Lauren Bacall on Prince Philip's philandering

For 40 years journalist and literary critic Graham Lord interviewed the world's most famous stars.. Now he recalls his encounters with Hollywood's most difficult woman.

Of all the people I ever interviewed, the Hollywood legend Lauren Bacall was by far the most difficult.

Bacall and her first husband, Humphrey Bogart, had been great friends of David Niven, and it was good of her to agree to talk to me about him in 2002 when I was writing the great actor's biography. But trying to fix an interview with her was a nightmare.

By the time I finally walked into her New York apartment block on West 72nd Street, where John Lennon had been murdered two decades before, our appointment had been scheduled and rescheduled at least half a dozen times by a series of everchanging secretaries. The door was opened by Sam Robards, Bacall's 40-yearold actor son by Jason Robards, when I arrived at 4.55 pm for my five o'clock appointment.

'Hi!' he said genially. 'Come in. I'm afraid she's out shopping.' Shopping? Dear God - what now?

'But I'm sure she won't be long,' said Robards. 'Take a seat.'

Time passed: five minutes, 10, 15. At 5.20 I felt a sudden chill at my back, as though a silent poltergeist had suddenly materialised behind me.

I turned. There she was at last, the legendary 77year-old Hollywood star, the woman who had acted with Bogart, Marilyn Monroe, Gregory Peck, Kirk Douglas, Doris Day, and Rock Hudson and gone to bed with Bogart and Sinatra.

'Miss Bacall!' I said, advancing and offering my hand. 'It's so good of you to see me.' She looked at my hand. 'You were early,' she said accusingly, her eyes glittering like ice.

I retrieved my hand. 'Er, yes: five minutes early, I think.' 'I do not expect people to arrive early,' she snapped. It seemed unwise to point out that I did not expect people to arrive 20 minutes late.

'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I don't like to keep people waiting.' There was a frigid silence.

'Do you mind if I use a tape recorder?' I said. 'Goddamn it!' she snarled. 'Haven't you set up your stuff yet?'

I was starting to feel I'd just about had enough of this. Who did this woman she think she was?

'No, Miss Bacall, I haven't set anything up,' I said, 'for three reasons. Firstly, I didn't know whether you'd object to being recorded. Secondly, I didn't know whether you wanted to do the interview here or in another room. And thirdly, I thought it would be bloody rude if I started littering your living room without your permission.' She glared at me.

I picked up my briefcase and tape recorder. 'Obviously this is not a convenient moment for you,' I said, 'so I'll be off, and I won't bother you again. I'll see myself out. Goodbye.'

She stared at me. Suddenly she guffawed. I'd obviously passed some sort of Alpha male test. 'OK!' she said. 'Siddown! Let's do it.'

And do it we did, for nearly 45 minutes. She gave me some great material for the book, often chuckling wickedly.

She told me how Niven had been so grief-stricken after the death of his beloved first wife, Primmie, he had become sexually insatiable. She told me what a jealous, selfish, adulterous, drunken bitch his Swedish second wife, Hjördis, had been - and how unbelievably cruel to Niv when he lay dying of motor neurone disease.

She told me what great fun Niven had been, 'one of the best friends I've ever had, hysterically funny and a flirt', and claimed that Niven had been one of the 'beards' who helped to cover up Prince Philip's alleged dalliances: 'The rumour was that Prince Philip always had women and they covered for him and pretended that his women were their women.' Absurd gossip, obviously.

But she also told me how Grace Kelly was 'very active with men', perhaps even after she married Prince Rainier of Monaco, and that Rainier was often horrible to her.

It all made wonderful copy, and afterwards I skipped out of the Dakota building whistling all the way down West 72nd Street. Bacall had been worth it, despite all the hassle - but my God, she was a difficult woman.

No wonder the secretaries kept leaving. Even Bogie and Sinatra, tough as they were, must have had their hands full.