She’s 91 but hates being defined by it, and in her last memoir, Behind the Shoulder Pads, listed the ages of all the journalists vulgar enough to bring it up (I’m 58, Joan, for the next volume). She’s in her “uniform”, a 10-year-old Erdem dress (“I used to love him but he changed his style”), a white jacket she designed herself and a hat “bought for $10 in an American supermarket” — she has homes in LA and St Tropez as well as Belgravia. Smaller than I expected from her regal image, she has good skin, a level, green-eyed gaze, a deliciously wry smile and a quick wit.
Joan Collins interview: desire, divorce and divadom
