I meet Joan Collins at Waterstone’s in Harrods, where she is signing copies of her latest novel, Misfortune’s Daughters. There she is, behind a big table and, although it pains me to say it, she is very much starting to look her age, the poor clapped-out old thing. And her fan base is not what it used to be. Sadly, she signs only one, maybe two novels during the full hour she is there, while the manager and I hop from foot to foot with embarrassment. Believe me, I take no pleasure in saying any of this, especially as Joan is not only a regular Spectator diarist but also an avid and devoted Spectator reader. Chances are, she is reading this, right now, in which case …ha! Got you, Joanie! Has the adorable Percy helped you off the floor and back on to your chair yet? I hope you didn’t take too much of a bump. Is the wig back on straight? Just yank it to the left a bit, love. OK, no more silly naughtiness. I’ll start for real now.
I do meet Joan Collins at Harrods where she is signing copies of her latest novel, and the queue is quite something. It goes past Harrods Recommends and past Children and through Fiction and right into Travel. And Joan, of course, looks a total knockout in the full femmy works: diamonds; bouffant wig; eyelashes that could open the batting for England; pouty lips painted a hot, hot red. The husbands may come and largely go (Percy is her fifth) but I think she’d agree that the diamonds and wigs and eyelashes and sizzling lipsticks have always stood loyally by her. She signs a zillion books, and then we’re off to the Georgian Restaurant on the top floor for tea. I get to walk though Harrods with Joan Collins! Me! Here are some of the things I’ve always dreamed about doing:
1) Walking though Harrods with Joan Collins and
2) Nope, that’s about it.
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