My friend Angela Lambert died early yesterday morning. She had been horribly ill for a long time; had indeed sent a message to all her friends in April saying “Goodbye”, so I was able to tease her about missing a deadline in the summer. I know that Andreas Whittam Smith has written an obit, and there is a rather nasty and inadequate one in the Telegraph today.
Her last book, on Eva Braun, was an unedited mess because of a mixture of her illness and publishers’ greed. But some of her earlier novels were lovely. What I treasure her for, though, was a tremendous appetite and joy in life. She was theatrical and melodramatic, and she loved being both. She had a wonderful appreciation of wine, food, literature and men — but also humans, generally, in all their flawed, greedy splendour. In her presence, life was more vivid and worthwhile, if seldom more improving. She loved Tony Price very greatly, too and was extremely happy with him for the last 21 years of her life.