An evening with Camilla: How the Cologne native got rid of our correspondent’s stage fright

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“45 minutes!” shouts the giant with the serious expression. He’s wearing a tuxedo and bow tie, and he’s holding one hand to the button in his ear. The man is not on the set of the filming of “James Bond”, but in the lobby of the Sheraton Hotel in London. He leads us to an older man in dress uniform who is waiting at the entrance. The hotel employees are currently rolling out a red carpet. “When Her Majesty gets out of the car, please stand by,” he explains. “You stand here and you here. No, right here.” He points his finger at an imaginary spot on the red carpet. “Otherwise you’ll block the Queen.”

The surreal scene has a history: When the London Foreign Press Association (FPA), the association for foreign journalists in London, was looking for a new president a year ago, I agreed with a touch of carelessness. What big thing did a president like that do? Lead a board meeting once a month, occasionally welcome guests at press briefings, and give a speech once a year. All harmless. At least that’s how it was described to me.

Then came autumn and with it the preparations for the glamorous highlight of the year – the celebratory presentation of the FPA journalism awards at the end of November. A high-ranking royal guest of honor had agreed, Deborah said breathlessly: “The Queen!” I briefly considered the concept of rising from the dead. Then it dawned on me: Ah, the new queen. Camilla.

“The Queen is coming!”

We London journalists know far more about Camilla than we are comfortable with. In the year of King Charles’ coronation, one couldn’t help but dig up the two’s long and controversial love story again. For us, it’s been months full of visits to Balmoral and Windsor Castle, reports of the coronation and interviews about what kind of monarch Charles would make.

At some point, pretty much every London journalist comes within sight of the royal family – be it at press events or garden parties. However, the fact that one day you would one day become part of this royal circus for a few hours was not in the job description of a correspondent.

As is well known, the Queen does not appear alone. Your advance guard, the “Royal Rota”, arrives two hours before Her Majesty’s expected arrival. These “royal correspondents” (yes, that’s actually a job) from selected British TV channels and daily newspapers follow the royals every step of the way during official appointments and reverently report on every little detail of these appearances.

The security guard in the tuxedo isn’t done with me that night outside the Sheraton Hotel. “Come with me!” he says and hurries into the hall with the bar, where high-ranking guests and nominated journalists in fine evening gowns stand in groups and make small talk, a glass of champagne in their hands. “If the Queen is to welcome the prize winners and the jury here, the other people must have cleared the hall.” I stare into the room at the many, many guests who are all here because of the Queen. Nobody will leave this room voluntarily, that’s for sure. “Okay,” I say.

Practicing the curtsy at home in front of the mirror

Half an hour later the hall is at least twice as full and the Queen is almost there. “Ten minutes,” says the man with the button in his ear, staring at me. I shrug desperately in response. The press team from the palace has now also arrived. “Go to the entrance,” says the man in uniform. “She’ll be there in two minutes,” says his colleague, who reminds me more and more of James Bond.

Shortly afterwards it becomes very quiet on the four-lane road in front of the hotel, where traffic is normally heavy. The royal entourage follows the blue lights of the police motorcycles. Camilla gets out, she is wearing a long emerald green velvet dress, the color flashes briefly in the flash of many cameras. “Your Majesty,” I say, having rehearsed the Knicks countless times at home in front of the mirror. After all, you don’t want to end up like short-term Prime Minister Liz Truss, who has been curtsying awkwardly since her audience with King Charles.

Queen Camilla, the introvert

We walk towards the wall of TV cameras and photographers towards the hall, I a little behind the Queen. The room seems even fuller than before, guests are taking photos with their cell phones. My colleague Deborah, the director of the FPA, introduces the winners and nominees, Camilla patiently shakes hands. “How do you do?” says Camilla and “Congratulations” without having the slightest idea who she is talking to. The crowd around her is getting thicker. Behind the Queen I see the alarmed faces of the woman from the palace and the man in uniform. Deborah cuts a path through the crowd, I keep Camilla’s back as the rear guard. “If you want group photos, you have to quickly find a separate room for them,” says someone from the palace squad.

The hotel management actually conjures up a room. The Queen finally has the opportunity to speak in peace with the nominated journalists and, to everyone’s relief, pose for official photos.

“Now let’s try not to fall down the stairs,” says Camilla on the way to the large ballroom in the basement. The murmur falls silent as the Queen enters the hall with us. The guests rise from their chairs. What feels like an eternity later we are sitting in our seats, Camilla to my left. Our speeches are on the table in front of us, and at the top of the stage is the lectern with the teleprompters that there was no time left to test. My speech comes before Camilla’s, my nerves are on edge. “You’re certainly good at giving speeches,” she says suddenly. “Not at all,” I answer, grateful for the distraction. “It’s my first time doing this and it doesn’t suit me at all.”

“Me neither,” says the Queen. We have to laugh for a moment at our unexpected confessions: two introverts in roles we never intended to play. Then I’m called on stage. “Good luck,” wishes Camilla.