The Prince Who Got Away

With Prince William learning the ropes in Britain's military, I knew it was possible he might be keeping a low profile -- trying to live down some of the adventures I was reading about, perhaps -- on the very nights I was hoping he'd be out. Luckily, all the tabloid coverage of the younger royals' exploits provided additional options for an impromptu run-in.

Clare and I booked an overnight flight from Dulles to Heathrow. We were scheduled to arrive about 10 a.m. Saturday, but delays meant that it was after 11 when we finally finished with customs and baggage claim. We headed to the Underground office so Clare could buy an Oyster card (the British equivalent of SmarTrip; I had one from an earlier trip) and learned that track repairs had closed the usual route downtown. Instead of paying $8 for a 45-minute Tube ride, we would have to take the Heathrow Express train into Paddington Station -- free. Fifteen minutes later we were just one stop from Bayswater.

We knew our hotel was close to two Tube stations (indeed, that was a reason we chose it), but the walk was shorter than expected. The Phoenix's exterior was definitely grander than its interior, but the lobby was pleasant, if dated, and the staff was polite. Checking in was easy even though neither of us had printed confirmation of our free reservation, and we were given an actual key (not a strip of plastic) to a tiny double room with an adjoining bath. After cleaning up and changing, we had about 48 hours to find the prince.

We gobbled down a quick lunch and then took the Underground to Leicester Square, where we bought tickets for a Harold Pinter double bill, "The Lover" and "The Collection." The plays had been my first choice thanks to a Daily Mail gossip column reference to William's girlfriend, Kate Middleton, giggling in the front row shortly after it opened. Then we caught the Tube to Temple, which looked to be the closest stop to Somerset House.

The Sun had reported a few months earlier that Prince William had taken Kate ice skating at Somerset House, an 18th-century neoclassical palace off the Thames. Built on the site of a 1547 mansion that eventually became a residence of Elizabeth I, Somerset is actually a collection of buildings that used to house public offices. Today it is home to galleries and various exhibits. The grand courtyard boasts an ice-skating rink in winter and fountains in the summer.

Unfortunately, there was no sign of the rink when we arrived, nor was Prince William out for a nostalgic stroll. After taking a few pictures, we shared an excellent strawberry scone in the cafe before heading down to Sloane Square.

This stop had three purposes: Sloane Square is adjacent to the King's Road, the Chelsea shopping mecca. Not only could Clare and I browse, but I thought we might spot William or Kate, who has a flat in Chelsea and frequently has been photographed shopping on the King's Road. Also, Internet reviews of Kitts, a club off Sloane Square, had led us to consider going there instead of Boujis.

We never made it to Kitts. Drawn in by the stores, we spent most of our time window shopping. I walked us around a block in hopes of recognizing the exterior of Kate's building from paparazzi pictures, but the only residence we definitively ID'ed (thanks to the plaque on Danvers Street) was that of Sir Alexander Fleming, who discovered penicillin.

After trekking well down the King's Road, we caught a bus to the South Kensington station and headed back to the hotel. It was already time to change again. (Packing for vacation is challenging; packing to meet a prince presents its own complications.)

All spruced up, we took the Tube to Piccadilly Circus and walked to the Comedy Theatre on Panton Street. Clare was dubious that Prince William would be in the audience -- if Kate liked the Pinter plays, she might have recommended them, I reasoned -- but any misgivings Clare had were quelled when we learned that Richard Coyle and Gina McKee were among the stars. The theater also happened to be next door to one of Clare's favorite student haunts, the West End Kitchen, where we had eggs after the show.

Then came the first big challenge: getting into Mahiki, the Polynesian-theme nightclub whose signature drink, the Armada Treasure Chest, comes in a 24-karat-gold-plated wooden chest, serves eight and can cost upward of $1,000. (The standard Treasure Chest, which also serves eight, runs about $200.) When William and Kate parted ways last year, he reportedly arrived at Mahiki with pals and proceeded to drink his way around the treasure-map menu. Some British columnists' attempts to decipher why royals and their hangers-on are fans of the place had taught me that we could expect to stand around for hours, as men in the uniform of the upper crust (button-down shirts, pricey jeans and brown shoes) bought drinks for women in short skirts and high heels.

The closer we crept to the possibility of seeing Prince William, the more determined I became to pass through the tiki torches guarding Mahiki's front door. After just a few minutes' wait -- guests with reservations queue to the left of the entrance; everyone else stands to the right -- we were whisked inside to a round bamboo table in the corner. From this perch, I studied every tall, sandy-haired young man I could spot. Clare and I did laps, attempting to scope out other areas. Three times I had a near-sighting, but full faces revealed . . . unknown commoners.