D ame Joan Collins is in a grump. I can tell something’s not right the moment she breezes into her baroque drawing room and plonks herself down on the hunter green velvet sofa. We don’t “mwah mwah” for obvious reasons, and she seems far from thrilled to be here. Her big sunglasses stay on.
“How are you?” I inquire tentatively. “Pretty stressed,” she replies.
The problem we are facing is that Collins is going on holiday to Mallorca the following day and our interview is eating into her packing time. It should be noted that packing for Collins is rather different from packing for you or me: she has been known to take 16 suitcases on her travels. And on top of that, she’s double-booked, facing