For Lukas.

Simon Doonan, author of WACKY CHICKS and long-term window-dresser at Barney's, was asked to help promote Joan Collins' new tome, THE ART OF LIVING WELL, at a recent Barnes and Noble book-signing. Though he'd submitted his questions in advance at her request, Joan arrived and wasn't having it. Maybe she wasn't just playing a bitch on DYNASTY... Anyway, here's Simon's delightfully-written account of the heart-breaking fiasco:

Me Krystle, You Joan!
Collins-quy Turns Ugly
By Simon Doonan


What was I doing, helping Joan Collins flog copies of her sizzling new self-help mega-tome, The Art of Living Well: Looking Good, Feeling Great (Sourcebooks), on my 54th birthday last Monday at the Borders store in the Time Warner Center? A fair question.

Several months ago, I was asked by the Borders events manager to host a book-signing for La Collins. Apparently the great lady had penned another masterpiece and, in lieu of doing a reading, had requested that yours truly interview her à la Dick Cavett. Having done the same for sister Jackie Collins—fab, funny and relaxed—at the 92nd Street Y a couple of years back, I was looking forward to notching another Collins on my walking stick. My goal is to add Phil and Judy before my 60th.

At Joan’s request, I submitted questions in advance. These were constructed after conscientiously breezing through The Art of Living Well. (This hilarious book—at $24.95, a great ironic camp holiday gift—is liberally plastered with photos of Joan flaunting herself in various outfits, locations and decades.) I was at pains to make these questions cheeky and unpedestrian. This approach seemed to mirror the spirit of Joan’s occasional diary for the U.K.’s Spectator, of which I am an enthusiastic reader.

I was excited about the whole encounter. I had visions of striking up a wild rapport with Joan. After all, we had so much in common: We were both low-born, stop-at-nothing, first-generation immigrants who had come to the U.S. and clawed our way to the middle, albeit in different fields. We both enjoy the attentions of a younger husband. And then there are the wigs: Though hers are expensive handmade jobs and mine are cheapo nylon numbers made for window mannequins, wigs loom large on our respective horizons. Having spent extended periods of time in Lima, I also looked forward to swapping carjacking stories with Joan’s Peruvian-born husband, Percy. I had visions of calling my Jonny and making up an après-book-signing foursome at the eaterie of Joan’s choice. (Even though it was my birthday, I would let her choose.)

’Twas not to be.

Enter La Collins. When the events manager introduced us, Joan, who was wearing black satin slacks with a fab chinoise-y top with flyaway bits, recoiled in horror. “I knew nothing of this!” she gasped, splaying a hand on her upper chest and adding: “And I hate these kinds of surprises!” Sphincters tightened. Knuckles whitened. So great was the maquillaged septuagenarian’s displeasure that I began to have Dynasty déjà vu. I felt as though we were in the middle of a showdown in the lobby of the Mirage country club: Krystle and Alexis were about to slug it out and roll around on Borders’ mauve carpet.

But fighting was out of the question. There was no way I could bring myself to throttle the still-gorgeous icon. Yes, she was having a hissy fit, but, when all is said and done, the lady had just cause: Apparently, horror of horrors, Joan’s people had forgotten to remind her that someone had agreed to come—on his birthday!—and help her peddle books. What kind of monsters were they? How could they treat a great star like that! No wonder she was furious. If, on my next book tour, somebody shows up and tries to help me sell books (on his or her birthday), I will bitch-slap that loser all the way to Carrington headquarters.

The affable S.O. somehow managed to placate his missus. With Percy in tow carrying the Collins fur stole, we proceeded to the speaking area, where we were greeted by loud cheers, a good number of which were directed—sorry, Joanie!— at moi.

Encouraged by the sight of so many well-wishers and familiar faces, I resolved to vanquish the current froideur and kicked off the interview with a rousing quote from Joan’s book: “Relationships, particularly sexual ones, are not just the prerogative of the young …. ”

“Joan, this is my favorite quote,” I gushed. “Would you care to elaborate?”