SARAH VINE: The night I saw a flash of anger from the Queen while Trump held court at a State banquet in his honour

You don’t reach the grand old age of 96 without learning a thing or two about human nature.

Imagine if the late Queen had kept a log of every dignitary she met during her record-breaking reign. What a fascinating document it would be, what insights would lie within its pages.

As Craig Brown notes in his brilliant new book, A Voyage Around The Queen (out this week in The Mail series), she has met almost everyone of note over the past 70 years, including some very shady characters.

Nicolae Ceaușescu, Bashar al-Assad, Robert Mugabe, Idi Amin, Donald Trump, Emperor Hirohito, Vladimir Putin – they were all entertained by Her Majesty.

Apart from the time she allegedly hid behind a bush to avoid talking to Ceaușescu, she usually expressed her opinions about her guests in a superficial manner.

For example, Lord Blunkett once said that during Vladimir Putin’s state visit in 2003, the Russian Prime Minister arrived almost 15 minutes late.

When his entourage finally came into view, Blunkett’s guide dog, Sadie, began barking. Embarrassed, he apologized to the Queen. She simply replied: “Dogs have interesting instincts, don’t they?”

She had a brilliant way of making her feelings known in a few carefully chosen sentences, perhaps her most famous being ‘memories may vary’ – her scathing response to the Duke and Duchess of Sussex’s absurd Oprah Winfrey interview in 2021.

It is therefore logical that the late Elizabeth II must have been quite irritated when she criticized a head of state – and not just any head of state: Donald Trump, the then President of America, one of Britain’s closest allies.

According to Brown, during a lunch a few weeks after one of his official visits, she described Trump to a fellow traveler as “very rude.” He wrote that “she was particularly bothered by the way he kept looking over her shoulder, as if he were looking for others who were more interesting.”

She also reportedly speculated that he must have “some sort of arrangement” with his wife Melania, otherwise why would she have stayed married to him?

Ouch. I mean, neither of these opinions are particularly controversial among Trump critics; but coming from the late queen herself, ever such an astute judge of character, that’s pretty damning.

Especially since The Donald, as usual, thought he was a huge success. “There are people who say they’ve never seen the Queen have such a good time, such a lively time,” he told Fox News.

The Queen and Trump met twice in a row, in 2018 and 2019. The second time was during a state visit, when he saw her in a more informal setting at Windsor Castle (that’s when he famously walked ahead of her, forcing her to walk past him); and again, in the much more formal setting of a state banquet at Buckingham Palace.

There they sat side by side in the splendor of the banquet hall, at a huge U-shaped table covered in beautiful flowers and glittering crystal, flanked by ever-vigilant equerries and tiara-laden ladies-in-waiting.

I know because, astonishingly, I was there, somewhere at the bottom of that table, next to Sir Simon Case (now the head of the Civil Service, but at the time the man in charge of Prince William’s private office), and one step away from Tiffany Trump, the president’s daughter from his second marriage to Marla Maples. A pretty shallow vessel, as I discovered when I tried to engage her in conversation.

It was a beautiful evening, my first (and doubtless last) glimpse of that wonderful world. The circumstances were somewhat bizarre: Jeremy Corbyn (the then leader of the opposition), a staunch Republican, had declined his invitation; as a result, my then husband, Michael Gove, had been invited in his capacity as Environment Secretary – and I as his plus-one.

I remember it like it was yesterday: the paintings, the gilding, the Beefeaters, the slightly bizarre choice of music, the unusually dull bowls of crisps at the reception beforehand, the confusing array of cutlery and glasses, the giant mirrors, the polished formality, the Chateau Lafite. Especially the Chateau Lafite.

But the dinner itself wasn’t even the highlight of the evening. That came after the main event, while we were enjoying our coffee and chocolate. A discreet tap on the shoulder and we were led into a side room.

It was the royal equivalent of a lowly Swiftie being given a backstage pass to meet Tay-Tay herself.

As I wrote at the time, it was like walking into Madame Tussauds and discovering that all the wax figures had come to life. On the right, Prince Andrew and Edward. On my left, Ivanka Trump, deep in conversation with the then Duchess of Cambridge. Behind them, Prince Charles and the Duchess of Cornwall, as they were. All just chatting as if this were a perfectly normal drinks party.

Quite surreal, to be honest, especially for a girl from the Mumbles, Wales

In the middle of it all sat Trump, sucking everyone who came near him into his orbit, like a giant, pulsating orange sun. His presence was palpable—that strange figure, his chest puffed out, his head tilted back, his jaw jutting out, that unique diction. Not charisma, exactly, but something else, a mix of bravado, arrogance, and extreme awkwardness.

And yes, he kept looking over the shoulder of the person he was talking to, to see if there was anyone more interesting in the room.

Melania kept herself far away from the bustle around him. Yet she watched the events like a cat, her face as inscrutable as that of the Mona Lisa.

I walked over to where she stood, next to the American ambassador’s wife, whom I vaguely recognized. Up close, Melania looked older, but those cat eyes of hers were mesmerizing, as was her beautiful white dress against her expensive tan. Everything about her was impeccable, from her appearance to her conversation, down to the last detail the perfect political wife.

We got to talking and then, as always on these occasions, Melania was led away to talk to someone more important and suddenly I was alone.

Then I saw her. Out of the corner of my eye, a small, dazzling figure in glittering white and diamonds moving across the floor, just inches away from me. The Queen herself, Elizabeth II.

Except something was wrong. She didn’t seem happy at all; I would even go so far as to say she was extremely displeased. All around me, several equestrians and court ladies froze in their positions, their royal antennae clearly on high alert.

“Who left that door open?” she snapped at a nearby footman, the irritation in her voice audible. “That door is supposed to stay closed.”

It was clear that something – or maybe someone – had tested her patience to the limit. It was also very clear that she had had enough of one night and that the evening, as far as she was concerned, was over.

The ladies of the court fluttered toward her and surrounded her like a flock of elegant old swans—and she was gone.

Was it The Donald who had made her angry? Or was she just angry because someone had left a door open?

Memories can vary, of course. But I have a sneaking feeling that Craig Brown is right: the door had nothing to do with it.