She canters through anecdotes: war, men, monarchy. “I do rabbit away, so I hope the batteries are going to stand up.” She has no doubts about her own stamina, but a few about my voice recorder’s. She sits opposite me with a sleek bob, pearl drop earrings and a long purple scarf. Seventy-one years after Tatler named her debutante of the year, the poise remains. “Do you think I could order a glass of white wine, please? Sauvignon Blanc, medium,” she tells the waitress the moment we sit down. She leads me from our designated table near other diners to an empty dining room behind a curtain. I thereby join the list of men who have underestimated her. I’d worried that Glenconner, now 89, would be a frail interviewee. In her late eighties, she has excelled as an author, writing a riveting memoir and two page-turner novels. She spent three decades as lady-in-waiting to Princess Margaret. This has been the pattern of Glenconner’s life: at birth, she disappointed men ever since, they’ve disappointed her.
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