I DON’T know if anyone will ever read this. But if you do, PLEASE send help. I’m hiding in the pantry of the house Meghan pretends to live in. And I can’t get out.
To keep myself sane, I’m writing down my thoughts in a stylish leather-bound A5 recipe book with a fountain pen. For posterity. Or evidence. I know there’s a good chance I’ll never make it out of here alive.
Right now, the pantry is filled with the smell of what I think is a bubbling blackberry preserve on the stove. Meghan likes that on her yoghurt parfait. And what Meghan likes, Meghan gets.
It’s daytime. I think. I’m not sure how many days have passed. Maybe five. I’m surviving on expensive bottled semi-sparkling water and a delicious range of high-end snacks. I’ve already put on three stone.
I only wandered in for a nosy around and the film crew shut me in. I left my phone on a stylish agave-coloured armchair so I can’t raise the alarm. The risk is just too high. On day one a production assistant referred to Meghan by her name instead of ‘The Duchess of Sussex’ and she went for her with a $150 Japanese chef’s knife. My best chance of surviving is staying hidden for the rest of the series.
Sorry. I must have nodded off. I hope I didn’t snore. The pantry walls are thin. I was roused by the telltale crunch of Meghan’s crudites. Always with the f**king crudites. And now the definite clink of coupe cocktail glasses. I check my watch. It’s barely 9am. There’s a pop. Ah, the peach nectar and champagne Bellinis – of course.
The muted murmurs from the kitchen sound like another boring anecdote from one of her ghastly hangers-on. Wait, now that stupid dog is sniffing around the door. This is all I need!
I try to find some meat to slip under the door. But everywhere you look it’s just vegetables. I scare it away with a kale chip.
Luckily it’s gone quiet. Wait. There’s a guy from Netflix here. He’s on the phone. I can just about make out what he’s saying. ‘We spent a hundred million dollars on watching her make halibut ceviche and jerk off with her asshole buddies? Jeez! I hope Harry’s sitcom goes down better than this. Of course she’s getting a second season. She could have any of us killed.’
Okay, he’s gone. I think the coast is clear. I should make a break for it. Hopefully I can grab a slice of that honey lemon layer cake before I get tackled and neutralised by her security staff. Wish me luck.
And tell my wife and kids I love them.
