Charlotte Griffiths' new exclusive for the DM
I can now reveal that, during the summer of 2025, a close adviser to Harry and Meghan had contacted me out of the blue and invited me to lunch at the Ivy restaurant in London.
As a result of information given to me at that lunch meeting, I placed a series of stories in The Mail on Sunday that portrayed the couple in a positive light. This included a front-page article, which ran in July, suggesting that Harry and Meghan were attempting to rebuild their relationship with King Charles. It revolved around the fact that Liam Maguire and Meredith Maines, Harry and Meghan’s US PR chiefs, were to hold clear-the-air talks with the monarch’s aide Tobyn Andreae in London.
I was duly tipped off about the meeting, which was held at the Royal Over-Seas League near Clarence House. The attendees settled themselves on a balcony plainly visible from the public park below. The Mail on Sunday arranged for a photographer to capture the cosy but very embarrassing scene.
In a development which speaks volumes for their integrity, ‘sources close to the Sussexes’ then briefed the Daily Telegraph that they were ‘very frustrated’ that the pictures of the Royal Over-Seas League gathering had ended up in The Mail on Sunday – suggesting, quite falsely, that the Palace was responsible for a grotesque betrayal of trust.
Now, just six months later, the prince was impugning my integrity, while swearing that his people never leaked and that stories that ended up in my newspaper must have been obtained illegally.
Also, quite possibly the real origin of Harry's nickname "Spike",
Harry had recently returned from California, where he’d been learning to fly helicopter gunships. I was a 27-year-old trainee journalist working on a gossip column for a very different British institution – The Mail on Sunday.
According to the table plan, the prince and I were to sit next to each other at dinner. And because Harry was doubtless wary about being introduced to an H&M-clad stranger, he decided to kick start our relationship by subjecting me to a little test.
From his pocket, he removed a small white pill. Then he held it up to my face, popped it on to my tongue, and said with a smile: ‘Now I know I can trust you!’ ... It was almost certainly paracetamol, rather than something more sinister. But I couldn’t be entirely sure.
I thought we already knew it was the Sussexes who tipped off the press about the lunch meeting.