The generosity and graciousness of Jilly Cooper

Over many years as a journalist, writing for newspapers as well as authoring books, I’ve dealt with a sizeable number of celebs. And believe me, the majority are not exactly likeable. Well, no doubt their chums find them so, but their fame and money and ‘specialness’ tend to imbue them with haughtiness and self-importance, traits they bestow on those they regard as ‘the little people’. Their genial public personas are, I’ve often discovered, merely flimsy facades. The most shining exception to this general rule was Jilly Cooper, whose death at the age of 88 was just announced. I was deeply saddened to learn of it. We never met in person, and yet I feel I knew her well.

Back in the 1990s I was still reasonably young and a newby to the often onerous demands made on Fleet Street journos, one of the most onerous being assigned the task of the ‘celebrity ring-round’. You are given the phone numbers of a wide range of public figures and must call them up out of the blue to ask them some (usually trifling) question, such as ‘What do you wear when you go to bed?’ or ‘What would be your worst nightmare?’ It was always older men with the most avuncular, lovable public personalities – such as that dear old teddy bear John Betjeman and warm-hearted broadcaster Alistair Cooke  – who gave me the shortest shrift, an impatient rude rebuff before hanging up. I was once even made to cry (this was before I developed a thicker skin) by that master interrogator Robin Day. My colleagues comforted me with: ‘Come on, what did you expect from him?’      

But one name on the ring-round list never failed me, and that was Jilly. One late afternoon I was desperate to complete my ring-round before the 5 p.m. deadline – I can no longer remember what the frivolous question was on that occasion – and I phoned the Cooper household. Jilly answered. I told her who I was and why I was calling. She told me, in her typical ‘jolly Jilly’ manner, that she was in the kitchen preparing dinner for a party of ten. I apologised profusely… but she merely laughed. ‘That’s quite alright, sweetie,’ she said. ‘I used to work for newspapers myself. I remember what it’s like. What would you like to know?’ And she proceeded to give an amusing and witty off-the-cuff quote which made the entire piece sparkle.

She was never too busy, too tired or too irritable to speak to me, and was always exceedingly ‘good copy’. But quite how generous and gracious she was I found out only years later, by which time I had graduated out of the ring-round circus. I penned a newspaper feature bemoaning my book club and explaining why I had decided to leave it. The club comprised half a dozen women whose highbrow book choices always made me groan: massive tomes by Trollope or George Eliot, or something tiresome and indigestible by Simone de Beauvoir. The women were pleasant enough while chatting about our daily lives, families and holidays, but given a weighty volume to probe they turned into a bunch of ostentatiously point-scoring bluestockings. To my mind, their lumbering literary musings only got in the way of an enjoyable girls’ night out, and as this made me a distinctly unsuitable member of the group, I dropped out. I ended the piece by confessing my relief at relaxing at home, guilt-free, with ‘the latest Jilly Cooper book’ and a box of Smarties. The headline read: ‘George Eliot? I’d rather read Jilly Cooper! No wonder I quit my pretentious book club.’

A few days later I received a small package. Inside was a box of posh chocs and a note from Jilly. She said she had been suffering from writer’s block and feeling low, then came across my piece and read it with such delight that it lifted her entire mood, and she thanked me. ‘Not Smarties, but here are some chocolates for you to enjoy.’ I cannot think of any other celeb, be it a literary, showbiz or media figure, who would have made such a gesture.

Farewell Dame Jilly Cooper, writer of fabulous racy bestsellers and celeb with a heart of gold. May your name and fame be forever burnished in the annals of our popular culture.