With style and grace Helen Gurley Brown combined groundbreaking journalism at Cosmopolitan with her devotion to her husband
Marcelle D'Argy Smith is a former editor of the UK edition of Cosmopolitan; her friend and colleague Helen Gurley Brown edited the US edition from 1965-97.
I first saw her when she came to the office. It was 1986. Helen Gurley Brown, editor-in-chief of Cosmopolitan magazine was skinny New York glamour in a navy dress, slingback heels, scarlet lips and nails and jangly gold bracelets. She was in her early 60s with marvellous legs.
I remember the quilted Chanel bag dropped on the floor. God knows, she was the most disciplined and admirable woman I ever knew. But she wasn't tidy. Her desk was always cluttered with trinkets, boxes, letters, odd earrings. She usually had to hunt for the lipstick or credit card in her handbag.
When American Cosmo bought my articles she sent letters telling me I was brilliant. Her letters – typed furiously on her silver Remington portable typewriter – were legendary. It felt through-the-roof good to be so appreciated. Her staff adored her – even though she was firm and a perfectionist.
Her beginnings were tough. Her father, Ira Gurley, was killed in a lift accident when she was 10. Her sister, Mary, then contracted polio. She looked after her mother and sister financially for the rest of their lives. I once said to her she felt like a sister. "Siblings don't normally work out that well," she said. All her life she was tight with money.
As I moved up the ladder to become editor and saw more of her we became friends. There was always a special glitter about being with her. Getting you to talk about yourself was her absolute gift. She was the best listener. Whether we dined at Elaine's, Le Cirque, Nobu or the Italian down the street, Helen mostly ate leaves. Maybe something grilled. Once in the Ivy she told the waiter she "hated potatoes".
"Nobody hates potatoes," I said.
"Honey, I'm a grown-up anorexic," she said. It's true she was 5ft 4in, weighed about 100lb; eating little and exercising lots were her personal obsessions. She didn't bore you with the details. Her energy was well known.
I think she stayed thin because it was part of being professional and she wanted to look good for David Brown, her adored husband. They'd married when she was 37. He would go on to become the hotshot Hollywood film producer of Jaws, The Sting, Driving Miss Daisy, The Player. Over the years I got to know him pretty well and sometimes had dinner with him. "I trust you with him, Pussycat," she'd say. He was a charming, warm bear of a man. Mostly we talked about Helen. He was enchanted by her.
"I didn't intend to get married again," he told me. "And certainly not to another career woman. Helen was cute, sexy as hell at 37. But I had no idea what I was getting. I used to go to work thinking, 'I can't believe my luck. I've got the best wife in New York.' You know she never let me go to work without a cooked breakfast."
It was David who'd encouraged Helen to write Sex and the Single Girl 50 years ago. People have been rehashing it ever since. It has a flirty title but it was full of information about careers and money. Together they created Cosmopolitan. Theirs was the most enviable marriage I've ever known. They were successful equals and their egos never got in the way. They were married for 51 years.
Helen worked every day of her life to achieve what she wanted. Love, success, sex and money – and she was incredibly happy with the result. If life is about love and work then Helen had scored bull's-eye on both counts. She didn't want more. We once discussed country houses. "I can barely cope with my apartment in New York," she said. "Who needs a second house?" When I asked why she hadn't insisted on being on the Hearst board in New York, she said: "Why would I want to be on the board? It's boring on the board. I'm fabulously well paid and I do what I want."
I remember challenging her on her book Having It All– which was so criticised here. "Honey," she said, "I never wanted kids. The publishers made me add a chapter about kids." I understood perfectly. But she did want women to have better, more fulfilled lives. She gave readers glamour, fun, sex and encouragement and they adored her for it. She was one of the most influential women of the 20th century and the most important woman in the history of magazine publishing.
When I saw her last Christmas in New York she was 89. She'd only recently stopped going to the office every day. She'd invited me to dinner at her penthouse on West 81st. David had died a year earlier. Her carer had said: "Bring chocolates. She loves them." Helen was sitting in the TV room wearing a black off-one-shoulder sweater, Pucci trousers and the trademark gold bracelets. She'd gained about three stone and her face looked beautiful, if wistful. There was a large photo of David beside her.
"I miss him," she said. We binged on coffee creams. I wandered into the drawing room with the grand piano and the view of Manhattan glittering in the dark. It felt like a wonderful film set ready for the actors to arrive.
"Did Arthur Schwartz ever play here?" I said. "No, honey," she said. "But Irving Berlin did."
Read the Guardian obituary here