It’s 1990, Mayfair, and a starstruck journalist finds herself having a girly chat with the people’s princess

The afternoon I met Diana, Princess of Wales in the ladies’ loo at Le Caprice

It was the summer of 1990 and I’d been having a dispiriting lunch with a publisher in Le Caprice, the classic restaurant round the corner from the Ritz in London. We’d been perched at the bar, so it wasn’t until after he left that I looked round and there, sitting discreetly in the corner, was Princess Diana. I watched, transfixed, as she stood up and made her way towards the stairs down to the ladies’ loo.

Like the rest of the world I’d been entranced with her from her Shy Di days, but had never seen her in the flesh and, without pausing for breath, I followed.

My heart was thumping. What on earth was I doing? I was in such a state that I laddered my tights

There was no plan, I just acted instinctively, and as I shot into an empty cubicle, my heart was thumping. What on earth was I doing? I was in such a state that I laddered my tights.

Summoning up my courage I emerged to see her washing her hands and found myself blurting out: “I’ve just had a depressing lunch and now I’ve put my finger through my tights!” No “Hello”, no “Ma’am.” But she wasn’t fazed.

“What bad luck,” she said. “I’ve got trousers on today – makes life easier.” White trousers and tee, navy jacket. Perfect. And then she added: “I’m sorry, I don’t have any nail varnish, that would have done the trick.”

“No worries,” I said: “I’ll try some soap.”

I was thinking: “I can’t believe we’re having this girly chat!” But we were.

As she put on her lipstick (Chanel), she confided: “My problem is I’ve eaten garlic, and I’ve got an event later. I don’t want to breathe fumes over everyone.” She rolled her eyes and fanned her face.

“Don’t worry, you could paint-strip a wall with your breath and nobody would mind,” I said, somehow emboldened by the casual intimacy of the encounter. She giggled.

“Have you thought about parsley?” I asked.

She tilted her head. “Parsley? Do you just chew a sprig of it?”

“Give it a go,” I said, getting a bit skittish. “Or you could try sticking a sprig behind your ear. People would be so busy wondering why you had a sprig of parsley behind your ear, they wouldn’t notice the garlic.”

We both giggled again.

As we started to go up the stairs together, I felt bold enough to add: “These stairs are a bit steep aren’t they? Treacherous! Better for lunch than dinner. A few glasses of wine in the evening and that would be the end!”

Laughing uproariously, we parted at the top of the stairs, and I never saw her again. I didn’t know then that the next time we’d have some sort of connection I’d be standing outside Kensington Palace the day after she died, broadcasting live to Richard and Judy in the This Morning TV studio and weeping.