Bruce Oldfield, the handsome man once connected with Princess Diana, doesn’t sleep with men or women. He is celibate. He has always lived alone. He says he’s never had a close personal relationship. And he has always been a loner. ‘Frankly,’ he says, smoking frantically, ‘I’ve been on my own since I was 13.’

Bruce Oldfield, frock maker to the Princess of Wales, has had a career that rose like Marilyn Monroe’s dress over a hot-air grate, then plummeted to the ankles and is now rising, once again, thigh-high. After a decade of almost unrivalled success and empire building, he was on the edge of bankruptcy in 1990. But now Bruce is back, waving his pinking scissors triumphantly, designing only couture for around £1,400 a dress, and selling to the Sangsters, Charlotte Rampling and Jerry Hall.

He’s wearing an Armani jacket, washed-out Levis and buoyant expression. He’s 42 years old, six foot two and has a perfect physique.

‘My personal life just doesn’t exist. I have lots of friends, but I don’t sleep with anybody,’ he says, forcefully. ‘I simply don’t have mad urges to go to bed with people. I’m not a very sexual person, never have been. I don’t have any great desire to be involved with anybody, and though sex is quite good fun, sleeping around is counter-productive, unhealthy and unwise. ‘The longest time I ever went out with anyone was with Irene at Sheffield City College in 1969. That lasted maybe six months, four or three. I don’t remember. It was quite fiery and her parents didn’t like her going out with a black boy.’ He says he was in his teens and rebelled against that. He won’t reveal when he last slept with someone. Is he abstinent for fear of Aids? ‘Not really.’ (‘Lots of my close friends have died of Aids,’ he says later.) Is he more inclined to men or women? ‘It’s none of your business.’ Often expansive in his body language, he crosses his arms protectively.

Princess Diana was his most famous client, but hasn’t bought from him for three years. He still gets birthday and Christmas cards signed ‘Love, Diana’.

‘We had a very good relationship,’ he says. ‘I used to see her every couple of weeks at Kensington Palace or the shop, and we often met at lunches or dinners. She’s a strong personality. She’s tough, not a ninny. But I don’t think she’s conniving. I see her as somebody who would fight back, but not manipulate madly, and she’s compassionate.’

His business struggles were a ‘horror story, incredibly depressing’. The recession started, he was overstaffed, licensees (who manufactured goods under his name) were going bust, he had been expanding so his couture had suffered, and he was losing customers who were tightening their belts. (‘All those crisis meetings of ‘ooh we haven’t got enough money to pay the rent, let’s sell that chair’.’) He had to close his Fulham design studio, move to the small basement of his Beauchamp Place shop and shed his ready-to-wear. ‘I didn’t want to do any of it, but it was expedient. Otherwise my business would have gone to the wall. In 1990 I was advised to put the company into liquidation. I said ‘absolutely not’. That’s the easy way out. And, let’s face it, I’ve got nothing else. The company is my life.’ He had to move out of his grand Chelsea flat with its 25ft dining room to rented accommodation in Battersea.

‘I could have moved to a bedsit. I wouldn’t have liked it, but I’m resilient. You have to adapt. I don’t have encumbrances like wife or children, so it’s easier.’ Did he feel a failure? ‘I would have if I’d let the company go. I got a nagging feeling of self-doubt, but I wasn’t at the stage where I’d slash my wrists. I’m not the type.’

He’s jolly, charming and spunky, but his eyes often look angry. His father was a Jamaican boxer, and Bruce was a Barnardos boy, handed over by his white mother at birth and fostered by a dressmaker called Violet with four other multiracial foster children in a two-up two-down in Durham. He was returned, aged 13, to Barnardos after he shoplifted some sweets and comics.

Bruce dislikes the way he’s seen. ‘All this fat Barnardos boy makes good, rags to riches, poor, black, illegitimate child, syrupy shit.’ He’s actually expressive and eloquent, often changing his voice humorously in self-mockery, sharp-minded and sometimes arrogant. The word about town is what a down-to-earth, nice chap he is.

He has always been painted as unscarred by his childhood. ‘In fact, I had a very tenuous relationship with my foster parents,’ he says now. ‘They often said, ‘If you don’t behave yourself you’ll go back into the home’. And in Barnardos they said, ‘If you don’t behave yourself you’ll be made a ward of court or go to borstal’.’ He was bundled around like a parcel.

‘Maybe that made me insular and strong.’ Nobody is going to hurt him? Nobody is going to get that close? ‘Yeah.’

So what are his props? What does he rely on? He smokes for England, can work compulsively and always watches his weight, although he lost two stone during his troubles in 1990. ‘I need space,’ he replies. ‘And I have to go to The Peak gym, look out on London, completely empty my head, gaze into space and run. I come back relaxed. I live off my nerves. I have ulcers.’ He’s surprisingly affected by the moon. ‘I’m always more active on a full moon, or more lethargic. I always have a big swing in mood.’ (His recent show fell, luckily, at an auspicious stage in the lunar cycle. ‘It was a full moon. I knew things were boding well.’) And he’s keen on that modern religion, astrology. ‘I’m Cancer, which makes me creative, home-loving and moody. I also want a well-ordered life and like cooking.’

He doesn’t, however, believe in God. ‘I don’t even know if there’s anything out there. As I get older, I seek that kind of solace. But Barnardos pushed all ideas of believing out of my head with their compulsory prayers at every opportunity and church three times a day on Sunday.’ He lacks parental support and wouldn’t look for it. His foster mother died in 1974 and he has no desire to meet his natural parents, if they are still alive.

‘I’d probably feel some kind of rapport. It would be natural. I’d feel honour bound to be responsible towards her. I don’t want that kind of responsibility. I’d like to see them through a one-way mirror, like a line up!’

He brushes off anything that might hurt him, usually denying the darker side of his life.

‘I’ve turned rejection into a positive thing,’ he says. ‘You might think I’ve lost out with my apparent inability to make relationships. But I don’t feel lonely. I’m self-sufficient and happy not having to be selfless and think about what somebody close requires.’

Bruce has always been determined. ‘Determined not to accept what was doled out for me. When I was 16 in Barnardos, they used to say to me, ‘Who do you think you are? You think you’re so clever’. I was brought up not to expect much. But I couldn’t see why I shouldn’t achieve whatever I wanted. I don’t think I’ve ever been totally aware that I could fail.’