'It wasn't the kind of job I was thinking of...'

IMAGINE Bridget Jones had somehow managed to land herself a job with the royal family. You'd expect lapses in protocol, embarrassing gaffes and inappropriate relationships, all washed down with lashings of chardonnay.

But should Helen Fielding decide to send Miss Jones off on such an adventure, she'll have to resign herself to the fact that someone else got there first. Sarah Goodall spent 12 years working for Prince Charles, and her adventures are laid bare in a new book, The Palace Diaries. It's more comic romp than serious biography and, though she'll probably soon become weary of hearing it, the Bridget Jones comparison is appropriate. The big difference is that the key characters in this book are all real people, including Charles, Diana and Camilla.

Back in 1988, Sarah Goodall was working at Phillips' auction house in London, in a job that sounded glamorous but paid peanuts. Aiming to improve her bank balance, she signed up with Bernadette of Bond Street, an employment agency she admits sounds more like a West End call girl. When a job as a secretary at St James's Palace came up, her curiosity got the better of her. "It wasn't exactly the kind of job I was thinking of," she says, "and the pay was nowhere near what I was thinking of, but I sort of lost my head when I heard it was St James's Palace. I jumped at the chance."

She might not have improved her financial situation, but Goodall was about to find herself behind the scenes of a royal drama, making her a fly on the wall at some of the decade's most newsworthy events.

Right from the start, Goodall is up-front about having something of a crush on her new employer, the Prince of Wales, and this dreamy-eyed admiration she feels for 'the boss' is the source of many a comic encounter. At Charles's 40th birthday celebrations, for example, she bows instead of curtseys. Experiencing her first Christmas lunch for palace staff, Goodall is disappointed to find that the seat next to her is empty. But it only remains vacant until the main course arrives, when the prince takes the seat next to her. "Have we met?" asks Charles.

"I gaze back into his oh-so-beautiful blue eyes. I try to muster all my self-control," she writes. "This is my moment with my employer and future king. Don't blow it, Sarah." Goodall manages to keep her cool, and during the months and years that follow overcomes her nerves to strike up a friendly relationship with the heir to the throne.

The Palace Diaries also lets us take a peek into the everyday workings of a royal residence. Goodall's initial job involved dealing with the prince's fan mail, sackloads of which arrived each day. Along with autograph requests and letters drawing attention to serious issues, Goodall found herself having to sift through stacks of love notes - apparently there was never any shortage of women keen to make a closer acquaintance with the prince.

Goodall says her family and friends loved to hear all about the goings-on at the palace, but as the relationship between Charles and Diana began to deteriorate, she had to keep a close check on what she said. "Very often I would avoid saying where I worked, because I didn't want to have this long debate about the prince and princess," she says.

But these days she isn't backwards about coming forwards with her views on the royals. "Two things I notice," she writes about a palace dinner. "The first is that the Queen looks so tiny in person. The second is that someone should tell the Duchess of York, who looks lovely otherwise, not to walk around with her mouth open. Really, she looks as if she is trying to catch flies."

On the subject of Diana, Goodall recounts palace gossip that suggested there were far more than three people in the royal marriage. "If having affairs when one is married is something to be seriously condemned, then as many rotten eggs should be flung at the memory of Diana as at the persons of Charles and Camilla," she writes.

It's clear that Goodall doesn't buy into the popular image of Diana as a saintly creature. "People had an impression of the Princess of Wales which was the correct one on the outside - her sense of style and her charity work were really unsurpassed," she says. "But they couldn't know what she was like on the inside because they didn't really see it. She was also manipulative and scheming and at times not very pleasant."

Similarly, Goodall found it difficult to comprehend the public reaction to Diana's death. "The national outpouring of grief was very scary if you were actually physically right in the middle of it all," she says. "I'm not saying that it's not right to grieve, but these were people who had never met her and were using it as a vehicle for their own emotional outpourings."

These are all comments that Goodall would never have made had she still been in the employ of St James's Palace. However, after many years of hard work, promotion and having been made a Member of the Royal Victorian Order in the 1998 New Year Honours, an honour awarded for personal services to the sovereign, her royal connection came to an abrupt end in December 2000.

Over the years, Goodall had moved from being a nameless employee to being a welcome guest at the prince's dinner parties. On one such occasion, the prince invited some friends to watch the film Howards End. To her eternal shame, Goodall fell asleep. "It was probably one of the most embarrassing things ever, especially in front of someone so important," she says. But despite her fears, Charles laughed off the incident.

Although there is no suggestion that Goodall's relationship with the prince went beyond the boundaries of employee and employer, she admits that he seemed to become fond of her. "I did get that impression," she says. "He definitely seemed to take an interest in me and my life."

This interest apparently did not go down well with Camilla Parker Bowles, however. Goodall had met Camilla several times and seemed to get on well with her, but after a visit to Balmoral her immediate boss called her into his office to say her behaviour on the trip had been reported as being "inappropriate".

Goodall was baffled, trying to work out what she had done wrong, but the inference was that Camilla no longer wanted Charles to be on such familiar terms with his secretary. In the months that followed, Goodall was effectively frozen out, returning strictly to the role of employee before finally being fired.

It might sound like a story with a bitter ending, but Goodall has more happy memories of her time working for the royals than bad ones. She writes about joining the family on a tour of South Africa and watching Prince Harry's jaw drop when faced with Geri Halliwell at a Spice Girls concert in Johannesburg. And although there seems to have been champagne-laden parties galore, Goodall also had her fair share of social disasters - mistaking John Major for Rory Bremner at Prince Charles's 50th birthday party and, on another occasion, falling over with her partner on the dancefloor directly in front of the Duke and Duchess of York.

Then there were the little extras that came with the job - staff discounts on famous brands, delicious dining provided in the 'canteen' at Buckingham Palace and other privileges, such as getting access to the royal box at the Albert Hall. "There were some great perks and I certainly took full advantage of them," she says.

Although some might find Goodall's comments a little too candid (there's certainly no trace of the reverential tone heard in some other royal biographies), this is more a forthright and personal memoir than a sordid kiss-and-tell or an act of revenge. "I look back on it very fondly. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience," she says. "I think on the whole the prince is a lot more relaxed now and I'm very happy for him and Camilla. I think the true love story has come right for him."

Goodall is up-front about the fact that, just like all those years ago, she needs to earn a living, and telling her story is one way of doing that. "The royal family have always been a great source of fascination and I suppose always will be," she says. "As far as how the book's written, I laugh at myself and put myself on the line a lot more than anyone else. I don't think the prince has anything to worry about."

To Balmoral and beyond
An extract from The Palace Diaries

CHAPTER 8
April 1997

This month, I was posted to Balmoral. Where was I to be billeted? Not Birkhall this time, but Tom-na-Gaidh. I don't mind at all since the ghost of the mad woodcutter has yet to make an appearance. Also, I'm not alone, as Stephen Lamport, HRH's private secretary, is staying in the next room. Yesterday, HRH asked his guests to join him on a personal tour of the castle. Would I like to come too, he solicitously asked? But of course. After all, I have never even seen the castle.

We arrive at the castle in our Discovery Land Rovers. What a dark and dingy place it looks, more suitable to the Addams Family than the royal family. We go inside. The interior is festooned in tartan tapestries – on the floors and all over the walls. It is draughty and cold. No amount of whisky could get me through a stint working here.

HRH starts the tour. He shows us the rooms open to the public and then takes us to the private parts of the castle. We enter his childhood nursery and he points out the little graffiti signatures on the table. Aha, so even royal children are not immune to compulsions to vandalise.

Next, he takes us through to the bedroom that he slept in as a small child. He then bends his ear to the plughole in the basin. "When I was bored, I used to listen to the sounds. I could hear everything in the next-door bedroom," he says.

Hmm. That is interesting. A royal housekeeper once warned me that if I ever had to stay at Balmoral and wanted some privacy, then I should put the plug into the sink at night. Apparently, listening in through the pipes is an established recreation for many of the royal family.

We eventually finish the tour downstairs, where a large statue of a kilted Scotsman stands. "I will ask you all to guess whether he has anything on under the kilt," says HRH teasingly.

Just as the party leaves through the door, I cannot resist having a quick peek. I dip my head and look underneath. Suddenly, I blush. Out of the corner of my other eye, I spot a grinning HRH. He has popped his head round the door.

"Oh, I thought you would do that, Sarah," he says.

I am about to answer that, having asked us to guess the sculpted contents of the kilt, the least he could expect is for one amongst us to discover the answer. But I hardly feel this to be an appropriate response from a lady clerk to her future king. And it is not as if there was anything there anyway! I walk with the Boss, still blushing, out of the front door and back to the entourage of Land Rovers. HRH must think I am such a slapper.

CHAPTER 10
October 1998

I am up in Scotland again, staying with Phyllida at Tom-na-Gaidh. Phyllida is fantastic and has been most supportive over my grief at the death of Mummy. Besides our secretarial duties, we have been given the task of Keepers of the Royal Pets. We are both aware of how important pets are to the royal family. Inner palace circles say it was at the Bossette's insistence that HRH got rid of his labrador, Harvey, to whom he was utterly devoted. Apparently, this did as much to kill his feelings for Diana as her tantrums.

I am charged with looking after Tigger while Phyllida looks after Widgeon, a beautiful, highly strung black labrador adored by Prince William. Tigger is a rolypoly animal and easy to manage; Widgeon is a nightmare. Yesterday, while walking him, he suddenly belted off into the distance and poor Phyllida trekked for hours calling out for him before coming back to the cottage distraught.

"I built a cairn to mark where I last saw him," she said.

Quite how creating a mound of rocks would help bring back Widgeon, I wasn't sure, but I suppose it was a gesture of a kind. We sat in the kitchen getting increasingly gloomy over the prospect of never seeing the missing labrador ever again. Then, as the light was fading, Phyllida went into the lane to call out his name one last time. Joy of joy, two cagoule-clad hikers were coming up to the cottage with Widgeon at their side.

"He attached himself to us," they explained. "He is a lovely dog, but we felt he ought to be returned to his rightful owner. Yours was the only home for miles, so we guessed he just had to be yours."

We never told them the owner's true identity. It is a pity. They should have received some kind of recognition. They saved a young prince from heartbreak and Phyllida from a nervous breakdown.

The Queen Mother is currently in residence at Birkhall and the old girl – she is 98 – still loves to party. The parties at Birkhall are legendary. The Queen Mother is always escorted by her equerry. She has a different one every 18 months.

Traditionally, her equerry is always young and very, very yummy. Why not? If I was a queen, I would do the same. If I could get away with it, I would have two equerries and change them on a whim. The Queen Mum also loves to play after-dinner games. Besides charades, her favourite is Twister. Would you believe it?

Usually, those of us who stay over at Tom-na-Gaidh never get invited to these hoolies. Out of sight, out of mind, I suppose. But not tonight: we have been summoned to the Ghillies' Ball. The Queen Mother will be there with HRH and all his pals. Phyllida and I are so excited. It is Cinderella all over again.

We arrive at the village hall building in the grounds of Birkhall. Are there any friends of HRH that I recognise? Oh yes, there is Charlie Palmer-Tomkinson, father of the two celebrated beauties and girls about town, Santa and Tara. There are also many fit young men who have been clambering the Balmoral hills during this stag-shooting season. How sexy these tough physical specimens of Scottish manhood look in their kilts and sporrans.

The band strikes up and the dancing begins. Now, I am not remotely fazed by Scottish dancing, but I am being introduced to a new dance that I have never encountered. Perhaps it is known only to the occupants of royal palaces? We all stand in a circle holding hands, then dance round to the side like ring-a-ring-o'-roses. What happens next?

The handsome young ghillie on my right now turns to me and waltzes me round and round, rotating as he does so. Next, he places me between the two men on my left. What fun.

Suddenly, I see Charlie Palmer-Tomkinson out of the corner of my eye. He has decided to break the chain and go solo. He is now dancing around with an imaginary woman. Suddenly HRH notices him, too.

"Oh, Charlie, you damned fool!" he exclaims.

The disgraced Charlie gets back into line, literally, and the dance continues. I see the Queen Mother being whisked round and round. My God, she is a superstar. Ninety-eight years old! Imagine. Then another handsome, muscular ghillie swings me round into the arms of a familiar face.

My goodness, I have waited for this for more than ten years now. Yes, I am dancing all of a sudden with His Gorgeousness himself, darling HRH. I gaze at him demurely. He looks so dashing in his green velvet hunting jacket and his Lord of the Isles tartan kilt, his crotch accentuated by the Celtic fig leaf of a large, white-fur sporran.

"Oh, it's you," he says cheerfully. "Still not married yet?"

No, my Lord of the Smiles! Should I ask the same of you?

I do have a rather wonderful boyfriend, though. Round and round we go. Let me relish this moment. Posterity, please note that, at this moment, the future king of our dominion is holding me in his strong, regal hands. To be anatomically precise, they are on my waist and shoulder. HRH and I waltz and then he rotates. I catch a whiff of exotic aftershave.

This is wonderful. The heir to the throne and I are locked for these brief few seconds in an age-old courting ritual that is the basis, of course, for all Scottish dancing. He now spins me off to the next man. Farewell HRH, until we dance again. If ever. Sigh.

I sit down and savour the moment. Yes, at last I can truthfully claim I have danced with the Prince of Wales. And think of it, now all my boyfriends can say: I have danced with a girl who has danced with the Prince of Wales.

CHAPTER 10
December 2000

I come into the office after a particularly heavy session with Carlo, my little Italian stallion. Whoops, a few minutes late…

I am taking a week off before Christmas. Naturally I want Carlo attending to me and I have chosen the perfect place – Tom-na-Gaidh.

I've booked it for the token sum of £15. How great is that? It is not just that it is cheap but also that I adore Balmoral, and I love the cottage. I haven't been up there for over a year.

And perhaps, who knows, I might bump into HRH and Camilla. I will then have the opportunity to abase myself so they might look on me fondly once again, as they did in the good old days…

I am invited in to Mark Bolland's office. That's better. I am ever-attentive to my Noble Lord Blackadder. What is the bet that it is a reprimand about arriving six nanoseconds late this morning?

I sit down and Lord Blackadder looks at me in a sad, apologetic way. That's not like Lord Blackadder. Perhaps he had a row with his boyfriend? I smile in a neutral fashion. Then he tells me.

I am fired.

He proceeds to trot out the details of my poor timekeeping, mobile telephone calls, insubordination, blah blah blah. I put up no protest. What's the point? My years as a lady clerk for His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales are over…

I am ordered to give back my security pass. My security pass! Why does this instruction make me feel sick all of a sudden? I feel like I'm surrendering my identity. I feel as if I am cruising on automatic.

Come on, Sarah, says inner nanny. Don't make a fuss. Keep your dignity. It is hard because I think any second I am going to start crying. No! her voice commands me. Whatever you do, do not make a spectacle of yourself by crying! You are Sarah Lucy Georgina Goodall MVO. Members of the Royal Victorian Order do not start blubbing at one of life's mere setbacks.

I am escorted downstairs. Do they honestly think I am a security risk? I walk out into Colour Court, then gaze round one last time at the palace walls I know so well. My escort walks me through the gates and then, in a final touch that is both graceless and gratuitous, he instructs the policeman before me that I must not be allowed to enter again.

So it is official, then. I am banned from the palace.

I catch the bus back to my flat. The numbness remains. I pour myself some wine. I find myself trembling. I start to cry.

Five minutes later, I stand up, dab my eyes and tell myself to stop being a big girl's blouse.

Suddenly I remember the holiday I've booked up at Tom-na-Gaidh. Can I still go there? Will I be welcome? Two glasses of chardonnay later, I summon up the courage to pick up the phone. I call the palace number I know so well. I am put through to personnel. A minute later, I hang up. The holiday booking has been automatically cancelled with my
employment.

• The Palace Diaries by Sarah Goodall and Nicholas Monson is published by Mainstream Publishing (£12.99).

Readers can buy it at the reduced price of £10.99 (p&p free) at www.mainstreampublishing.com