PALOMA FAITH is sitting on a banquette in a private members’ club in Hackney, close to where she was born and still lives, smiley in a T-shirt, black patent leather trousers and stacks of jewellery including a chunky gold ring spelling MUM. She’s eating a “fish sandwich”, which turns out to be fish and chips (“I don’t like batter, I’m going to take it off!”) and musing about her talk the previous week at the V&A museum about “reclaiming” the word “diva”.
“When women are powerful or high-achievers we’re branded demanding, difficult, overpowering divas because men think strong women must be controlling or manipulative,” she says. “I resent that. People have always misread the idea of me being an alpha character who’s very threatening. But actually there’s a softness, a gentleness, about me that’s often overlooked.”
Certainly, if anyone can reposition the word, it’s Faith, 42. With her juggernaut vocals and flamboyant stage presence, she’s been a queen of the British pop
