My earliest memory is my mother taking a big stew dish out of the oven and saying: "Do not touch." And of course it was like a come-on, just too tempting, and I burnt my fingers badly.
Every Saturday, when I was four, I used to go into Bath with my father and we'd sit in a cake shop – him having a coffee and chocolate cake and me a glass of milk and a meringue shaped like Dougal from The Magic Roundabout, with chocolate eyes and nose. Today I'll still nibble chocolate and marzipan creatures tail or legs first, saving the cute faces for last.
When I was about six or seven, I went through a phase of wanting to eat what astronauts eat – pills or little packs to suck futuristic Sunday roasts out of. Because no one in my family could agree on what they wanted for meals, I thought: "I can't be bothered with this hoo-hah. Give me the space option."
Probably because my mother couldn't bake cakes, things were lacking on the birthday cake front for many years. But recently my friend Sam Taylor-Wood held a joint birthday party with Elton John and I said: "Oh, how fabulous, holding a party, at the Ritz, on what is my birthday." On the table was a huge cake for Sam and a huge cake for Elton. Then they brought out a lovely smaller one for me.
My darkest dinner party memories are those in which bottles were smashed on tables or my ex-husband Joe [Corre, co-founder of Agent Provocateur] was hideously behaved in some way and guests would look at me as if to say, "Oh, you poor, poor thing".
I've always loved picnics. The best ever are on the wild rugged beaches of north Cornwall. Even in the winter, just going to get fish and chips and a bottle of champagne and sitting there in the freezing cold is lovely. I know a secret little garden in London that is perfect for picnics. I live in Marylebone and it's fairly near. I'll never say where.
Having seen people behaving terribly at fashion shows and screaming hideously at people at fashion shoots, I don't know why, but I was surprised to discover that the strops and hissy fits in the food world can be even worse.
There was a chocolate problem in our house because my father used to scoff his and then scoff anyone else's if they hadn't eaten it quickly. But I liked to save and savour, so I learnt to find cleverer and cleverer chocolate hiding places. Next week he's coming over from Seattle and I'll invite him to Cocomaya for the first time. It will be interesting.
My last supper could be anything from a bacon sandwich to a big old pot of caviar – just as long as it's perfect. OFM
Cocomaya, 35 Connaught St, London, W2
