Jilly Cooper, who has died unexpectedly at the age of 88, sold 11m copies of her various epic books over her half-century of writing. Beloved of anyone with any sense over a certain age (45), she was introduced to a new generation last year with the Disney+ adaptation of Rivals.
Cooper purists would have preferred to watch the Rutshire chronicles in order: starting with Riders, first published in 1985, in which Rupert Campbell-Black, cad, heartbreaker, rider, is first introduced. But that’s a sidebar – what was striking about seeing Rivals as a box set was how well Cooper’s universe had aged. The chronicles distilled the 80s: the shoulder pads and puffball skirts; the obsession with class, aristocrats sneering at the Technicolored nouveau riche, both ignoring everyone else while they snipped about how warm their champagne was; the sexual politics, with harassment and assault so routine they were practically characters in their own right, a double act you could trust to move the plot along.
