At the time the public learned of then-prince Charles’ affair with Camilla Parker Bowles, she became the most hated person in Britain. At one point, she was even afraid to go out in public.
However, as time passed by, the people of Britain learned to love Camilla, and today, she’s a very important part of the family. What’s most, she’s loved by many.
Charles and Camilla were introduced to each other by a mutual friend, Lucia Santa Cruz, the daughter of the Chilean ambassador, at a polo match. They started dating in 1972, but the relationship didn’t last long as Charles left to serve in the Royal Navy. When his duties there came to an end and he returned home, Camilla was already engaged to her now-ex husband Andrew Parker Bowles.
However, they never stopped being close. Even when Charles married Diana, he and Camilla stayed in touch.
Royal author Penny Junior claimed that Charles was aware he wasn’t in love with his future wife Diana, but it was already too late for him to call off the wedding.
“Charles was not convinced he was doing the right thing in marrying Diana but there was no way out and, bolstered by the hope that things would be different once they were married, he put a brave face on it,” she wrote, as reported by the Mirror.
What’s most, Camilla and Diana knew each other and got along, but then things changed.
“I met [Camilla] very early on. I was introduced to the circle, but I was a thrеаt, I was a very young girl, but I was a thrеаt,” Diana explained in the book Diana: In Her Own Words.
The love affair between Charles and Camilla started in 1986, according to Prince Charles’ authorized biography, as quoted by Town & Country. At the time, Charles was still married to Princess Diana and she eventually became aware that her husband was cheating on her.
Diana even confronted Camilla once, but nothing changed.
Speaking of the troubles in her marriage and the reasons for its failure, Diana told Martin Bashir during a televised interview, “Well, there were three of us in this marriage, so it was a bit crowded.”
Charles and Diana separated in 1992 and their divorce was finalized four years later.
Just months after Charles and Diana formally separated, the press published a full transcript of a telephone call between the then-future King and Camilla.
The phone call revealed an intimate and sexual exchange between the couple, which became known as Tampongate.
Despite the mistreatment from the press, the bond between Camilla and Charles prevailed. On April 9, 2005, the couple exchanged vows in a civil ceremony at Windsor Guildhall.
Later, at the wedding reception, the late Queen Elizabeth offered a toast to the newlyweds. However, she had other plans in mind, as she briefly stepped into another room to catch a horse race.
“I have two important announcements to make. The first is that Hedgehunter has won the Grand National,” the queen said.
“They have overcome Becher’s Brook and The Chair and all kinds of other terrible obstacles. They have come through, and I’m very proud and wish them well. My son is home and dry with the woman he loves,” Queen Elizabeth II continued as she made a comparison with her horses.
When she was married to her first husband, Camilla had a regular job. According to the Mirror, she worked as a secretary at several firms in London’s West End area and later as a receptionist at Sibyl Colefax & John Fowler in Mayfair. She studied at Dubrells School in Sussex and Queen’s Gate School in South Kensington before finishing school at Institut Britannique in Paris, where she studied English and French Literature.
In the book On The Fringe—A Life In Decorating, designer Imogen Taylor, who was a colleague at the interior design firm Colefax and Fowler, where the queen used to work, remembered a time when a young Camilla arrived late to work after a night of partying.
Taylor claimed Camilla was then yelled at and fired.
In 2016, she told the Sunday Times: “There were lots of debutantes working for us, even Camilla. She worked for us for a moment but got the sack.”
“He would shout and bellow so the whole building heard every word. The Duchess of Cornwall was one assistant who fell victim to one of tantrums. I think she came in late, having been to a dance,” Taylor recalled their boss’s temperament.
Today, Camilla is a vital part of the Firm.
Speaking of the current role Queen Camilla has taken upon herself, royal expert Angela Levin said Camilla is “holding the royal family up.”
“I mean, to wait till you’re 73 is a long time before you can take the crown. I think obviously, at his age, it’s very difficult, but he’s very determined, and he’s only really just started to be king,” Levin said while appearing on GB News. “Supporting him very much, absolutely by his side, is Queen Camilla, who is going to all the engagements that they would have gone to together on her own.”
“And so that way he will feel it’s still moving, it’s still running, and they can discuss it and talk about it. And I think that’s marvelous. I mean, she is holding the Royal Family up and being strong. If you imagine 30 years ago, people were saying the whole Royal Family would absolutely disintegrate, and she would be of no use.”
Although it is known that Camilla doesn’t want to be under the spotlight, she’s doing an excellent job while meeting with the public.
“To support her husband. She understands him very well because they’ve been together for over 50 years, before they even got married. it’s a long time and they make each other laugh,” Levin added.
Royal expert and former royal correspondent Charles Rae praised the queen for supporting King Charles and Kate Middleton in this troublesome time, calling her a “remarkable asset,” adding that Camilla is “one of the best things to happen to the Royal Family” in a “good number of years.”
“There’s no question about it, she stepped into the breach. She’s got everything on her shoulders with what’s going on, and she’s taking on even more work,” royal expert Charles Rae said.
“Everywhere she goes, she has got a cheery smile on and a happy face. She says the right things. She has proved to be a remarkable asset to the Royal Family, given the allegations that at one time she had bread rolls thrown at her in a supermarket car park.”
Rae concluded, “I remember her when she was the most hated woman in Britain. I’ve met her several times and she’s charming, she’s witty, she’s really nice to chat to, and certainly when she’s chatting to people, she has done her homework as to who she’s chatting to.”
Daily Mail’s royal correspondent, Rebecca English, told Town & Country Magazine there was a “very different situation” when Camilla joined the royal family and the present.
“They decided the way to do it wasn’t to ‘sell her’. They concluded that the best way to move things forward was to just let her be herself and let people see for themselves what she is actually really likе.”
We believe Camilla is doing an amazing job for the royal family during these tough times when both King Charles and Kate Middleton are battling cancer.
At 55, I Got a Ticket to Greece from a Man I Met Online, But I Wasn’t the One Who Arrived — Story of the Day
At 55, I flew to Greece to meet the man I’d fallen for online. But when I knocked on his door, someone else was already there—wearing my name and living my story.
All my life, I had been building a fortress. Brick by brick.
No towers. No knights. Just a microwave that beeped like a heart monitor, kids’ lunchboxes that always smelled like apples, dried-out markers, and sleepless nights.
I raised my daughter alone.
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Her father disappeared when she was three.
“Like the autumn wind blowing off a calendar,” I once said to my best friend Rosemary, “one page gone, no warning.”
I didn’t have time to cry.
There was rent to pay, clothes to wash, and fevers to battle. Some nights, I fell asleep in jeans, with spaghetti on my shirt. But I made it work. No nanny, no child support, no pity.
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And then… my girl grew up.
She married a sweet, freckled guy who called me ma’am and carried her bags like she was glass. Moved to another state. Started a life. She still called every Sunday.
“Hi, Mom! Guess what? I made lasagna without burning it!”
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I smiled every time.
“I’m proud of you, baby.”
Then, one morning, after her honeymoon, I sat in the kitchen holding my chipped mug and looked around. It was so quiet. No one to shout, “Where’s my math book!” No ponytails bouncing through the hallway. No spilled juice to clean.
Just 55-year-old me. And silence.
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Loneliness doesn’t slam into your chest. It slips in through the window, soft like dusk.
You stop cooking authentic meals. You stop buying dresses. You sit with a blanket, watching rom-coms, and think:
“I don’t need grand passion. Just someone to sit next to me. Breathe beside me. That would be enough.”
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And that’s when Rosemary burst into my life again, like a glitter bomb in a church.
“Then sign up for a dating site!” she said one afternoon, stomping into my living room in heels too high for logic.
“Rose, I’m 55. I’d rather bake bread.”
She rolled her eyes and dropped onto my couch.
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“You’ve been baking bread for ten years! Enough already. It’s time you finally baked a man.”
I laughed. “You make it sound like I can sprinkle him with cinnamon and put him in the oven.”
“Honestly, that would be easier than dating at our age,” she muttered, yanking out her laptop. “Come here. We’re doing this.”
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“Let me just find a photo where I don’t look like a saint or a school principal,” I said, scrolling through my camera roll.
“Oh! This one,” she said, holding up a picture from my niece’s wedding. “Soft smile. Shoulder exposed. Elegant but mysterious. Perfect.”
She clicked and scrolled like a professional speed dater.
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“Too much teeth. Too many fish. Why are they always holding fish?” Rosemary mumbled.
Then she froze.
“Wait. Here. Look.”
And there it was:
“Andreas58, Greece.”
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I leaned closer. A quiet smile. A tiny stone house with blue shutters in the background. A garden. Olive trees.
“Looks like he smells like olives and calm mornings,” I said.
“Ooooh,” Rosemary grinned. “And he messaged you FIRST!”
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“He did?”
She clicked. His messages were short. No emojis. No exclamation marks. But warm. Grounded. Real. He told me about his garden, the sea, baking fresh bread with rosemary, and collecting salt from the rocks.
And on the third day… he wrote:
“I’d love to invite you to visit me, Martha. Here, in Paros.”
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I just stared at the screen. My heart thudded like it hadn’t in years.
Am I still alive if I’m afraid of romance again? Could I really leave my little fortress? For an olive man?
I needed Rosemary. So I called her.
“Dinner tonight. Bring pizza. And whatever that fearless energy of yours is made of.”
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***
“This is karma!” Rosemary shouted. “I’ve been digging through dating sites for six months like an archaeologist with a shovel, and you—bam!—you’ve got a ticket to Greece already!”
“It’s not a ticket. It’s just a message.”
“From a Greek man. Who owns olive trees. That’s basically a Nicholas Sparks novel in sandals.”
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“Rosemary, I can’t just run off like that. This isn’t a trip to IKEA. This is a man. In a foreign country. He might be a bot from Pinterest, for all I know.”
Rosemary rolled her eyes. “Let’s be smart about this. Ask him for pictures—of his garden, the view from his house, I don’t care. If he’s fake, it’ll show.”
“And if he’s not?”
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“Then you pack your swimsuit and fly.”
I laughed, but wrote to him. He replied within the hour. The photos came in like a soft breeze.
The first showed a crooked stone path lined with lavender. The second—a little donkey with sleepy eyes standing. The third—a whitewashed house with blue shutters and a faded green chair.
And then… a final photo. A plane ticket. My name on it. Flight in four days.
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I stared at the screen like it was a magic trick. I blinked twice. Still there.
“Is this happening? Is this actually… real?”
“Let me see! Oh, God! Of course, real, silly! Pack your bags,” Rosemary exclaimed.
“Nope. Nope. I’m not going. At my age? Flying into the arms of a stranger? This is how people end up in documentaries!”
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Rosemary didn’t say anything at first. Just kept chewing her pizza.
Then she sighed. “Okay. I get it. It’s a lot.”
I nodded, hugging my arms around myself.
***
That night, after she left, I was curled on the couch under my favorite blanket when my phone buzzed.
Text from Rosemary: “Imagine! I got an invitation too! Flying to my Jean in Bordeaux. Yay!”
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“Jean?” I frowned. “She never even mentioned a Jean.”
I stared at the message for a long time.
Then, I got up, walked to my desk, and opened the dating site. I had an irresistible desire to write to him, to thank him and accept his proposition. But the screen was empty.
His profile—gone. Our messages—gone. Everything—gone.
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He must’ve removed his account. Probably thought I ghosted him. But I still had the address. He had sent it in one of the early messages. I’d scribbled it on the back of a grocery receipt.
Moreover, I had the photo. And the plane ticket.
If not now, then when? If not me—then who?
I walked to the kitchen, poured a cup of tea, and whispered into the night,
“Screw it. I’m going to Greece.”
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***
As I stepped off the ferry in Paros, the sun hit me like a soft, warm slap.
The air smelled different. Not like home. There, it was saltier. Wilder. I pulled my little suitcase behind me—it thumped like a stubborn child refusing to be dragged through adventure.
Past sleepy cats stretched on windowsills like they’d ruled the island for centuries. Past grandmothers in black scarves were sweeping their doorsteps.
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I followed the blue dot on my phone screen. My heart pounded like it hadn’t in years.
What if he’s not there? What if it’s all a weird dream, and I’m standing in front of a stranger’s house in Greece?
I paused at the gate. Deep breath. Shoulders back. My fingers hovered over the bell. Ding. The door creaked open.
Wait… What?! No way! Rosemary!
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Barefoot. Wearing a flowing white dress. Her lipstick was fresh. Her hair was curled into soft waves. She looked like a yogurt commercial came to life.
“Rosemary? Weren’t you supposed to be in France?”
She tilted her head like a curious cat.
“Hello,” she purred. “You came? Oh, darling, that’s so unlike you! You said you weren’t flying. So I decided… to take the chance.”
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“You’re pretending to be me?”
“Technically, I created your account. Taught you everything. You were my… project. I just went to the final presentation.”
“But… how? Andreas’s account disappeared. And the messages, too.”
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“Oh, I saved the address, deleted your messages, and removed Andreas from your friends. Just in case you changed your mind. I didn’t know you knew how to save photos or the ticket.”
I wanted to scream. To cry. To slam the suitcase down and yell. But I didn’t. Just then, another shadow moved toward the door.
Andreas…
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“Hi, ladies.” He looked from me to her.
Rosemary immediately latched onto him, grabbing his arm.
“This is my friend Rosemary. She just happened to come. We told you about her, remember?”
“I came because of your invitation. But…”
He looked at me. His eyes were dark like the sea waves.
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“Well… that’s strange. Martha already arrived earlier, but…”
“I’m Martha!” I blurted.
Rosemary chirped sweetly.
“Oh, Andreas, my friend just got a bit anxious about me leaving. She always babysat me. So she must’ve flown here to check if everything’s fine—and you’re not a scammer.”
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Andreas was clearly charmed by Rosemary. He laughed at her antics.
“Alright then… Stay. You can figure things out. We’ve got enough room here.”
Whatever magic was supposed to be there—it had been hijacked…
My friend was playing against me. But I had a chance to stay and set things straight. Andreas deserved the truth, even if it wasn’t as sparkling as Rosemary.
“I’ll stay,” I smiled, accepting the rules of Rosemary’s game.
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***
Dinner was delicious, the view was perfect, and the mood—tight, like Rosemary’s silk blouse after a croissant.
She was all smiles and giggles, filling the air with her voice like perfume with nowhere else to go.
“Andreas, do you have any grandkids?” Rosemary purred.
Finally! There it was. My chance.
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I set down my fork slowly, looked up with the calmest face I could manage, and said, “Didn’t he tell you he has a grandson named Richard?”
Rosemary’s face flickered, just for a second. Then she lit up.
“Oh, right! Your… Richard!”
I smiled politely.
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“Oh, Andreas,” I added, looking straight at him, “but you don’t have a grandson. It’s a granddaughter. Rosie. She wears pink hair ties and loves drawing cats on the walls. And her favorite donkey—what’s his name again? Oh, that’s right. ‘Professor.'”
The table went quiet. Andreas turned to look at Rosemary. She froze, then let out a nervous chuckle.
“Andreas,” she said softly, trying to sound playful, “I think Rosemary is joking strangely. You know my memory…”
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Her hand reached for her glass, and I noticed it trembled.
Mistake one. But I am not done.
“And Andreas, don’t you share the same hobby as Martha? It’s so sweet how you both enjoy the same things.”
Rosemary frowned for a moment… then lit up. “Oh yes! Antique shops! Andreas, that’s wonderful. What was your latest find? I bet this island has tons of little treasures!”
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Andreas set down his fork.
“There are no antique shops here. And I’m not into antiques.”
Mistake number two. Rosemary is on the hook now. I continue.
“Of course, Andreas. You restore old furniture. You told me the last thing you made was a beautiful table still in your garage. Remember you’re supposed to sell it to a woman down the street?”
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Andreas frowned, then turned to Rosemary.
“You’re not Martha. How did I not see this right away? Show me your passport, please.”
She tried to laugh it off. “Oh, come on, don’t be dramatic…”
But passports don’t joke. A minute later, everything was on the table like the check at a restaurant. No surprises. Just an unpleasant truth.
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“I’m sorry,” Andreas said softly, turning back to Rosemary. “But I didn’t invite you.”
Rosemary’s smile cracked. She stood up fast.
“Real Martha’s boring! She’s quiet, always thinking things through, and never improvises! With her, it’ll feel like living in a museum!”
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“That’s exactly why I fell for her. For her attention to detail. For the pauses. For not rushing into things: because she wasn’t chasing thrills, she was seeking truth.”
“Oh, I just seized the moment to build happiness!” Rosemary yelled. “Martha was too slow and less invested than I was.”
“You cared more about the itinerary than the person,” Andreas replied. “You asked about the size of the house, the internet speed, the beaches. Martha… she knows what color ribbons Rosie wears.”
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Rosemary huffed and grabbed her bag.
“Well, suit yourself! But you’ll run from her in three days. You’ll get tired of the silence. And the buns daily.”
She stormed around the house like a hurricane, stuffing clothes into her suitcase with the fury of a tornado in heels. Then—slam. The door shook in its frame.
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Andreas and I just sat there on the terrace. The sea whispered in the distance. The night wrapped around us like a soft shawl.
We drank herbal tea without a word.
“Stay for a week,” he said after a while.
I looked at him. “What if I never want to leave?”
“Then we’ll buy another toothbrush.”
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And the following week…
We laughed. We baked buns. We picked olives with sticky fingers. We walked along the shore, not saying much.
I didn’t feel like a guest. I didn’t feel like someone passing through. I felt alive. And I felt… at home.
Andreas asked me to stay a bit longer. And I… wasn’t in a rush to go back.
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