When last I wrote you, I had just gotten word that Jackie Collins had died.  We usually hung out at the hairdresser’s – the oh-so-chic Hair at Riley’s on Sunset.  Jax showed me that’s where you got the best gossip.  Everyone wanted to talk to Jackie – ostensibly to hear her stories.  Within a couple of minutes, she had them spilling their secrets – secrets she transcribed when she got home.  When I started writing this column, I asked her for advice. “Have I taught you nothing?  Go to the hairdresser!”  At the time of her death, Jax was working on a number of projects.  In addition to a new novel, she’d been writing her long-promised autobiography.  She promised that she’d name names in Reform School or Hollywood.  Then there was Jackie Collins: Hollywood Snaps, a coffee table book of celebrity photos she’d taken over the years.  Lastly, there’s Jackie Collins: Hollywood Lies, a play she hoped to produce on Broadway.  Something tells me we haven’t heard the last of Jackie.