The author, fashionably fascinatored. Dodi and Diana were there. Or, at least their dopplegangers were, he in a keffiyeh and sunglasses, she in a hot pink jacket and a bouffant black hat that was, yes, fabulous. At 5:02 a.m., there was a line-up to get into the 75-person Royal Wedding seating at the Library Bar at the Royal York, the Front St. hotel where Queen Elizabeth lays her head on her visits to Toronto. By 5:45, 100 guests had filled the hotel’s Epic restaurant, and would-be wedding gawkers were being turned away. Some of the disappointed stayed in the marble-floored foyer, determined to watch the pomp on a massive television screen. In the doorways stood young men in bearskin hats and red jackets, in imitation of the Buckingham Palace guard. They tried very hard to stay in solemn character, but when flirtatious ladies loopy on lack of sleep made suggestive comments, they couldn’t help but crack a smile. Inside the dark-panelled Library space, moms and daughters, groups of lady friends and a surprising number of men caffeinated themselves from pretty porcelain pots, and munched on crustless lobster salad sandwiches. Hats were in abundance, dressed with flowers, bows, nets and faux monarch butterflies. The head adornment of choice, however, was, without question, the feathery fascinator – Kate Middleton’s first fashion legacy to the world. Style was at the forefront as we watched (on our own enormous TV) as 2,000 VIPs filed into Westminster Abbey. Some oohed at Victoria Beckham’s angled pillbox chapeaux; others giggled at Princess Eugenie’s huge, putty-coloured Philip Treacy bow (“She looks like Mickey Mouse,” one viewer commented). Much of the chitchat in the Library concerned royal trivia, tidbits of may or may not be true: Kate Middleton must give up seafood to become a Windsor; the ruby in the Queen’s crown was purloined from Afghanistan centuries ago; Prince William and his ilk aren’t allowed to carry cash; and that Diana’s father had made a public pre-wedding promise that his daughter’s virginity was intact. Then, the trumpets sounded, and the spectacle of high-class romance really began. Wills and Harry’s appearance elicited applause – and observations that the younger brother walks like a Calgarian cowboy – as did Liz and Philip (“Yellow!” someone shouted, perhaps a bettor who had waged on the colour of Her Majesty’s hat). Charles and Camilla didn’t attract much notice, and Pippa Middleton’s slim-fitting gown will doubtless be this year’s commoner nuptial silhouette of choice. But the greatest admiration and speculation was saved, of course, for the bride – her gorgeous gown, her grace under pressure, and whether or not that grace was assisted by Ativan. (“Eighty two per cent of British women said they’d never change places with her,” offered up a stat-happy guest.) We were here for the fairytale, and every heart melted when the lip-readers in the audience announced that the Prince just told Catherine that she looked beautiful. The liturgical droning did invite urban cynicism: is this the joining together of a man and woman in marriage, or a paid advertorial for the Anglican church? And just what, exactly, is the reason that all the African guests are seated together? As the married couple left the abbey, some guests left the Library to catch some Zs. Most, however, stayed for that most important moment – the monarchial locking of lips. The newlyweds presented a smooch from the balcony of their gilded cage, and then the room gradually cleared out. And Dodi and Diana slipped back into a quiet life far away from the spotlight.
