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How is the leg, Miss Collins? I ask. ‘Quite painful,’ she says, pursing those red hot lips bravely.
We enter the restaurant. A table has been reserved at the back. The waiters fuss like mad. Joan says: ‘Would you mind paying for this, darling? It’s just that my publishers won’t and you’ll get it back from The Spectator, won’t you?’ She’s a cunning little minx. No wonder she can afford beautiful Gucci leather jackets. She has also, I think, commandeered a lady from Waterstone’s to find out how many copies of her book their various branches have in stock. Joan is not pleased to discover that Birmingham has only 11. She may even be outraged. ‘Birmingham have 11, you say? I’m not going to get on the bestseller list with that! I think that’s pitiful, actually.’ The lady returns to say Newcastle have 17. ‘I think I’m going to change profession,’ says Joan glumly. I don’t know if she’s going to march into her publisher’s office first thing and demand more books be sent out, but I wouldn’t discount it. Joan does look after her own interests marvellously. And I say that worshipfully, with complete admiration.
From the moment we sit down she is bothered by autograph hunters every few minutes. I’d find it very tiresome, I say. ‘It’s just part of the package,’ says Joan. Why do you think the public love you so much? ‘Do you think they do?’ she says. Yes, I do. ‘I think it’s because I’m totally honest. I don’t bullshit and I don’t really tolerate fools gladly and I think a lot of my opinions are opinions people agree with and I think to some extent there is the glamour. People like that. And there is possibly the fact that I went to America and made a name for myself when I was a very young girl, and then came back to England and then went again when I was in my forties and made another name for myself. Also, I think there are still a lot of people around who remember me when I was a teenage pin-up girl. A lot of ancient old guys still come up to me.’
I say I’d read that she was once voted Bird of the Year, beating Bardot and Raquel Welch. She says she doesn’t remember that. ‘But I do remember being voted Sexiest Woman in the World.’ Well, I say, as you know full well I wasn’t available to compete that particular year. ‘Of course, darling,’ she says kindly.
The tea arrives. It’s one of those three-tiered jobs with crustless sandwiches, scones, dainty cakes. ‘Oh wonderful,’ says Joan, ‘fabulous. Thank you! There is nothing like an English tea, particularly since all I had for lunch was a naff coronation chicken that I picked up in Marks & Spencer. I think it was past its sell-by date. Do help yourself.’ I think I rather might, darling, as I appear to be paying for it.
She is proud of her book. It is a dynastic family saga peopled by women who look up through ‘forests of lashes’ and are called Venetia or Atlanta or Stefania but never, for some reason, Pam or Betty or Vera. She loves to write. ‘When I’m writing I see the scene. I even say all the dialogue and act out the parts.’ Misfortune’s Daughters, page 206: ‘Her notorious tongue was in his mouth, her notorious hands were pulling down his trousers, and her notorious breasts were being rubbed against his shirt.’ No, I’m afraid I didn’t have the guts to ask if she acted that out and, if so, if it made Percy’s day. I like to think so, though. As for her writing heroes, they include Charles Dickens, Gore Vidal, Truman Capote and ‘I love a really good thriller.’
I ask her if she is still a Ukip person. The conversation goes as follows:
‘What is a Ukip person?’
‘A supporter of Ukip.’
‘I’m not a supporter. I’m a patron.’
‘And the difference is?’
‘Patron means they put my name at the head of their paper. And it means I could be a supporter but it doesn’t necessarily mean I’m going to vote that way. I understand there have been some changes.’
Well, Kilroy’s trying to turn it into the United Kilroy Independent Party.’
‘I’m not that politically orien tated.’
‘Would you vote for Ukip?’
‘I’ve got to know a bit more about their policy. This was four months ago [when she agreed to a Ukip photocall] and, to be quite frank, I have not been concentrating on British politics too much. Would you vote for them?’
‘Nope. They’re just anti-Euro, anti-immigration, and that’s it. They have no real policies to speak of.’
‘I thought they did have quite reasonable policies, but you know what, Deborah, I really don’t want to get into politics. Have a sandwich.’
I think I’ve basically been told to shut up, but then she re-introduces the subject herself. ‘I don’t know why everyone is so fascinated with me and Ukip,’ she says. I say it’s possibly because it’s a side to Joan Collins that people haven’t seen, this political side. ‘Really? I was always going on about how much I loved Maggie Thatcher. I don’t remember that causing much of an outcry. I was a huge Thatcherite and nobody seemed to give a damn, so why all of a sudden this whole thing with Ukip? It doesn’t make any sense to me.’ OK, what do you think about the Blair lot? ‘Not a lot. Somebody told me last night he dyes his hair. Is that true? God we need a leader, don’t we? Desperate, desperate, desperate for a leader…look, I’m eating all the clotted cream.’ I’m guessing I am now definitely being told to shut up, which is a shame, as I wanted to ask her why everything about Ukip — You-Kip, Roger Knapman — seems designed to put people to sleep.
Our time is nearly up, as I’ve been allotted only a short space. So we briefly chat about recent films she has loved (De-Lovely), those that were ‘ghastly’ (Stepford Wives) and her own acting career. There’s work she’s been proud of, like Tonight at 8.30 for the BBC, and work she would happily incinerate, like the film The Empire of the Ants. ‘I know it’s a cult film but I think it’s one of the most schlocky, ghastly pieces of crap. I did it to pay my children’s school fees. There is this misconception that I was born with unlimited amounts of money, but the only money I have has been made.’ We are interrupted by a store executive who wants to introduce herself. ‘We are all so excited to have you here today,’ she says. ‘Do you think my book will sell well here?’ asks Joan. She is reassured that it will. ‘Good, because half the shops don’t have it in!’
Joan Collins is smart, but not always smart. She has married some awful creeps and I’m not sure her appearance at the Ukip photocall was especially well thought out. But she has always been absolutely and relentlessly true to herself, which is what I think people love and respect. Anyway, Joan has to call it a day. ‘My leg hurts and I need to go and lie down.’ I get the bill, then I walk out alone, which is a shame. I liked it better when I walked through Harrods with Joan, although God knows what people were thinking. What’s that wonderful glamourpuss doing with that dowdy old frump? Oh, poor Ms Collins.
Misfortune’s Daughters is published by Robson Books at £16.99.
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