The Prince Who Got Away

Even though it was Sunday, the club gradually filled with college-age people and 20-somethings. A group of Arab men arrived, complete with burly security guys, who mostly sat and watched the girls on the dance floor. I studied what looked to be VIP areas but saw no one resembling Prince William. After getting my hopes dashed by a Prince Harry look-alike, we decided to call it a night.

The next morning, fortified by waffles, we hopped on the Central Line to make the most of our last few hours in London.

Clare headed to Oxford Circus to shop while I exited at Bond Street. Last December, the Sun reported that Prince William had been spotted Christmas shopping in Selfridges. The giant upscale department store on Oxford Street was my last hope. While I knew it was unlikely, I was still optimistic, so I tried to focus on the best way to scope out the store while not leaving open the possibility that Prince William could swoop into an area I'd just left.

Had there been a later flight to the States that day, I might not have given up after an hour of browsing and people watching.

On the way back to Heathrow, it began to sink in that failure was imminent. I'd had too much fun to be sad, but with more time, I told Clare, we could have hit a few more places.

Did you think about what you would do if you saw Prince William, she asked.

Actually, I had. To keep myself from staring, or waving in excitement, I had worked on what to say.

Perhaps the next time I'm in London I'll get to test out my line.

The writer is assistant editorial page editor of The Post.