Losing Mary Quant was like having a limb torn off with no anaesthetic… writes SHIRLEY CONRAN

Last week, I received the phone call I had been dreading. I thought I had prepared myself for it, but then it happened and I found I was unprepared for how it actually felt. As though an arm had been torn off without anaesthetic.

My best friend, Mary Quant, had been ill for some time before she died on Thursday, April 13, at the age of 93. It made the front page of all the newspapers. I said to her son, Orlando: ‘She would have liked that; she would have been secretly smiling.’ And he said: ‘Yes, she would.’

Mary famously introduced the world to mini-skirts and hotpants; out with the restrictive 1950s wasp-waist silhouette and in with clothes you could turn cartwheels in. She was the most influential fashion designer since Coco Chanel. But she was also my dearest friend — I was closer to her than I was to my two sisters.

You expect to lose your parents because of age, but it’s harder to lose your very close friend. Quite apart from the reminder of your own mortality, there’s the fact they actually become part of you over the years.

Last week, I received the phone call I had been dreading. I thought I had prepared myself for it, but then it happened and I found I was unprepared for how it actually felt, writes Shirley Conran (pictured) about the death of her best friend Mary Quant 

Of course, I knew Mary was going to die. But when her beloved brother, Tony, phoned to tell me last week, the sorrow hit so hard, it numbed me at first. I could not cry, I could not distract myself with work. I didn’t eat a thing for two days. I just sat there, staring out of the window as the hours passed.

This is what love does, and it is universal. I’ve found that just a deliberate touch on your arm or your shoulder shows that another person understands your suffering. And even from a stranger, it’s unbelievably comforting.

When eventually hunger troubled me, I found myself making a comforting chicken soup at four in the morning. A recipe my grandmother had taught me, that I always turn to when I need solace. I put all the ingredients on the kitchen table then sat down to mix them, thinking of Mary.

We had been welded together for nearly 70 years. I was 22 when we met in 1954 in Chelsea, before that area of London became fashionable. Our soon-to-be husbands had been friends at school and all four of us had been to art college.

Of course, we had no idea that Mary — backed by her husband, Alexander Plunket Greene — would soon be an international success. Or that my then husband, Terence Conran, would be knighted for services to design. Neither that my first novel, Lace, would break the European record for a debut with a $1 million advance (including film rights).

Mary and I shared the joys as well as the pains of adulthood: the miscarriages, the adultery, the treachery . . . We both had husbands who weren’t easy and we couldn’t open up to anyone else for fear it would make its way into the Press. A lot of our talk was in a sort of shorthand. We chose our words carefully and read a lot between the lines.

We even had a code word for each other. It started in 1959 when Mary sent me gift — a black sable hat she’d designed — and signed the card, ‘X M’. I said: ‘How do I know it’s from you? It could be M for Marmalade.’ After that, we always called each other Marmalade. When we’d phone, we’d say: ‘Is that Marmalade? This is Marmalade.’

Quant, one of the leading lights of the British fashion scene in the 1960’s, having her hair cut by another fashion icon, hairdresser Vidal Sassoon, on November 10, 1964

In recent years, after Mary became ill, immobilised and couldn’t remember her friends, I would say: ‘It’s Marmalade!’ — and with delight she’d respond: ‘Shirley!’ She would be normal for a few minutes, then become confused.

The last time I saw Mary, she couldn’t move by herself. She had two carers, 24 hours a day. My elder son, Sebastian, drove me to her country home, and Orlando cooked the most wonderful meal of traditional roast lamb with all the trimmings, as taught by his mother, followed by country cheeses.

It was wonderful to be with Mary, but also very distressing. The only other time I had felt so stripped bare was when Sebastian had cheerfully announced he was leaving home aged 18. We all knew, deep down, it would be the last time I saw her. I realised so much work had gone into staging our meeting. There was no knowing how long she had left — in fact, it was as much as two years — but Marmalade often phoned Mary in the interim.

Orlando told me she still had the same visual ability, so I sent carefully chosen gifts for her to enjoy opening, too — beautiful antique toys from the Victoria and Albert Museum and prints of paintings by Egon Schiele, Klimt and a Van Gogh landscape that would remind her of the house she bought near mine in South-West France when we were in our 60s.

We understood each other so well that Mary always knew just how to cheer me up, and I hope I did in return. We often sent each other thoughtful little gifts when the pressure got too much. Sudden global success is like being punched in the belly — exhausting.

Mary’s first shop, Bazaar, on the King’s Road, was an instant success in 1955 — so was Alexander’s, the Italian restaurant in its white-washed, low-lit basement.

With good Italian cooks — a rarity in London then — it caught on very fast; among the diners was Audrey Hepburn, and Prince Rainier could be seen canoodling with Grace Kelly.

Meanwhile, small, quiet, unassuming Mary took fashion by the neck and shook it. I could see that Alexander felt humiliated by the star treatment his wife received. He had been used to being the king of the castle but was suddenly brushed aside as if non-existent.

He was a huge part of her success, of course — as a fashion entrepreneur, he was the link between Mary and the business. But he was still ignored. Alexander, who was tall, slim and very attractive, began to develop a reputation as a womaniser. He was what I would call a bottom patter-pincher (my bottom was patted not pinched).

I noticed he only ever flirted in front of Mary. He wanted to show her — and us — that if Mary wasn’t there, he could have any woman he wanted. Behind Mary’s back, I saw top models practically yank him into bed, but I doubt he actually went. (Unlike Terence, whom I divorced in 1962.)

Mary was an unbelievably pretty, head-turning girl with shiny, conker-coloured, bell-shaped hair. When she had the angular Vidal Sassoon cut, it didn’t strengthen her beauty, shall we say.

I asked her why she’d done it and she said: ‘Oh it just saves time in the morning!’ That really impressed me. Like other girls of our generation, I would never have done anything that would detract from my looks just to make getting up easier. But she was very like that — pragmatic with iron self-discipline, as well as creative.

Quant pictured fitting and making final adjustments to a zip up mini dress being worn by a fashion model in her design studio in London in 1967

In later years, when we were in our 70s, I noticed she’d never visit my huge, glamorous flat in Putney, South-West London. Every morning and evening, on her way to and from work, she would drive past my road, but she’d never drive up it. We used to meet at a fish restaurant near her office in Kensington instead.

I said: ‘Why can’t I ever lure you to my home?’ She replied: ‘Because I’d be jealous.’

I told her she could always copy anything. Her withering response? ‘I am not a copyist.’

On the other hand, she did buy a French farmhouse very like mine. And a throwaway comment I’d made years earlier influenced when she chose to start a family.

She had her son Orlando in 1970, having had a stillborn baby shortly before.

‘Why did you wait so long to have a baby?’ I asked Mary, who was 41 by then.

‘Because you told me you lost your imaginative ability both times you were pregnant,’ she sighed. ‘You said you were as creative as a cow. I couldn’t risk that when I had to produce 22 collections a year and had a workforce dependent on me.’

Mary was a devoted mother. Orlando and his young nanny always accompanied her on business trips, so he was an international traveller by the age of five. They were very, very close.

This made it even more painful for Orlando when he knew his mother was on the way out. He showed such tremendous courage, shouldering the burden of looking after her for the last ten years. She was lucky to have such a devoted son.

In 1990, when Alexander died aged 57, Mary was shattered. After Alexander’s funeral, I said to my sons I’d counted five contenders longing to console her, like greyhounds straining in the slips. My bet was on Lord Rendlesham.

‘That’s six,’ said Jasper.

‘Seven,’ said Sebastian. ‘Don’t forget Antony Rouse.’

ITN news producer Antony was a friend Mary had set me up with years earlier — it had lasted only two years.

Six weeks later I got a postcard from the Italian Riviera which said: ‘I am happy with A.R. X M.’

Antony lived with Mary until he died, more than 20 years later. As I had also been in a relationship with him, Mary knew she could moan to me about his ways. Antony was aware of this and he hated it.

Meanwhile, Alexander had left Mary £1 million in cash. Mary was a modest person; she never wanted to overspend. But she spent part of her inheritance on that French farmhouse.

We had some wonderful times together in France. We spent days sightseeing from her hired open-top car, picnicking by the river, walking through the forest or swimming in the nearby lake. We also enjoyed visiting the local market.

Mary was a careful, neat cook. She would never deviate from a recipe, whereas I was a bit more what I call experimental and Mary called slapdash. Mary was a careful eater, too, determined to stay as slim as a pin, while I did not.

Once Alexander told me of how he and Mary had spent Christmas at the home of a Vogue fashion editor. ‘It was amusing to watch and see who would be the first one to break their diet and eat a Brussels sprout.’

Mary and I were both worshippers of the great cookery writer, Elizabeth David. As Elizabeth lived in Chelsea when we did, we soon met. The first time Elizabeth came to dinner with the four of us, we were very anxious. After several sleepless nights, I served two cold dishes that couldn’t go wrong: egg mayonnaise followed by cold ham and salad.

Much later, Elizabeth told me that she generally got cold ham and salad when she was dining with someone for the first time. (When I started Femail in 1968, I immediately signed up Elizabeth, who was the Daily Mail cookery writer for about six months.)

Mary and I shared many good meals, and whoever could afford to paid the bill. When we were young, each doing several jobs, we’d go to Rules, where old English food was served by old English waiters (jugged hare was our favourite), and Boulestin, the fading French restaurant when there were hardly any in London.

When we couldn’t afford to eat out, we might have a quick Wimpy and then go to the cinema.

Our ties were closer than friendship. Alexander was godfather to my son, Jasper; Sebastian is godfather to Orlando. As we are all designers, we have always talked the same visual language. Now we are a family in mourning.

Aged 90, like everyone, I know that death is my destiny. While some people have a life coach, I have a death coach, Helen Whitten, who is helping me get my business affairs in order. Otherwise, it will be a nightmare for my executor.

Helen will superintend the ‘She’s Gone’ practicalities. The last thing you want when a loved-one leaves and you feel as if your spine has been shattered is to decide how much to spend on a coffin. Me? I want the cheapest possible — a cardboard box. And don’t turn off the life-support until I’m a size 10.

When I leave this Earth, Helen will also be able to tell my heart’s loves what I hope to leave for them (and I don’t mean money).

When our friend the author Bruce Chatwin died, he was cremated; his wife, Elizabeth, his agent and I were the only people present. From the crematorium chimney, we saw Bruce float gracefully, a pale grey scarf, into the sky. Gradually, gradually, gradually, he disappeared into the blue. That’s the way I want to go.

Just before Mary died, Orlando sent me a thoughtful email, saying she was quiet and peaceful in her home, while outside her window, daffodils covered the garden and the sun shone. That was a comfort to me.

If you really love someone, you don’t completely lose them; they’re in your head for ever. Marmalade will always talk to Mary. When something idiotic happens, I will hear her silent laughter. I will never say goodbye.