It was one of the only years Anna Wintour did not serve as chairwoman of the Met Gala. Maybe her influence might have somehow dissuaded Diana from wearing that unsightly slip dress designed by John Galliano–the first dress he created in his new role as head designer for Christian Dior. At that point in time, that was what themes at the Met Gala were centered on: designers. And, of course, with the British sense of affinity with Gibraltar, it was only natural that Diana should take a shine to Galliano before ever living to see his notorious anti-Semitic rant. So it was that she appeared in that navy blue “number,” officially rendering the slip dress irrelevant now that it had reached this tier of society… for its hard edge had already peaked with Courtney Love and Amanda de Cadenet at the 1995 Oscars. With Diana wearing it, it had transformed into the equivalent of a lumpy cerulean sweater finding its way to “the secondary and department store lines and then trickled down to some lovely Casual Corner, where [every basic Midwestern bitch] no doubt stumbled on it.”

Ivana Trump was, of course, there to comment, “I think she look great.” A pearl and sapphire choker adding the touch of bondage-y vamp “edge” to the scandalous-for-a-royal ensemble. So scandalous, in fact, that Queen Elizabeth was wont to call her the next morning to arrange a meeting between the two of them upon her arrival back in London. Diana, wanting only to claw her erstwhile mother-in-law’s eyes out through the phone, politely decided to agree to a lunch for the sake of William and Harry, both of whom she still wanted to have affection for their grandmother. Even if she was a conservative, non-empathetic shrew, at times. Regardless, Diana often tried to put herself in “Lilibet’s” (something she would never call her to her face) position. It must have been horribly difficult, and even Diana, for as strong as she thought herself to be, could not endure the innumerable pratfalls of royalty, least of all a royal marriage–or worse still, being Britain’s queen. It was too passionaless, too contrived for her personality. She needed to grab onto something that was real, at all costs. And dressing in the haute couture of the day seemed the closest she could get, despite her worries that William would be embarrassed to see her in such a “flesh-baring” incarnation. But oh Christ, William’s feelings be damned for once. It’s not like he wasn’t harboring all manner of unhealthy fantasies about his Charles-appointed nanny, “Tiggy” Legge-Bourke. Leggy indeed. And more like Tiggy Boink, not Bourke.

What was Charles thinking in his decision to bring someone so overtly oversexed into matters of their children’s upbringing? Clearly he wasn’t the one doing the thinking, so much as, as usual, his most overzealous appendage. Something that Lilibet couldn’t seem to see, for the sun still shone out of her eldest son’s ass despite all of his overt wrongdoings. The ones that revealed who he really was: just as caddish as his father. Mercifully, Diana’s dealings with Philip were minimal. He was the undercover most insufferable member of the family, flying under the radar with his “happy-go-lucky,” “devil-may-care” persona. He was a boor. Just. Like. Charles. But anyway, the point was, Diana was willing to suck it up and meet with Old Lizzy for the sake of brokering peace. Something that might help lead to Tiggy’s sacking. Rather than shagging (whether by Charles or William–one assumed Harry was not fair game at that age). 

Alas, Diana was barely able to get a word in edgewise upon arriving at that dreary and gloomy excuse for a palace, Buckingham, whereupon she was made to wait thirty full minutes before the Queen came to greet her. “Diana, you’re looking well. Surprisingly… covered. Since the last time I saw you… in the papers.” 

Diana gritted her teeth. “Yes well, they’re very open-minded over there in New York, aren’t they?”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” Elizabeth returned. 

“I reckon it is,” Diana said in a clipped tone she hoped would suggest wanting to put a moratorium on the topic entirely.

Elizabeth, in all of her Taurean bull-headedness, however, would not back down. For this had been her sole purpose in calling upon Diana for a “lunch.” Diana had yet to see any food presented. “I’m afraid to say, Diana, that I reckon it isn’t. That display you put on over there has cost the Royal Family yet another in what seems to be an endless series of embarrassments brought on by you. And I certainly can’t fathom where any of this ingratitude is coming from.” 

Diana chortled. “Really? You can’t ‘fathom’ it? That your son is a replica of your shit of a husband?”

“You’d do well to remember who you’re speaking to, Miss Spencer. Do not speak so informally to me despite your recent tutelage under the crudest country in the world.” 

“What is this, exactly? What more do you want from me, ma’am?” 

Elizabeth scoffed. “More? As if you’ve given me anything. All you’ve done is take. And now you’re taking the good name of the House of Windsor down as well. And that is something I can no longer have. While you may have severed your relationship with Charles, I fear you will always be tied to this family in some way thanks to Harry and William. As such, I’ve asked you here, in person, to kindly cease your pathetic displays of a midlife crisis. It is unbecoming of a mother of two young princes who are still in need of guidance and a sound moral compass in this life. Do you think that’s something you can manage?” 

That was it. That was all Diana could stand. Pushed to her brink in every possible way, she had to say to herself: enough. She had to protest the mercilessly cruel treatment that had been bestowed upon her ever since refusing to be silent, deciding to finally live her own life. So she stood up, disrobed completely and proceeded to titty slap the Queen’s face.

When it was over, the Queen being too stunned to muster any sort of reply to this dastardly behavior, Diana simply slipped back into her modest black frock (which completely covered her chest and fell just below the knee), walked toward the door and turned around once more to blow Lilibet a defiant kiss. It was the last time they ever spoke to one another in such an intimate setting. And when it was over, Diana had her private secretary fetch her a Big Mac and fries from McDonald’s, after which she vomited up the whole thing. She still wanted to fit into the Galliano again, after all. Ergo, she never technically had lunch at all that day. Not with Lilibet, that’s for certain–for the monarch would deny to the end having ever seen the deadbeat princess in the buff.