You speed around the corner at 100 mph, chased by cameramen and spies. There’s no escape, from you. Photographs of every waking year, every line of handshakes. Only alone in the palace, peace and phone calls. Someone will write your Wolf Hall. You are mad and disobedient and glamorous and lost all over again. Every word is on a tape somewhere. Headline: “He was all over me like a rash.” Your story is re-crafted with the shapely perfection of a perfume promotion. Your sons are immune. Your boyfriends get killed. There’s no escape, for you. Paris in August, so romantic.