What advice would you give someone starting from square one? Especially those coming from perhaps a more rural, resource limited background like yourself?

If you have an idea of what you would like to do then that’s an extremely fortunate position because the world is open to you. I never had a fixed career plan myself, though I did have an instinctive aesthetic sense, a good eye, and a limited but valuable education through books. The real difference is background. My daughters grew up believing the world was open to them — they could become writers, decorators, anything they wanted. They still had insecurities, of course, but they had opportunity, money, and cultural permission. Growing up where I did, there was nothing in my world that suggested I could become what I eventually became. That possibility simply didn’t exist around me.

What way did growing up as 1of 7 from this enrich your life and in what way do you think it could have made it harder?

I was fiercely competitive with my sister Mary. I was taller, which in childhood feels like power, but I always knew she would win our battles simply because she was the eldest. That was the law of the house. One memory has stayed with me all my life. At primary school we were asked to write a poem, which seemed as impossible and glamorous as going to the moon. Mary wrote a simple little poem about Little Red Riding Hood, and I was so overwhelmed by how brilliant it seemed that I copied it, took it to school early, and claimed it as my own. The teacher praised me for it — until Mary arrived with the original in her handwriting. Even now I’m appalled by the wickedness of it. The irony, of course, is that Mary later married Seamus Heaney. I don’t think she ever truly forgave me, and I doubt she ever told him the story.

Did you ever feel like you didn't belong in the world you found yourself in at such a young age?

London and Vogue felt a world away from where I grew up - a tiny, isolated place at the edge of Loch Ness. We lived in a big, book-filled house, and although the world around me was remote, I never felt intellectually isolated because I was educated through reading. My mother was a teacher, and books - Jane Austen, Vogue, etiquette manuals - shaped my sense of the world far more than Northern Ireland did.

By the time I arrived in London, I didn’t feel behind at all. I already knew the codes of manners, style, and culture because I’d absorbed them for years at home. What I rejected was the narrow, sectarian atmosphere of Unionist Northern Ireland, which I found deeply provincial and limiting, especially for women, whose options were mostly teaching or nursing. London didn’t so much transform me as confirm the wider world I already believed I belonged to. 

Within six months I was features editor at Vogue, which at the time was not just a magazine but a social institution. It was an intensely upper-class world, alongside places like Colfax and Fowler, Sotheby’s, and the smart Chelsea decorating shops where aristocratic daughters traditionally worked. My future mother-in-law, herself from that world, was probably startled that her son had married an Irish girl like me.

I quickly realised there was a strict social uniform - the right Gucci shoes, velvet headbands, cashmere sweaters from the right shops - and although I could see the codes clearly, I neither had the money nor much interest in conforming to them. I didn’t truly belong in that world, and they knew it too. What I did have was a reputation for being very clever, which was almost a social disadvantage. English high society has always distrusted intelligence - hence the phrase “too clever by half.” If I encountered patronising behaviour or snobbery, I fought back hard.

If you revisited a point when you felt at the bottom of a ladder, looking back on all you know now and what has shaped you into who you are today, do you think you would make the same choices you did then?

I never saw life as a ladder to climb. Wherever I was became my world, and I carried that world with me. Even when I didn’t fully belong somewhere, I still felt rooted in myself. I had an unusual mix of complete self-confidence and very little self-esteem - a contradiction many Irish people would probably recognise. But despite that, I never doubted my place in the world. Wherever I found myself, I believed I belonged there.

Is there a moment that didn't feel significant at the time, but in hindsight was pivotal to your career?

Winning the Vogue talent competition was probably the pivotal moment in my career. Until then, teaching seemed like the obvious path because worlds like diplomacy, politics, or high society didn’t feel open to someone from my background as an Irish Catholic in Northern Ireland. Those worlds belonged to a different class. The competition itself was almost accidental. Vogue ran it every year, and one Sunday afternoon I entered simply because I was bored and competitive. The fact that there was a copy of Vogue in our house at all was thanks to my mother, who was cultured and open-minded despite her Catholic background. I entered, and to my surprise, I won.

Your home is a collection of objects loved and treasured - what item gives you the greatest joy and which item carries the weight of a harder moment?

Every object in my house has been chosen with enormous care and affection. I’ve always had to fall in love with an object before bringing it into my life, and I’m deeply drawn to provenance - to the story behind things. The rare Serge Roche pillars, the extraordinary blue-and-white obelisks by the young ceramicist Simon Pettit, who died at just twenty-three, or a drawing of Bray that reminds me of childhood holidays with my uncle - each piece carries memory and meaning.

I never really bought things casually or collected for status. I didn’t have the money for that, and I dislike shopping unless it’s somewhere magical, like an antique shop or a beautifully arranged place such as Fortnum & Mason. I wanted to discover treasures for myself rather than simply buy them off gallery walls.

Some objects matter because of the people attached to them. A cigar box given to me by John Lennon feels extraordinary because I believed he was a genius. But the joy isn’t only in famous names -  it’s equally in finding something beautiful, rare, and deeply personal. For me, objects are never just possessions; they’re stories, memories, and fragments of a life.

When things feel off-track, what helps you reset?

I’ve never really felt I was on a “track” in life, except perhaps when illness interrupts things completely. The biggest shift came when I became a mother. Suddenly my work and my own life were no longer at the centre - everything revolved around my children, which was deeply rewarding but also transformative.

When I feel overwhelmed, the thing that calls to me most is painting. I’ve wanted to paint all my life, and strangely, despite doing most things I set my mind to, I’ve never quite allowed myself to begin. I think there’s a fear there - perhaps fear of failure, or perhaps something deeper from childhood, a sense that pleasure and creativity had to be restrained. I’ve often been bad at giving myself permission to do the things I truly love.

That dry Northern Irish humour probably comes from the same place. There’s an old joke about the “meanest town in Ireland”: a man hears that his friend Jimmy has died, and instead of expressing sympathy, he asks, “Did Jimmy mention the wee pot of red paint he owed me?” That mixture of repression, thrift, and dark comedy never really leaves you.

Who do you rely on for advice when you need an honest answer?

I don’t think I’ve ever really asked for advice. My husband probably gave me the closest thing to honest guidance, though he would never have called it advice. He was far too much of a gentleman to presume that. Occasionally he might say, “I’m not sure about that skirt,” but that was about as direct as he got.

What does "taking a leap" actually look like in your experience?

One of the most extraordinary experiences of my life was travelling to Abu Dhabi in the 1960s, long before it became what it is today. I was one of the first white women to go there, not for Vogue but through connections tied to the emerging oil industry. At the time, major companies like BP were courting the ruling sheikhs because whoever secured access to Abu Dhabi’s oil would gain immense power and wealth.

I became, rather absurdly, part of that world. The sheikhs were brought to London and lavishly entertained, and I was often used by powerful businessmen as part of the charm offensive. I had no romantic involvement with them, despite the assumptions people made, but it gave me access to a world very few outsiders had seen.

When I finally travelled to Abu Dhabi itself, it was almost unrecognisable compared to today - a landing strip with horses moved aside for planes, a single fort-like palace, and little else beyond desert and sea. There was even an abandoned yacht once owned by Prince Rainier III sitting in the harbour. It was fascinating historically, but personally I found it deeply isolating. I hated the emptiness of it and escaped mostly into books.

Is there a lesson you had to learn more than once?

I’m always learning because, in many ways, I don’t really learn from my mistakes. There are probably things I continue to do that I shouldn’t, but nothing dramatic comes to mind. I’ve had a few experiences with men that perhaps I should have learned from, though I think most people could say the same. Still, I’ve been lucky — I’ve never been seriously hurt, rejected, or damaged by those experiences.

When have you felt most "on the right ladder”?

I never thought of life in terms of climbing a ladder, but there were moments when I felt deeply certain I was exactly where I should be. One was my wedding day in Italy, marrying a man I loved until the day he died. He was unlike anyone I’d known before - quiet, understated, elegant, and completely without showiness.

I realised very early that there was something different about him. The first time we went out together in Paris, he calmly collected handmade shoes from Lobb’s and then picked up a hat as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It wasn’t the luxury that impressed me so much as the ease and confidence with which he moved through life. He came from a world of Eton, Paris, and Tuscany, utterly unlike the artistic and bohemian men I’d known before, yet he never flaunted any of it.

There’s a line in Pride and Prejudice where Elizabeth Bennet realises she loves Mr Darcy when she sees Pemberley. I understand that feeling. It wasn’t social ambition exactly, though I could certainly be a snob, but rather a recognition of a kind of grace, intelligence, and quiet assurance that felt completely new to me.

A place that you return back to when in need of inspiration?

I don’t really know what inspiration is, or where it comes from. But the place I always return to for refuge and peace is my meadow in Somerset. We even wrote a whole book about it. Lying there, surrounded by the English countryside, felt extraordinary - completely immersed in nature, yet untouched by anything harsh or threatening. It was profoundly beautiful, and whenever I needed comfort or clarity, that was the place I turned to.

Which song do you play to re-energise?

To re-energise myself, I turn to music like Beethoven - especially the piano concertos, which instantly make me feel alive again. But hearing The Beatles for the first time was a real cultural shock. I remember them coming on the radio one Saturday morning, cheeky and completely unlike anything that had existed before. Their confidence, humour, and sound felt revolutionary. Suddenly the world had changed.

If you were playing a second game, which career route could you have taken?

I never really imagined multiple career paths for myself because, given my background, the choices felt very limited. For women like me, the obvious options were teaching or nursing. Nursing never appealed to me socially, so teaching was always the path closest at hand.

One lecturer once told me I should join the diplomatic service, but it sounded as impossible and remote as becoming an astronaut. Our ambitions were heavily constrained by class, culture, and where we came from. At the same time, I was surrounded by highly educated people - my uncle was a respected doctor, my aunts were university lecturers, and my uncle-in-law was a professor of French at University College Dublin. Education was deeply valued in my family, but even with those influences, my own horizons still felt very narrow.