The bestselling novelist was a generous champion of equality, whose raunchy, page-turning books gave readers access to life in Hollywood

Read the Observer’s obituaries of 2015 in full here 

Jackie Collins, New York, 2008
‘Hollywood’s own Marcel Proust’: Jackie Collins in New York in 2008. Photograph: Lucas Jackson/Reuters

She was more than a sister to me. I considered her a true and wonderful friend (whose advice I didn’t always listen to, unfortunately, and to my disadvantage). She and I understood and empathised with each other more than practically anyone I know and I felt her loyalty to me was unbounded and her love was unconditional. We shared so many of the same memories and confided in each other without fear. We gossiped and giggled when we were together and loved to go see the latest movies at weekend morning showings at our favourite Los Angeles shopping centre.

My sister always believed that truth is much stranger than fiction. This is why she became one of the most successful and top-selling novelists in the world. There were many imitators, but only Jackie Collins could tell you what really went on in the fastest lane of all. From Beverly Hills bedrooms to glittering rock parties and concerts, from stretch limos to the mansions of the power brokers, Jackie’s books chronicled the truth, which she knew from the inside looking out.