Is Liz Taylor’s gay manager about to inherit her millions?

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There were many rules observed behind the towering hedges and high iron gates at 700 Nimes Road in Bel Air, Los Angeles.

The green velvet drapes in the master bedroom were to be opened by the gloved hand of the French butler only when the lady of the house said she was ready. If she wanted breakfast at 5pm, that is what she got.

All the rooms had to be scented with white gardenias — her favourite flowers.

No one was to ever, under any circumstances, put through telephone calls from her former husband Larry Fortensky.

And she was never, ever, ever to be referred to as Liz. She was Dame Elizabeth to everyone, even her nearest, dearest and closest companions. But then, right to the end, the Dame was gutsy, spoiled, foul-mouthed and toweringly sentimental.