boys at Eton have stepmothers they can't stand, Harry? William stays on his brother, who seems too thrown to answer. They get on with it, suck it up, anything to keep the peace. To William's frustration, Harry seems to double down, throwing his remaining dart at the floor. I can't do that. Not after everything she did. Mummy was no saint either. Do you have any idea what it was like for me at school when she did panorama? When she told the world she had an affair. Harry flinches like he's been slapped. That's different, is it? She wasn't perfect Harold. They both made mistakes, did things they're not proud of. But mummy's gone and par is still here. The silence between them seems eternal. Finally, Harry walks towards the wall.
the dartboard and slowly pulls out the darts. He hands two of them to Will's. Holds the other up. One more? William's eyes, then nods. He watches his hairy aims, then throws with vicious precision, landing the dart right between Camilla's eyes. "I'll be nice for appearances sake. Doesn't mean I have to like it though." William feels no triumph in victory. He doesn't like it either. But sometimes sacrifices are necessary. So he will keep a close eye on Harry. Make sure he continues to pot up and shut up for the greater good. Because no amount of loyalty and love for Diana will save the institution. And William must protect that, no matter what. Three years later, January 2002, Kensington Palace. Harry storms into William's study, a copy of The News of the World clenched tightly in his fist. He thrusts it in his brother's face, blood boiling as he re-reads the headline. Harry's drugs shame. Have you seen this? Have you bloody seen that? Harry waits as William glances up from his university textbooks and reads the story, which paints par as a devoted father, bravely seeking help for his wayward son. "This is Camilla's doing. That spin-up to Shi-hide is on a mission's turn par from cheating husband to struggling single dad." Harry starts pacing like a caged animal, his voice rising with every step. "This isn't fair. I've done everything asked of me. Get my mouth shut, played happy families. But I always knew she couldn't be trusted and this proves it." This feels like history repeating itself. Obviously Diana felt paranoid that people were briefing on her and leaking stories to the press from within the Royal household, even potentially from within the Royal family. And now we're hearing that there's no safe place for Harry and that his actions are being repurposed as part of a rebrand for Camilla and Charles. Harry stops pacing, fixing William with determined eyes. "You've had stuff leak too right? Private stuff." Harry takes a breath and allows William to answer. "Yes. It must be from the same source." Harry puffs his chest out, bolstered by the vindication. "Okay then. Let's have it out with them." Harry strides towards the door, but William jumps up, blocking his way. "No." Harry tries to stare him down, but William holds his gaze unflinching. "Talking about this with each other is one thing, but you can't declare war over it. What if that leaked? How did it look? How did it look? How do you think I look right now? Like someone who's screwed up and has to face the consequences?" Harry can't believe what he's hearing. "You did take drugs, Harold. This is what happens when you make bad choices." "Bad choices? I wasn't the only one living it up, but I didn't get caught." Harry blinks, stunned. "It's a Jubilee year. We're riding high again. It's time to look forward, not back." Harry's blood runs cold. His brother sounds just like par. Not the boy who just a few years ago said to hell with protocol, who wanted to live a little. "What happened to us against the bloody world, Willie?" Harry stays on him, imploring him with his eyes. But all he sees is cold and compromising acceptance. "We're not kids anymore, Harold. You'll be 18 this year. Grow up." Harry feels like he's just taken a bullet to the chest. He knows now he's pushing against a brick wall. "William can't be convinced, not anymore." "Fly, I'll drop it." "Good." He waits for more. "A thank you, maybe." But will he returns to his textbooks? A clear signal, the conversation is over. As he slowly walks from the room, Harry realizes, "This isn't just about today." Willie has picked a different side and he can no longer rely on him. He's been betrayed by the person he trusted the most. From this moment, he's on his own. Five years later, July 2007, Oxfordshire. William stalks nervously through the grand entrance hall of the 17th century manor house, passing a succession of naughty nuns and scantily clad bishops. He nervously adjusts his policeman's helmet. He's taken the freaking naughty theme of this party seriously. Will's keeps his blues and royals dresscoat firmly buttoned, not ready to show the rest of his outfit off yet. As Will's enters the ballroom, the host dressed in a devil-wonsy beckons him over. "Williams, good to see you, buddy." William joins him and grabs a beer, ready to let off some steam after a tough week's military training. But he's thrown by the sight of a long-haired brunette in a figure-hugging nurse's outfit. His eyes travel up her long, fishnet-clad legs, past the tiny skirt that barely covers her thighs, to her very familiar, very pretty face. "You didn't say she was coming." "Cart avoid her forever, buddy. Anyway, you're the one who did the dumping. Then what possessed you? I'll never know." Williams throw titans as the host-ice Kate Middleton appreciatively. After five years with her, Will's felt stifled, constantly pressured by the press to propose. So he ended it. But he's thought about a non-stop. He suddenly wishes he'd asked Harry to join him tonight. He's always the perfect wingman. But they've been going through another tense phase recently. If he's going to win Kate back, he'll have to do it alone. William takes a breath and strides towards her, feeling a rush of excitement when their eyes meet. Only for Kate to quickly turn and walk away. He catches her up and grabs her hand. But when she spins around, eyes blazing, he's dumpstruck. The next thing he knows, he's unbuttoning his dresscoat. Will's holds it to the floor, revealing the rest of his costume. A tight white t-shirt, and tiny black hot pants. I did not see that coming. "Neil de la de la de la." The future king of England in hot pants. Kate's mouth folds open. And then to his delight, she bursts into helpless giggles. "What are you wearing?" William Grins as guests start laughing and clapping. He blerts the first words he can think of. "Young lady, I'm arresting you for theft of my heart. You do not need to say anything. A kiss will suffice, and we'll say no more about it." William's heart soars as Kate grabs his hand and pulls him into a nearby bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind them. "You're unbelievable!" "It's supposed to be ironic. Like the village people policemen." William's throne when he realises Kate's no longer smiling. Instead, she looks and live it. "Not the costume. You, joking after what I went through, the humiliation." William lowers his eyes. "For five years, I never put a foot wrong. Put up with the weighty Katie jives. He sees a slight tear in the corner of her eye. And suddenly feels utterly ashamed." "You're right. I'm sorry. I messed up big time. It's unforgivable." William takes a breath. His voice cracks. "But I do love you, Catherine." As he starts to choke back tears, he feels Kate's hand reach out and brush his own. "Little Hugo was the most stupid thing I've ever done. Please, give me another chance." It feels as if time slows. Then, the smile he loves, the one that gives her the cutest dimples reappears. "You look utterly ridiculous in those shorts." As Kate pulls him close, kisses him in the way he so desperately missed. William feels lighter than he has in months. He vows that from now on, he'll stop getting distracted by the press, by what happened to his mom, by petty squabbles with Harry. He's going to focus on his future and the future of the monarchy, with this woman by his side. Three months later, Paris. Harry flicks through his rugby world cup program, as his limousine glides through the darkened Paris streets. He checks his mobile. Feels as stab of disappointment, as the screen displays no messages from William. He's hoped he might change his mind about joining him out here for the tournament. But ever since he got back with Kate, his brother's been a ghost. Harry tosses the phone down and opens the door.
the car's well-stopped fridge, pulling out a bottle of vodka. If Will's wants to play house, screw him. Harry can make his own fun. But as he glances out of the window, his heartbeat quickens. Beside the entrance to a nearby underpass, a several photographs of his mother surrounded by wilting bouquets. Harry moves his gaze to the small sign above them. Spont de laumert. His stomach lurches. This is the tunnel where mummy died, just over 10 years ago. Oh my god. Stop the car. He locks eyes with his driver in the rearview mirror, who's beautifully not and pulls over. Then, before he can talk himself out of it, I want you to drive me through the tunnel. The chauffer's eyes stay on him, on Sir, but Harry holds his gaze. He digs his fingers into the leather seats as the car turns round. Oh, this is so traumatic. Then he feels the slightest jolt in the suspension, as it glides over the tiny ridge, marking the tunnel's entrance. He watches each concrete pillar zip by, his heart pounding. And then, he's back in the Paris night, as if nothing happened. Pull over, please. Harry's thudding heart settles as the car comes to a halt. Then suddenly, all the grief he's tried to drink and smoke away for the last 10 years seems to engulf him. He pushes open the car door and stumbles out. He feels the content of his stomach rise up through his throat and burst from his mouth. As he wretches onto the pavement, he realizes he didn't want closure at all. The teeth secretly been harboring, clinging to. Conspiracy theories that mummy was still alive, hiding somewhere until it was safe to make contact. He grapples for his phone. Harold, how's the rugby? Really? I went through the tunnel. Mummy's tunnel. There's a long pause. I didn't do it. A little while ago. Harry's head spins. How could Willie do something so big and not tell him? It felt really strange, you know? Being in there, almost like. Will's cuts him off. Sorry, Harold. I've got to go. Kate and I are meeting, par and Camilla for dinner. Will Chad's once your back, okay? The phone clicks off. For a moment, Harry stays rooted to the spot, clutching his mobile. He can't face getting back in the car. Instead, he starts to run. Out into the Paris night. His smart trainers pound the cobblestones. His lungs burn. All he wants is to keep moving, to outrun the pain, outrun the knowledge that he's still that scared little 12-year-old lying in that bed. His father standing over him with no clue how to navigate the future. No older brother to guide him. And no idea where to go next. From audible originals and sammistat audio, this is the first episode in our series, Harry V Will's. A quick note about our dialogue. As we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read "Spaire" by Prince Harry, "Battle of Brothers", William Harry in the inside story of a family in Tomalt, by Robert Lacey, and the Palace Papers by Tina Brown. And if you'd like to get in touch with us, you can email us at
[email protected] and we love hearing from you. British Scandal is hosted by me, Matt Ford. And also me, Alice Levine. Written by Wendy Grandita. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our story editor was James Maniac. Sound designed by Rich Evans. Our engineer was Joe Williams. For Sammistat, our series producer was Chica Reyes. Our assistant producer was Louise Mason. Our senior producers were Joe Sykes and Dachelis at Scenar. Executive producers for "Audible" with Theodore and the Ludis and Estelle Doyle. [Music]
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