Hell hath no fury like a friend scorned – as the Duchess of Sussex may be about to find out. Back in the pre-Harry days when she was merely an actress and not a one-name global phenomenon – Oprah, Madonna, Meghan – her best friend was a Canadian stylist named Jessica Mulroney.

Now the two are estranged and reports are swirling that Jessica is planning a tell-all memoir. Publishers are said to be dangling a $1million advance.

Many will be merrily ordering an XL bucket of popcorn in gleeful anticipation of the gory details to come. Some will argue that the comeuppance is appropriate, given Meghan encouraged Harry to write his own memoir, Spare (subtitle: In Which I Throw My Family Under a Bus In Order To Make Several Million Quid).

It would fall into the ‘must-read’ category. A similarly glossy creature, Jessica met Meghan in Toronto where Suits was made and where Jessica was queen of the social scene. They partied together, holidayed together, gushed about each other.

When Harry proposed to Meghan in 2017, it was Jessica she called. When the couple married at St George’s Chapel, Windsor the following year, it was Jessica’s children who acted as page boys and flower girl. Meg and Jess were tighter than one of the duchess’s beloved pencil skirts.

Then, around 2020, things soured. After a spat with a black activist who accused her of ‘white privilege’, Jessica was cancelled. Employers dropped her and she became ‘toxic’ on the Toronto social scene. The socialite could only post messages apologising for any offence. In one, Jessica defended herself against the charge of racism, saying ‘I have lived a very public and personal experience with my closest friend where race was front and centre’ – a nod to Meghan.

Perhaps in response, the Duchess of Sussex seemingly went ice-cold. For five years they have not been pictured together – the social media love-in is over, the gushy messages no more.

We can only conclude Jessica was dropped like a hot buttery potato. How galling it must have been to see her former bestie cosy up to hangers-on in her With Love, Meghan series; to see Meg send her branded raspberry jam to new, more-famous friends like the Kardashians; to feel that while once you were a stepping stone into exalted social circles, now you’re no longer needed.

A few posts in recent years hint at Jessica’s pain: ‘Life changes. You lose love. You lose friends…’, mourns one.

Now, if reports are correct, revenge may be about to be served cold. Meghan is said to be frightened at what may come out in a possible memoir. This would be, to put it mildly, a disaster for a woman whose image is as carefully curated as one of her flower-sprinkled breakfasts.

In her Netflix show, Meg is ever-eager to show she is just a down-home, barefooted, unaffected gal and not the sharp-elbowed schemer of legend.

In her first interview as Harry’s fiancee, Meghan claimed that because she was from the US, she didn’t know much about the Royal Family, despite the fact that goat herders in the furthest stretches of Timbuktu knew of it.

What if Jessica’s book contained revelations about Meghan’s desire to bag a prince? The potential for embarrassment is off the scale.

Meghan’s already been sold out by her dad, but his juiciest revelation was that, contrary to the duchess’s hard-luck childhood stories, they used to eat out at ‘the best restaurants in town’.

To be sold out by a former best friend is much, much worse, because they know everything. Some will think the idea of anyone writing such a book is horrible. Frankly, I sympathise with Jessica. In my experience, there are few experiences as painful as falling out with your best friend.

I met mine, Liz, over 20 years ago at university. Within a couple of weeks she was Thelma to my Louise: hilarious, kind and loyal.

For years we were out carousing several times a week. Each time as we put on our war paint, we would vow that this was the night we would make an effort to meet a man. But we’d end up yakking in a corner for hours, forgetting to talk to anyone else.

On one such occasion came a pinot grigio-fuelled vow: ‘Clare…’ she slurred, ‘I will prob’ly meet women who are cooler than you, better company, funnier, more interesting… hic… but you will always be my best friend.’

Then in our mid-30s came our ‘rough patch’ when she kept cancelling our meet-ups. It came to a head when she arrived a day late at a yoga retreat – sparking a monster argument with both of us sobbing that the friendship had run its course.

For weeks there was silence. It was a period of emotional agony: fighting back tears on the bus into work, lying awake looking at old photos. Frankly, being rejected by my best friend was worse, far worse, than any break-up with a man.

A romantic break-up can be heart-gouging, of course, but at least it’s part of the pattern of life to meet a few different partners before you find the ‘one’. But real, deep friendship is meant to be till death do us part.

Eventually, we patched it up, thank goodness, and Liz remains my dearest friend, but I have never forgotten the exquisite pain of the friendship break-up.

For that reason I understand why Jessica may be tempted by the publisher’s millions. After all, loyalty is meant to work both ways, isn’t it?

If you’ve been ghosted by a former best friend, you might wonder why you should still remain the keeper of secrets.

If I were Meghan, I would be calling Jessica sharpish to try to patch things up. Not just because she doesn’t want the ‘tea’ spilled, but because life is too short to let once-good friendships die.

Why shouldn’t Maya flaunt it?

I know many tut at the tackiness of the ‘naked dress’ trend, but let’s face it: if, like Maya Jama, you looked like a cross between Botticelli’s Venus and Morticia Addams, you’d wear one, too.

Red roses? That’s just patronising

Good luck to the England Women’s Rugby Team for Saturday’s World Cup Final, but what’s with the irritating need to nickname women’s teams these days? First the Lionesses, now the Red Roses… will the cricketing ladies become the Snowdrops? The Maiden Overs? They’re accomplished sportswomen, so let’s stop the patronising names.

So Gen Z are having less sex than their grandparents, and thrifty students bring their own bottles to nightclubs. When I was at university a quarter of a century ago, Freshers’ Week meant freedom, flirtation and 50p pints. I might start my own movement: SOS – Save Our Students (from the tedious experience university has become).

It’s time for a Ginger Swap!

Fergie is rightly being sidelined after more details about her friendship with convicted paedophile Jeffrey Epstein. In the (dark) light of the Fergie revelations, don’t the ‘sins’ of Prince Harry seem less significant? Wouldn’t a semi-return to royal duties be a great thing for King and country? As one royal ginger heads into the cold, it’s time to welcome another back in.

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