Best of friends through the worst of times: Fame, fortune or failure can often wreck a friendship. But Brigid McConville talks to women who have stayed chums despite everything

SARAH BROUGHT US POUNDS 1,500 IN A PAPER BAG

Anita Burgh's tenth novel, 'Avarice' was published this spring. She is 56 and lives for part of the year in France with her partner.

When we met 20 years ago, Sarah and I were equal in financial terms. But then I got poor and her husband became mega-rich. Now her husband is bankrupt and Sarah cooks take-aways - while my novels have really taken off.

Our friendship began when we moved into the same street in Exeter. I'd never had a 'best' friend before, but we became very close. We felt free to talk about anything, and still do. If you get one friend like that in a lifetime, you are lucky.

Sarah's husband John became seriously rich. They owned pubs and clubs and at one time the only bank account in Exeter larger than theirs was M&S. But Sarah is the most generous person on earth, and money didn't change her. If you went shopping you didn't dare to say you liked anything or she would buy it for you. Her houses were always done to perfection, down to the last doorknob. Sarah loves clothes and smart cars and jewellery, but I didn't envy what they had. Maybe that's what saved our friendship.

Then my partner and I found ourselves in serious financial difficulties. I had three children and no job. The worst of it was the guilt about not having money for things like school trips, plus the anxiety over bills: we felt sick when we heard the postman.

My son remembers the atmosphere of despair when I had to ration his Weetabix. We moved to Cambridge and took in lodgers. We couldn't afford to go on holiday with Sarah and John after that; we said we were too busy.

From Cambridge we moved to Scotland and ran a hotel, but that was a complete disaster. We had to look for a house again, and Sarah and John let us stay for free in a flat in their house for a while. Then the bank took my bank card from me and I thought I would have to cancel Christmas. Sarah was with me when I heard our overdraft had not been extended, and I burst into tears.

Sarah said: 'I'll lend you some money.' I said no. She said, 'Don't be silly, we've got so much of the stuff.' Four days later she came to my house with pounds 1,500 cash in a paper bag. She said, 'I worked out that if I gave you a cheque the bank would only take it away.' We had a wonderful Christmas. When my writing came good, the first cheque I wrote was to Sarah.

We've had two big rows. I can't remember the reason for the first one, but we didn't speak for four months. It was terribly schoolgirlish. As Christmas approached I did a drawing for her of a chateau we had seen together in France. On Christmas morning, I opened the door and there she was.

The second row was about her daughter's boyfriend, who I didn't like. Eventually I asked her to go to a writers' weekend (we had both started writing novels) and we sat up boozing until four in the morning. We agreed not to fight over our children after that.

Then, with the recession, came financial catastrophe for Sarah. We rushed up from Cornwall to see them, but felt very inadequate. We could only offer a shoulder to cry on.

I've always loved Sarah and I couldn't imagine life without her. Not that I see her that much, but she is always there. We did offer to pay their fares to visit us in France, but they said they were too busy.

When my writing became a success she was so proud of me. I've told her how much money the books make for me and she has jumped around with excitement. I think she'll do it herself eventually.

THEN WE WENT BUST, TOO

Sarah Portley lives near Exeter, where she runs a take-away business. She is 43 and married.

I first met Anita at a dinner party, and she was having quite a row about socialism. I thought, 'Wow, I like her, she is a strong, ballsy lady.' She was incredibly good company. We drank vast amounts of gin and talked about everything. We went on holiday to France together: it was such fun. We were young and life held infinite possibilities.

We've had one huge row. Our My husband's business - he ran a string of pubs and night clubs - was taking off and Anita said to me, 'You like being a big fish in a little sea'. We didn't speak for a couple of months. Our pride stopped us from making it up. We were both waiting for Christmas: I bought her a card and she painted me a picture. Another time I got huffy with her when she criticised my daughter's man.

I've had a lot of money but it didn't bring happiness. My husband, John, and I had everything: a manor house, horses, a flat in London, a house in Spain, two BMWs, a Range Rover and a swimming pool. I love designer clothes. I think Anita does, too, secretly.

We branched off in different directions when Anita went to Cambridge. But our basic loyalties remained the same. When they left Scotland she was in despair and I went to see her. It was all financial: she had no home, nothing. The details only came out when we were at a writers' meeting. Her finances were so bad that she burst into tears.

I hadn't realised it was so bad. I wanted to lend her some money, but no way would she take it. We practically had a fight about it. I said, 'Don't be daft, I've got a bit under the bed.' Later, I drove down to Cornwall with it.

Then the recession started, there was a slow slide, and all of a sudden the bank wanted our house. It felt like the end of the world. My whole soul was in my house. It was everything to me, my security. I knew then what Anita had been through.

Then John had a breakdown and did a crazy thing. He ran over his financial adviser with his car. He was arrested, then convicted of actual body harm. The first person I phoned was Anita. She stayed with us for a week and was incredibly supportive. She even tried to get her ex-husband (Lord Burgh) to buy our house so that I could go on living in it. Bless her, she tried everything to help.

We were all over the moon when Anita's first book was to be published. It's silly, but I get as much joy as she does from her success. I'm as proud of her as if she were a sister. What I do envy is her industry and self-discipline: she just works and works.

As a writer, I'm not in the same league. I labour over every sentence. I want to do a different sort of book. I don't envy her success with books as much as I envy her the men in her life, who have been wonderful. I've always talked to her about my love life - especially my eight-year

affair with James Hewitt, the Princess of Wales's friend. So when she saw a story about us in the News of the World, she wasn't surprised. In fact she suggested that I should use the experience and put a dashing Army major in my novel.

These days I'm running Uncle Sam's Food Runners, a home delivery food service in Exeter. I cook burgers, hot dogs and pizzas in the kitchen of a nightclub run by friends. My husband is the assistant cook. I'm the boss, which is fun, because until now John has always been in charge.

For me, there will never be another friend like Anita. When I need advice I know I can rely on her strength and wisdom. If anything were to happen to her there would be a hole left in me, as there was when my mother died.

I NEVER SENSED ANY ENVY

Rosalind Plowright is an opera soprano, who has sung with Domingo, Carreras and Pavarotti. She is singing the title role in the ENO's new production of 'Tosca' in September. She is 45 and lives in Chobham, Surrey.

PATand I were very, very close at college (the Royal Northern College of Music); we were both north country and from the same sort of working- to middle-class background. And Pat is amazingly like my three sisters - tall and attractive, incredibly warm, no airs and graces. She is four years older than me and she took me under her wing.

She and I wereboth chosen for starring roles in the college opera. We were set apart, together with our contemporaries Ann Murray and Angie Bostock. After college, Pat won a major singing competition and went to Vienna for a year.

It looked like the beginning of a great career for Pat, but by the early Eighties my career was climbing very fast while Pat was still waiting for the work. In a London production of Otello, I had the leading role of Desdemona while she was understudy for Amelia, a very small part.

Yet I never sensed any envy from her. I remember her heaping me with praise, telling me that I was a great soprano. She's always been very proud of me, glad that I did make it. I kept wishing that she'd had better success.

When my career took off, there were other friends who thought that I was 'high and mighty'. When you are up there you never stop working and old friends get left behind. I didn't even get to see my own family for long stretches. I was quite lonely: it is an isolating profession.

There was a hideous colour supplement article that probably did a lot of damage to my friendships, too. It had a picture of our plane with 'DIVA' on the side, and a picture of our house, looking more enormous than it is. It was so embarrassing: I'm not that sort of person, and we're not that rich.

We bought the plane when we were both earning a lot (my husband, Tony, was a manager of opera singers and flying is his passion). It wasn't a necessity, but it was useful to get to places in Europe. When you've got the money you buy these things, because they're nice. Other people do. My ultimate aim is to have a beautiful house.

Ten years ago there was an awful dispute about work and money between Pat's husband (Pat's second husband was the opera singer, Philip O'Reilly) and mine - and we both stood by our husbands. It was very sad; I'd always loved her so much, and I couldn't see a way through it. We didn't contact each other and in all that time we saw each other twice.

Butlast year (after hearing she had separated from her husband) I rang Pat. I'd been thinking about her for a long time and life was ticking by. I'd also had the worst year of my life in career terms, plus domestic worries - nannies, finance. When you're feeling low you don't easily get in touch with people. But I needed an old friend. I hate the suburban area I live in: it's all keeping up with the Joneses. Pat said: 'I knew you'd ring one day'. We had a long natter and she invited me to stay. It was lovely to get back together again and we were immediately on the same wavelength. She told me that she'd had to defend me against friends who had read that dreadful article, and asked me if I still lived in that big posh house.

Pat has been unlucky; she deserved much more of a career. But if you aren't established by the time you're 40, it's difficult. I've had a major career and those few great moments. She has never even tasted it. It is a little 'no go' area between us.

WE THOUGHT WE'D ALL BE STARS

Pat Taylor teaches singing from her home in Poole, Dorset. In 1993 she founded South Coast Opera and directed and sang in their production of 'Carmen'. She is 48.

I first met Ros at college when she was a tall schoolgirl with a long plait. She was beautiful but very shy and insecure. Our teacher called her 'Rosalo Plugwit' and she was like a little girl lost - yet with this glorious voice.

She came from a wonderful, warm family who took me straight in. People thought we were sisters, although she's far more beautiful.

Of our group of four at college, Ann Murray is now a megastar - but we never had any doubts that we would all be stars. Everything pointed to that. Ann and I won the coveted Curtis Gold Medal, and I was chosen to sing in Vienna.

But I wasn't properly advised and Vienna was a big mistake. I lost my confidence and came back a stone lighter, singing badly.

I got a job with the BBC singers and bought a house in London. Ros came to live with me and we did jobs for Kent Opera together. She was still struggling, doing bits for Glyndebourne. Then it all started to happen for her. She was rising and I wasn't. But I was genuinely happy for her because she is such a lovely person. All my feelings of disappointment were directed against the people who were not booking me.

My career never went as it should have done. I had a big break at the English National Opera in 1979 - Placido Domingo came into the dressing room and gave me a big hug - and then nothing. You've got to hustle, and I just couldn't. The administrators never liked me. And, too often, I let my heart lead me. I was looking for personal happiness, but when I realised it wasn't going to happen, I cried bitter tears. My first marriage was falling apart and I ended up getting a job in Marks & Spencer and starting from scratch.

Ros and I are both shy of promoting ourselves, but she married a brilliant businessman who promoted her, whereas all the men in my life pushed me down.

I did for a little while think she had got high and mighty. She didn't invite me to her wedding and I was a bit stung by that. It seemed to me that she thought I wasn't good enough. But it was all a mistake. We've talked about it since and she shrieked and couldn't believe it: she was sure she had sent me an invitation, so perhaps it got lost in the post. She is a bit scatty.

The only time I ever saw her being grand was when I went to see her after she played the part of Donna Anna at the Garden. She came sweeping over to greet me with her gown and wig on and I thought, 'Oh heck, I hope she's not going to change - she's as common and northern as me'.

I told her it was one of the finest performances I'd heard, and she said: 'Are you sure? And all this money I'm earning] At least it means I can take my mum and dad to America with me.' I thought, 'You little love, you haven't changed a bit.'

Soon after that there was a big bust-up between her husband and mine. After that I didn't see much of her and I didn't think it would ever come right.

But she had always been my best pal and I used to video everything she did. I was proud of her, almost as if she were my kid sister. Then she rang me up. I was so thrilled, I could have wept. We got together and made a bridge over the years.

I'm happy at home; I have a lovely son, a lovely man, lovely pupils, a nice house. But of course the money paid to opera singers attracts me. It makes me spit when certain sopranos make so much. They earn in one night what I earn in a year.

(Photographs omitted)