Letter: Christine Keeler obituary

In the early 1970s, the Guardian kremlinologist Victor Zorza threw a party for colleagues from the paper’s features section and friends. One of the guests was Christine Keeler , who was the Chelsea housemate of the Guardian features administrator, Lorraine Kelly.

Keeler drove Lorraine, my wife, Sue, and me, a Guardian staffer, to Victor’s home in Taplow, Buckinghamshire. On the way through London, Christine, turning towards me in the back, ran into the rear of a taxi. The cabbie leapt out in a rage, Keeler smiled at him and said: “Whoops, not looking where I was going.” The cabbie returned a broad grin and drove off placated.

At Dairy Cottage, Victor’s house, Lorraine, Sue, and a young mother arriving separately with a baby-in-arms made off to powder their noses. Christine took charge of the baby and the two of us walked side by side down steps cut into the lawn to the paved area below where the party was getting under way.

JRL (John) Anderson, a recent and intrepid editor of industry, yachting and motoring, remarked: “What a splendid couple you make with your baby.”

Christine pointed out his misapprehension. John peered through his spectacles and asked possibly the most famous woman among commoners in Britain at that period what she did. She introduced herself as a model. At this another renowned international journalist, Taya Zinkin, chipped in with the observation: “That must be interesting – do you enjoy it?”

“Yes,” said Keeler.