A decade ago, when Princess Diana was still alive and in the midst of her ignoble divorce proceedings, I happened to find myself in the lobby of the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, nursing a crushing hangover. My goal was to find the museumâ€™s Frank Lloyd Wright Rooms, which had been improbably disassembled and transported there, pine panel and all, from Pittsburgh.
A frowzy desk attendant was guiding me through a large incomprehensible map when she suddenly gasped, paled considerably, and drooped into a messy curtsy. At my side, looming large, was Diana: tall, beautiful, and heavily made-up. Read more