The Vogue Factor: The Inside Story of Fashion's Most Illustrious Magazine (19 page)

Suddenly Mary walked briskly into the room wearing a beige cashmere sweater, pencil skirt and high-heeled pumps, and reached out to shake my hand with a beaming smile. Trevor disappeared and Mary and I sat down at the table to conduct the interview, while we were served afternoon tea. She was open and disarmingly frank, laughed easily and actually seemed to enjoy the interview process. There was only one question she declined to answer, which was: what were the circumstances in which Frederik proposed? On every other issue she was totally candid, and her responses felt genuine to me and not at all rehearsed.

I have a notebook full of our conversation, and when I look at the notes I made it turns out a lot of our conversation didn’t make it into
the article because we talked for so long. Mary was an exceedingly generous interview subject. I was so jittery at the beginning I was too scared to pick up my porcelain teacup for fear my hands would shake, but after ten minutes I felt like I was chatting with a friend.

Time passed easily, our discussion reached a natural conclusion and then Trevor was back in the room, ready for the fashion run-through. Anja popped in with a jewelry box and laid some pieces out on a sideboard. There’s nothing quite like being casually invited by the Princess of Denmark to come and look through the crown jewels with her to see if there is anything we liked. Trevor and I were mute.

Mary has a fantastic figure, and even though many of the pieces we had brought were couture-sizing, they fitted like a glove. She was so sweet that Trevor momentarily forgot she was royal and at one point put his hands on either side of her tiny waist and pronounced: “You look fabulous, darling.” Swiftly realizing his faux pas and sensing that there may have been the possibility of a
Game Of Thrones
–style beheading by Anja, he spun around and looked at me with fear and horror crossing his face simultaneously—but Mary couldn’t have cared less.

We said our goodbyes, returned to the hotel, ordered a martini to celebrate the occasion and called Trevor’s mum to discuss every detail of the day’s events.

During my conversation with Anja in the bar I had casually mentioned that if Prince Frederik would like to drop by the shoot at any stage, well, we’d be thrilled. And obviously, if he would like to be in a photo, I was sure we could accommodate that. We had never mentioned Frederik in any part of our correspondence, but to have him feature in the shoot with his new wife would be a major coup and add an even greater sense of intimacy to the portfolio. I played it down like
it was no big deal and Anja said she didn’t think it would be possible, but to leave it with her.

The following day we all assembled in a massive ballroom inside Christian VII’s palace, part of the Amalienborg complex. A hair and makeup station had been set up in the corner, and everyone began to work on Mary. She was friendly and chatty, as were the household staff who would occasionally bustle purposefully around the room. Regan was setting up, and there was little for me to do, so I was wandering around the ballroom when the very laid-back housekeeper asked me if I would like to see the present room. This was another grand ballroom, which was piled high with wedding gifts from around the world. It was astonishing. “Phht,” said the housekeeper. “This is only about a tenth of it.” She then declared that I needed to visit the Flora Danica room.

Indeed I did. It was a vast room with the walls and cabinets full of the most marvellous Flora Danica china—prestigious Royal Copenhagen porcelain dating from the seventeen-hundreds. At each end of the room were two massive, carved marble basins with enormous gold spouts.

“This is the room where we hold dinner for the Prime Minister. In olden times, those taps would run with wine,” said my guide proudly. She was a gem. “You may walk around the palace if you like,” she told me. “There are some very famous tapestries you should see.” I was left to meander through the palace rooms alone, admiring the art, furniture and antiquities, and the breathtaking historical tapestries cloaking the great walls. It was heaven.

I eventually returned to the main ballroom to check on the team’s progress. Regan had set up a large light and Trevor put Mary into her first outfit, a form-fitting black Prada dress. She looked radiant, and it was then we noticed that she was visibly trembling, she was so nervous. She may have wed the Prince of Denmark and become European
royalty, but she was still a young woman on her very first
Vogue
shoot and she wanted to do her best. I stood around making encouraging remarks and we began shooting.

During a break in the proceedings I was off in a corner—admiring a footstool or something—when I heard Mary call my name. “Come over here and watch this,” she said, beckoning me over to the window. She opened it and we both leaned out. “Look, it’s the Changing of the Guard.” There I was in Christian VII’s palace in Denmark, standing next to Princess Mary, observing the crowd in the square below. The exact square where I had stood with Tim Blanks, a few months previously, looking up and imagining “what if?” A few people in the crowd caught sight of Mary and waved excitedly. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I could not believe I had actually made it to this place. With an idea, a
Vogue
business card, and a lot of perseverance, my team and I had turned a dream into reality. I think that precise moment may have been the highlight of my entire career.

If I thought the day couldn’t get any better, it was just about to. Anja trotted up to me and said, “Oh, by the way, I spoke to Frederik. He’s going to come to the shoot and he will allow you to take one or two photographs. What would you like him to wear?” Trevor and I went into the dressing area and shared a private shriek of joy, before we pulled ourselves together, went back out and said casually: “Oh, just jeans and a white shirt.” Prince Frederik strode into the room some time afterwards, with a freshly laundered white shirt in dry-cleaning plastic slung over his shoulder, and a portable CD player in the other hand. I hadn’t realized he was so handsome. Mary’s face lit up when she saw him. Frederik was charm personified. Not only had Mary found her prince, he was gorgeous, sociable and a Navy Seal. She had pretty much won the marriage lottery.

Frederik changed quickly into his shirt, switched on the CD player and walked over to his wife. The sound of B. B. King filled the ballroom, and the couple began dancing in the sunlight that was streaming through the open window, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Regan was shooting, furiously intent on capturing the moment, when Frederik leaned in and kissed his wife on the forehead. Trevor and I were losing it at this point. I may have been in tears. It was everything I had hoped for; a private moment between two royals who were very much in love.

We took another shot of the couple outside, arms entwined, and then wrapped for the day. I went to sleep knowing that we already pulled off the most important shots. The rest would be a creative adventure.

The following day we would be shooting outside the city, at Fredensborg Palace, the Queen and Prince Consort’s main residence, and where Frederik and Mary were also living. Regan had requested that we have a horse in one of the photos so we made a trip to the Royal Stables to peruse them. It was a kind of horse casting.

I am no equine expert, but I have never seen horses as towering and magnificent as the Danish Royal horses. There were also dozens of sumptuous royal coaches dating back centuries, including tiny children’s carriages. I had to be physically dragged away I was so enraptured.

While hair and makeup were preparing the princess, I took a stroll around the magnificent gardens and the boathouse with yet another amiable member of the royal staff, who appeared to be the palace caretaker. Queen Margrethe II was in residence, and it was mentioned that she may have been in the Orangery—the huge glasshouse filled with plants—but our directive was to shoot in the gardens and to not enter the main palace.

The caretaker, Regan and I were all standing by a tree chatting when an SUV came into view, pulling behind it a mammoth horse trailer. “Ah, here is the horse for the photograph. He’s a big fellow,” the caretaker said. The horse was clearly not happy about being cooped up, because the trailer began rocking violently as the horse whinnied fierce protests of complaint.

We waited for what seemed a very long time until finally another car arrived and Princess Mary emerged, dressed in a dazzling Jean Paul Gaultier gown, and wearing a large hat topped with a long feather. Now we just needed the horse.

I looked over with fear and trepidation at the heaving trailer. The noise emanating from inside was unsettling. What unearthly beast had they chosen? Fortunately for Mary, she had been a competent horsewoman before she met Frederik. It’s a very useful skill to have if you are planning to join a European royal family, as hunting parties are apparently
de rigueur
. The royal equerry was attempting to open the trailer door, which our unseen stallion was, it seemed, attempting to pulverize with his hoofs. The horse burst out, nostrils flaring. In my mind he reared up on his back legs with flames shooting from his mouth, eyes a ferocious yellow, but that may be a tad dramatic.

I’m deathly scared of horses—yet another clear indicator that I was never destined to be royal. I immediately ran and hid behind the nearest tree and scrunched my eyes shut. Mary poked her head around my hiding place and laughed. “Are you frightened of horses, Kirstie?” The horse was bucking and stamping and Princess Mary just walked straight towards him. He was about as welcoming as a firing squad.

I was thinking, “No, Mary! Don’t do it, don’t be crushed by a demonic horse, we’ve got three more shots to get done today!” Even the royal bodyguards—also ironically hiding behind trees—looked a
little anxious. But she simply bent her head to him and let him sniff at her hat, until he gradually calmed down. She’s not only the Crown Princess of Denmark, she’s a horse whisperer.

There were more thrills to come. After the shot with the horse from hell was over, Regan asked for a chair to be placed on the lawn for Mary to sit on. “What sort of a chair?” inquired the caretaker.

“Well, what do you have?” I asked innocently.

“Why don’t you come with me and choose one?” he suggested. We walked up to the main palace and into a smaller building off to the side. He then led me up some stone steps and we arrived at a large door. Once again, I’m going to say he had a huge, rusty skeleton key, but I may be embellishing somewhat. By now I was completely lost in my Hans Christian Andersen storybook world. If Thumbelina had turned up for afternoon tea I wouldn’t have been surprised.

He threw open the door and said, “Here it is. The chair room.” It was a cavernous storage room the size of a ballroom, stacked with chairs, stools and chaise lounges; in mint condition or needing repairs. There were literally hundreds and hundreds of them, their bolts of original upholstery fabrics interspersed throughout the room. This furniture dated back centuries; it had been in the royal palaces stretching back to the beginning of the monarchy. It was simply incredible, the historic resonance of the room. If Tory Collison, with her love of all things antique, had been witness to this treasure trove I’m quite sure she would have fainted.

“Are there other rooms like this?” I gasped. “Oh yes,” replied the caretaker. “Ones for tables, china, lamps.” I didn’t hear the rest. I was in raptures over a divine eighteenth-century satin ottoman. I’ve never fully recovered from the thrill of visiting the Danish royal chair storage room.

The team broke for lunch and Mary invited us to have sandwiches in a room to the side of the kitchen at their private apartments, where we were joined once again by Frederik. It seems absurd to say it felt completely normal to be having lunch and chatting with the Crown Prince and Princess of Denmark at home, but that is how hospitable and down to earth they are. After lunch, Frederik offered to show Regan and me his luxury car collection. Car enthusiasts will be furious with me because I have no interest in cars whatsoever, and cannot remember what undoubtedly spectacular makes and models the prince was proudly pointing out to me.

We returned to the gardens in the late afternoon to shoot one more portrait of the princess. Parts of Fredensborg Gardens are open to the public, and when people passed and realized they were seeing the new Crown Princess they waved and grinned madly, especially the children. Mary took it all in her stride, with real humility. “I didn’t really do anything to deserve all this attention,” she had confessed to me in our interview the day before. “I simply married the man I love.” That afternoon we captured what would turn out to be the cover shot, a candid photo of Mary juxtaposed against the lush autumnal Danish woods, in a royal purple satin dress, pinned at the center with a brooch from the crown jewels.

After the last shot was taken we were again invited back to the royal couple’s residence and Frederik broke out the champagne to toast the success of the shoot. I didn’t want the experience to end. Thanks to the power of
Vogue
, I had been transported into a rarefied world of great wealth and privilege, yes, but also of great generosity.

The following week I was back on the regular circuit, attending the RTW fashion shows in Milan. In the evenings I sat by the open window in my tiny hotel room, transcribing and writing my article. On
the first day of the shows I was seated next to Judith Cook, who had now become the fashion director of
In Style
magazine. The Princess Mary project was still under wraps but I couldn’t contain myself. Judith would understand the intensity of what I had just experienced in Denmark. I told her where I’d just been, she grabbed my arm and we both got goosebumps. She was the perfect person to share the achievement with.

Princess Mary and I continued to liaise for several weeks afterwards, as she had to approve the photographs and my story. She made no changes to the piece and was very happy with all of the photographs, bar one where she thought her face looked strange. It didn’t, but Mary had her doubts and wouldn’t give it her sign-off. Deadline was upon us and I needed to push it through. Mary and I went back and forth on email and by phone. We retouched the shot and tried again, but she was still resisting. One afternoon I was on my way home when my mobile rang. It was Mary. “Hello Princess Mary,” I said as I pulled the car over to the side of the road. It felt slightly incongruous, chatting with a princess while driving down a busy suburban road.