![]() What got to Mario was the way the lady dropped her guard, as if it were one of the Queen's prized pieces of millinery. Imagine, the most celebrated woman of our time-glamorous princess, champion fund-raiser, benefactor to the poor, mother of England's future Kinglearning to strut like a runway queen! Not long after lunch, she wanted to learn to catwalk. She got into it, laughing and tossing her head back and throwing off the most incredibly languid looks. ![]() ![]() He put on some music-Dalida, a French dance diva who was gyrating toward self-destruction before the Princess-to-be had graduated from ruffles. Mario has a marvelous voice-very warm, very satisfying, like one of those macerated cherries you get at the bottom of a good Manhattan. On the day of the shoot, in a studio in South London, he just started talking, about this and that, nothing too personal. ![]() The photographer, Mario Testino, had been asked for a portrait, little suspecting that this famously enigmatic creature was ready to let down her hair. He wanted her to roll around in her couture silks, right there on that big, gleaming boat of a sofa-and laugh. Playfully he cast his eyes on the cool blonde seated on the couch, wondering what it would take to make her melt. ![]()
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