Do I have too many friends?

Saint-Tropez, France

Can one have too many friends? I asked myself this question as we prepared yet another dinner party for ten people, at which I ate and drank far too much as usual. Forget bikini body — it’s kaftan time in Saint-Tropez at the moment for me. We’ve been at our villa in the south of France for nearly three months this summer and during that time we have hosted thirty-four guests, who stayed anywhere between three days and two weeks. We’ve hosted two daughters, one son, in-laws and cousins, several dozen friends and one baby granddaughter, and they have kept Percy and me on our social toes. But we really truly enjoy it, as most of the time the majority of our guests know how to behave in other people’s homes.

However, some most definitely do not. Throughout the three decades of tenure in my quiet and beautiful Provençal villa, there have been a few standout bad-mannered oafs who will never be invited back. One memorable ex-friend arrived from New York with a duffel bag. Emptying it on to the kitchen floor, out spilled a grubby selection of shorts, socks and shirts. “See that they get washed and ironed,” he demanded of my minimal staff, then poured himself a large serving of red wine into a glass and proceeded to head down to the pool. “Uh, sorry, but we only use plastic glasses down by the pool,” I called after him. “Don’t worry, I won’t spill it,” he called back insouciantly over his shoulder. Half an hour later, I discovered him lying in the pool on a lilo, nursing the wine and chatting away to a nubile young guest, regaling her with exaggerated tales of New York life. “If that red wine spills, or heaven forfend the glass breaks, we’ll have to empty the pool to clean it,” I admonished. “Oh, you’re such a nag,” he replied, whereupon he tried to get off the lilo and spilled the entire contents into the pool.

Then there was the guest who was called away from the pool to take a phone call, in the days before cell phones. He proceeded to tramp through the house soaking wet and took a half-hour phone call while he dripped all over my pristine office. This same ex-friend also consumed a considerable amount of the grape during his time, but when one of my friends suggested they visit the local winery to replenish my dwindling stock, he snorted: “It’s OK. She’s still got two or three bottles left.” A more recent guest requested freshly laundered towels in her bathroom every day. “What am I, the Ritz?” I quipped.

My French is rusty, to say the least, thanks in part to a very strict French teacher at Francis Holland who absolutely insisted on teaching how to grammatically conjugate and recite our verbs before we even attempted conversational French. Thus, I am adept at je suis, vous êtes etc. etc., but hopeless at carrying on a cheery chat with the gardener. I was informed that someone had left a package for me at the local pharmacy. When I struggled to explain this to the owner in my fractured français, she shook her head, looked puzzled and said: “Je ne comprends pas.” I tried again to explain: “Je m’appelle
Joan Collins. Y a-t-il un… erm, package… pour moi?” “Que?” she asked, doing a fair imitation of Manuel from Fawlty Towers. “Joan Collins! Je suis. Vous avez une… livraison… pour moi?” I whispered urgently as a line formed behind me. I looked helplessly back at my three non-French-speaking pals, as several people in the queue smirked. “Je ne comprends pas,” the chemist said firmly — and just as I was about to beat a hasty retreat, a charming Frenchman bellowed “Elle est Joan Collins!” and proceeded to explain to the sorcerer’s apprentice what I was asking for. “Ah! No. Il n’y a rien ici,” she said, briskly saying that no package had been waiting for me. Crestfallen, I strolled out trying to look cool, while the Gallic gang smiled knowingly and my pals giggled.

I’ve read so many books while we’ve been here, and it seems that the older they are, the more interesting I find them. Modern novels lack pace, characterization and description — all of which I use liberally in my novels and articles. “It’s not modern,” says my agent. “We need more angst and fewer adjectives.” “Well, you won’t get that from me,” I replied. “There’s enough angst in the world without me adding to it.” So now I’ve turned to Dickens and Steinbeck to enthrall me. At least the angst has a purpose. I may even give Jeffrey Archer a whirl when I finish Cannery Row.

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s October 2024 World edition.