JAN MOIR: My trip to Meghan Markle’s pop up shop where even the Montecito set baulk at £24 for a jar of honey!

Holy jar of sainted jam, I think, driving along Route 101 from Montecito to Summerland in the rosy sunshine of a Californian winter. What a week from hell it has been for the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, even by their own calamitous standards.

I’m en route to visit Meghan’s As Ever pop-up shop in a posh bookstore by the beach, where she is selling her festive gift boxes of jam spreads, scented candles, herb teas and honey duos directly to the real housewives of the American Riviera, should they be interested in her mulling spice kits (a racket in a packet) for £12.50 or a tin of her damnable flower sprinkles (twigs in a tin) for £11. You have to admire the boldness of the pricing, if nothing else. And the gold velvet ribbons are lovely, too.

But before we get there, let us consider where Harry and Meghan are in their own little shop of horrors right now – and the sad truth is that to some, they are increasingly much more bargain bin than top shelf.

The recent Kardashian party at the Jeff Bezos mansion in Beverly Hills was a case in point. What the hell? The couple made complete fools of themselves by apparently demanding their hosts remove photographs of them at the 007-themed celebration from their social media accounts.

We’re more special than you, was the tacit Sussexian message. We’re different, a cut above.

That must have gone down like a cup of cold carbs with Kimmy & co; that must have made their Skims steam with pure irritation, despite their polite noises to the contrary.

Then in a trailer to launch her forthcoming Netflix seasonal show, Meghan is seen single-handedly inventing Christmas before invading her own privacy by kissing Harry, boiling up some of her twig tea in a saucepan, tablescaping like a lunatic and making a wreath out of broccoli florets before gurgling: ‘I love the holiday season. It’s about finding time to connect with the people we love.’

This from a daughter who has not had time to connect with her own father for seven years, nor with her husband’s father and brother in any meaningful way, not to mention all those sundry friends and half-sisters who have been iced and diced along the way.

Meghan portraying herself as the hostess with the mostest is a little like Cruella de Vil being in charge of a puppy farm – sooner or later the fur is going to fly.

Then on Wednesday came Meghan’s interview with the American edition of Harper’s Bazaar magazine. Clearly any difficult or searching questions were forbidden and instead readers were treated to comic levels of self-importance billowing forth as our favourite jampreneur explained why she is so fabulous.

Do you know what? She makes mistakes, just like ordinary people do. Harry loves her ‘boldly, fully’ and let’s hope she meant that in an emotional way and not an intimate way. She likes to be announced as – booming voice, sound the trumpets – ‘Meghan, Duchess of Sussex’ before she enters a room. Yes, even when there is only one other person in that room and even if that person – I’m theorising now – is Harry.

And she lavishly praises herself for inspiring her children through the medium of raspberries and sugar. ‘I hope they see the value of being brave,’ she said. ‘They saw it when the jam was just a pot on the stove, bubbling.’

Damn that jam. I feel like bubbling myself. You’d think it was the elixir of life, the way she goes on about it – but perhaps for Meghan, it really is that important. The jam is the lodestar of her As Ever brand and it is why I am here at Godmothers, situated in a white 1920s barn in the seaside town of Summerland.

Handily it is close to Harry and Meghan’s home on the Riven Rock estate in Montecito, part of this wealthy enclave. The glamorous bookstore is the dream of literary agent Jennifer Rudolph Walsh and cosmetics mogul Victoria Jackson, who are both friends with local queen of the scene Oprah Winfrey and therefore now firmly a part of the Sussexes’ Montecito set.

Walsh was instrumental in the publication of Prince Harry’s Spare autobiography in 2023 – he calls her his fairy godmother, hence the name of the store – while Jackson is now part of Meghan’s mahjong gang.

With its log fire, shearling armchairs and wide plank oak floors, this is no ordinary bookshop and the people who come here are far from ordinary, too. Women in Jenni Kayne chocolate cashmere and carrying £3,000 Dior tote bags peruse the shelves, while men in James Perse suede jackets park their gleaming Benzos outside in this world where everything is tasteful, beautiful, covetous, lush.

To get to Meghan’s spacious pop-up you have to pass a stairwell photo shrine to inspirational godmothers ‘who lit the way’ including Frida Kahlo, Michelle Obama, Gloria Steinem, Joan Didion and Oprah herself. ‘It has kind of a holy feeling,’ Rudolph Walsh says of her bookstore. ‘People walk in and they’re called to their sacred self, and it permeates the whole experience.’

Up on the first floor, nestling next to cookbook corner and with ocean views to the front, Meghan has laid out her wares on oak tables; piles of her gift-boxed jams, her honeys, her teas and her two varieties of scented candles, displayed under glass cloches like precious museum artefacts. ‘Meghan likes the one with mint best because it reminds her of her wedding day,’ says one of the glamorous shop assistants.

I don’t have the heart to tell her that anything minty on the day was probably creepy Uncle Andrew’s mouthwash. For Meghan was so appalled by the ‘musty’ smell of St George’s Chapel in Windsor she wanted to pump in air freshener, a request denied by Buckingham Palace.

Speaking of which, I can’t help but note that Megan has been royally straining with her shop tablescapes, trying to make everything as regal as possible, going for that Downton Abbey vibe Americans love so much.

Jars of her precious jams are displayed on silver salvers – could everyone please curtsey – there are lush bundles of eucalyptus and foliage in silver vases and even a dummy bottle of As Ever sparkling wine – actually filled with water – displayed in a silver ice bucket. The real thing isn’t allowed, as Godmothers don’t have an alcohol licence.

‘Share the Love,’ says a little sign, next to a giant wine box which is the centrepiece of the display. The following words are etched on to the front in bold letters; ‘Thoughtfully Curated by Meghan, Duchess of Sussex.’

The nerve! I mean, really. Five years after they fled Europe to escape the tyranny of inherited privilege, Prince Harry and his ambitious wife continue to skate on the thin ice of pure audacity; maximising all the benefits and lustre of the old life they publicly disparaged and claimed to hate, while using their royal titles as commercial tools to boost sales.

It’s so hypocritical, but it works. There is a frisson of excitement about being close to royalty one can recognise in the customers who crowd around sniffing the candles and wondering if £48 for two jars of honey is a good deal, even if it is made by ‘wow, Duchess Megan’.

Yet my sacred self noted that people were browsing but not buying, while the shop girl wasn’t even sure which product was the best seller. ‘Jam?’ she wondered.

Will this ragbag range of fruit spreads, wines, candles and teas be a royal success? Or will the Duchess of Sussex go down in history as the woman who turned wine into water?

Back home, King Charles and Prince William are considering plans to pare down the monarchy to make it more relatable in 21st-century society. I think we all know where the silver axe should fall first.