It was Christmas 2004, and my great friend Nick, a party-organiser, invited me to a ball at the Clapham Grand. The party got off with a swing, full of 25-year-old friends mingling in the old theatre. All evening, standing above the dance floor, in the royal box, stood the lonely figure of Captain James Hewitt, 46, surveying the people below. A year before, he’d been on Larry King Live, threatening to circulate the Diana letters. As the ball ended, Baz, a friend, said, ‘Amelia, someone wants to meet you.’ There was Hewitt, a lofty, auburn/ ginger-haired man with freckles – rather intimidating and good-looking. I was intrigued. ‘Why don’t you both come back to my flat?’ smirked Hewitt. It was midnight. We giggled. ‘Why not?’ we thought. James, Nick and I jumped into a black taxi. We drove across Chelsea Bridge, past rows of white stucco buildings, until we reached...
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