For my children, Jamie, Leah, Ty and Jesse, because I love them.

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Picture Section

Copyright

About the Publisher

I have to thank Catherine Woods, who I thoroughly enjoyed writing this book with. To Carole Tonkinson, my editor, and all at HarperCollins for their hard work and patience. My agent, Eddie Bell, who got the ball rolling. Emily, for all her help and for being so wonderful. Amy, Trudi, Dolly and all in my office. Alan Dunn and my touring family. Lorraine, my long-time friend and her family, who I adore. My wonderful friends, Keith, Patti and the Richards gang, and Keith’s manager, Jane Rose, who is my great friend. Dympna my oldest school friend. My mum and dad for my life. My grandchildren, my nephews and niece, my brothers and my sister, I love you all so much. To Fran, Meg, Kate and Mairead. To all my new friends, there are too many names to mention, you know who you are. Katy England for styling and to all those I have loved and laughed with. And finally to Ronnie, who was a major part of my life; I thank him from the bottom of my heart for my rock and roll fairy tale.

I was already awake, lying in bed, enjoying the last few moments of peace, when my alarm went off. I glanced over at Ronnie, but he didn’t stir. It was midday, and I could see from the light pouring between the curtains in our bedroom that it was another beautiful English summer day.

I grabbed my robe and tiptoed downstairs to make myself a coffee. It was Sunday, and the house was completely quiet. I guessed Leah and her boyfriend, Jack, must still be upstairs in bed – and, looking out of the window, there seemed to be no sign of life from the little cottage in the garden where Tyrone was living.

As I waited for the machine to brew an espresso, I felt a little leap of happiness at being able to reach for my cup from my kitchen cupboard. It was so wonderful to be back in our own home in London after nearly two years on the road.

A Bigger Bang had lived up to its name: it had been the Stones’ most epic tour yet. The boys had played China for the first time, and in Rio, an unbelievable one million people had come to watch their show on Copacabana beach. Keith had fallen out of a tree while we were on holiday in Fiji, scaring the hell out of us and leading to the cancellation of some dates while he recovered from brain surgery. But now here we were, back on home turf – and tonight was the very last show of the whole tour.

I had a quick shower and got dressed (black top, black miniskirt, black tights and black Dior biker boots – colour is banned when you’re working backstage) – then did my hair and put on loads of black kohl and mascara, the makeup essentials I’ve been wearing since my teens and could probably apply in my sleep. There was no time to make much of an effort with my appearance: I had to make sure everyone was ready to leave the house at 2 p.m. and get Ronnie to the venue in good time for the sound check two hours later.

By now the kids were stirring. Leah chatted to me in the kitchen while I made Ronnie’s breakfast – a cup of tea, poached eggs and toast – then took it upstairs to him on a tray. He liked simple food, but never ate much. It would drive me crazy when I’d spent hours making an amazing meal and he ended up pushing it round the plate. Recently, Kate Moss joked to me that he was anorexic …

‘Honey, time to wake up,’ I said gently. ‘I’ve brought up your breakfast.’

I got a sleepy grunt in return.

I heard the crunch of car wheels on gravel and looked out of the bedroom window to see a black Mercedes and a minivan pulling up outside the house. I waved to Gardie, Ronnie’s Australian security guy, as he got out of the Merc. Show days in London were always madness because everyone, including friends, family and acquaintances, wanted to come to the gig. Today there would be Leah and Jack, Ty, Jamie and Jody, Jesse and Tilly and all the grandkids – hence the need for the van.

As Ronnie showered and dressed, I packed his gig bag: a spare T-shirt for after the show, a towelling robe, extra backstage passes for any unexpected guests – all the essentials. For the past 20 years I’d worked as Ronnie’s PA on all the Stones tours, so the only thing he had to worry about was getting up on stage and playing the guitar. The tours had got so huge, so spectacular, that they had to be run with military discipline. It was a far cry from when I had first hit the road with the Stones in the late seventies. The 1981 Tattoo You tour of the States had been particularly insane. Fuelled by coke and a virtual pharmacy of pills, we’d stayed up for days at a time, drinking and joking and having such a laugh. My motto was: ‘If it isn’t fun, it isn’t worth doing.’ I don’t remember much of that tour, but we’d been so out of control that, when the time came for the boys to hit the road again (not until 1989: Mick and Keith fell out over Mick releasing his solo album), Mick had decided that we had to start being more professional.

‘Ronnie needs a PA,’ he’d said. ‘You’re with him on tour the whole time, Jo. You’ve got the job.’

‘You mean I get paid for going on tour? Oh, yeah!’

‘Yes, but you have to do your job properly,’ said Mick, pointedly. ‘No being late with the packing.’

I squirmed. During the Tattoo You tour we had fallen asleep following a three-day party. Security had burst into our hotel room just moments before we were due to leave for a gig to find the place trashed, with Ronnie and me passed out in the middle of it. That night the boys were three hours late and the audience were going wild by the time they finally made it on stage.

‘Don’t worry, Mick,’ I said. ‘You can trust me.’

From then on I was on the payroll – and was never late with the packing again.

I checked my watch: 1.55 p.m. Time to round up the troops. ‘Come on, everyone, let’s go – let’s go! Have you all got your backstage passes?’

The kids and grandkids piled into the van, Ronnie and I climbed into the Merc with Gardie – and we were off. From our house in Kingston to the O2 arena it was far quicker to go by water rather than by road, so the cars dropped us at the pier in Putney where a boat was waiting.

It was a beautiful ride along the Thames and Ronnie was in a great mood. We chatted about the guests who were coming that night and the plans for the end-of-show party. As Ronnie had been touring for 30 years this was just another normal day’s work for him, but he loved his job as much as ever. Getting up on that stage, doing what he did best, while night after night thousands of people screamed in adoration. Girls still threw themselves at him so blatantly that I sometimes felt I was in the way – especially now I was older. But in a few weeks’ time we would be celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of our first date. We’d had our ups and downs, but we were still strong, and as we were coming to the end of a two-year slog we would finally have some time to ourselves to enjoy the rewards of all that hard work.

As we sped down the river, though, the sun sparkling on the water, I felt a twinge of sadness at the thought of it all coming to an end. I loved being on tour and would miss everyone hugely: not just the boys in the band, their wives and kids, but the backing musicians, roadies, security guys, office and tour staff, too. We had worked together for so long, we were like one big, crazy family.

The boat docked right next to the O2, where we jumped into waiting cars for the two-second drive inside the stadium. Being part of the Rolling Stones family is to live in a magical kingdom, where everything is taken care of and nothing is too much trouble. You’re given the best tables in restaurants, you fly first class, you get the best limos to the best hotels – God forbid you should actually have to walk a few metres!

I went straight to Ronnie’s dressing room, known as ‘Recovery’ on this tour, to drop off the gig bag, organize myself for the evening, and check that everything on his tour rider (an artist’s list of backstage demands) was in the room. In the old days this would have meant loads of booze, but now that Ronnie tried to stay sober on tour it was bottles of Vitaminwater, a coffee machine and sometimes a plain chicken sandwich. I liked to make the room feel homely, so there would also be lilies, incense and scented candles.

While Ronnie hung out in Keith’s dressing room (known as ‘Camp X-ray’), I went off to talk to Isabol in Wardrobe and pick out Ronnie’s clothes for the show. First, though, I stopped off to see Lisa Portman, who looked after Mick, to find out what colour he’d be wearing that night. If he was wearing red or blue, the rest of the boys couldn’t wear red or blue. The only person who didn’t comply with this was Keith. He would just pull stuff out at random and wear whatever he pleased.

Ronnie always wore the same shoes and skinny black jeans for shows, but I selected a couple of jackets and three tops for him to pick from that night, so he’d feel like he’d chosen his outfit. On the way back to the dressing room Caroline, the makeup artist, stuck her head out of the door.

‘I need him at five fifteen today, Jo,’ she said. ‘Oh, and if you see Bobby Keys, will you send him over to me?’

‘No problem.’

This was always my favourite time of the day on tour, when the excitement and energy were growing in the build-up to that night’s show. I passed Mick in the corridor and said hi, then headed to the lounge. This was the hospitality room where all the guests and backing musicians would hang out in the run-up to the show. At the O2 the lounge took up a whole floor, as everyone had family and friends coming. Dinner was always set out during the sound check so it was ready to eat as soon as the doors opened at 6 p.m. Like a hotel buffet, there would always be loads of choice: salad, cheese, fish and chips, some sort of meat dish, a vegetarian option – and almost always an organic meal, too. I had first asked for this in the early nineties and the caterers had been brilliant at sourcing organic food wherever we had been in the world; in fact, there had been only a couple of places where they hadn’t managed it. Sometimes I brought along organic produce from my own vegetable patch, too: on one tour I smuggled a whole suitcase of new potatoes to Paris, and backstage there was a huge bowl of them, dripping in butter, labelled, ‘Jo’s Organic Potatoes’. Every single one was eaten.

It was after the potato-smuggling incident that Keith said to me, ‘The trouble with you, Josephine, is that you’re addicted to organic food.’

I had to laugh. ‘Addicted? That’s a bit rich coming from you, Keith!’

At eight thirty, with moments to go before show time, I headed down to the stage and positioned myself by the flight cases, the huge containers used to transport the band’s kit around the world, so I’d be right there when Ronnie came on, in case he needed something. The roar of the crowd grew in anticipation and then – POW! Literally a bigger bang, as fireworks showered sparks all over the stage and the screens showed the Stones’ tongue logo in the midst of a huge explosion. Then as the smell of smoke and hot lights filled the air, the lights came up and the opening guitar notes of ‘Start Me Up’ boomed out into the arena.

Wow. I never got tired of experiencing the first thrilling moments of a show.

I stayed by the amp for the first two songs and then, once I knew Ronnie was happy, it was back to the dressing room to lay out his robe and pack up the gig bag. I rarely watched a whole show, preferring to catch up with the rest of the crew, but I would always go back to my spot on the stage to watch Ronnie’s solos and for the final few songs when they played all the classics: ‘Paint It Black’, ‘Satisfaction’, ‘Brown Sugar’ … The boys swapped it around every night so they never played the same set two shows in a row.

I went back to the lounge and found the logistics manager and Mick’s PA, Alan Dunn, who was grabbing a bite to eat. I adored Alan; I’d known him for almost as long as I’d known Ronnie and we had a wonderful, flirty friendship. Years ago the Stones were working on an album in Montserrat and Alan – who didn’t really drink – got so drunk downing B52 shots that he stripped naked and started chasing me around the garden waving his willy at me. No one blinked an eyelid, and in the end I had to lock myself in the bathroom to escape. I had so many funny times with Alan.

I’d never usually drink at a show, but tonight we had the end-of-tour party to look forward to after the gig, so I poured Alan and myself a small glass of wine each. We’d been chatting for a few minutes when I glanced at the set list. In a few minutes’ time the boys would be playing ‘Can’t You Hear Me Knocking’, with my favourite of Ronnie’s solos. I said goodbye to Alan, promising to continue our chat at the party.

The song was just starting as I arrived back at my spot behind the amp on stage. It was a great show tonight – UK audiences were always loud and loyal, although they usually needed a bit of time to warm up. Typical British reserve, I guess. I could make out some of the fans’ faces at the front of the crowd, but after the first few rows it seemed to be just an expanse of darkness, lit only by the flashes of cameras and phones. Standing on that stage listening to music that was so familiar to me, surrounded by people I’d known for years (not just the musicians, but all the roadies, riggers and tech guys behind the scenes, too), I truly felt like I was home.

Just to the side of where I was standing I could see Charlie Watts drumming away with fantastically precise rhythm. He caught me looking at him and pulled a face. I love Charlie; I could never tire of watching him play the drums. Darryl Jones on bass was standing just past him and then, bounding across the stage, shaking maracas, there was Mick. The guy is such a fantastic showman. I’ve never seen anyone else take an audience like he can and hold them in his hand for the entire show. I popped my head up a bit higher so I could see Keith, who was across on the other side. I’ve been lucky enough to meet some legends in my time – Bob Marley, Jerry Lee Lewis, Bill Clinton, Muhammad Ali, Madonna, Chuck Berry, Aretha Franklin, Marvin Gaye and, yes, of course, Mick Jagger, but Keith is the most extraordinary person, and one of my dearest friends.

Right at the front, Ronnie was getting stuck into his solo. Oh, my honey! Seeing him on stage still gave me goose-bumps. Whenever there had been hard times, whether it was his alcoholism, drugs or other women, it was in moments like this that all the bad stuff was forgotten. I was married to a creative genius, there was no doubt about it.

But as the roar of the audience drowned the last notes of the song, I was suddenly struck by the intense conviction that this was the last time I would be standing there, watching the Stones. It was almost like a premonition. Make the most of this moment, Jo: you’re never going to experience it again. It hit me so unexpectedly, and with such force, that I was left quite emotional. Where the hell did that come from? It must have been because it’s the last show, I thought. But, no, it was definitely more than end-of-tour blues. It was a feeling – a certainty – that everything was about to change; that my life would never be the same again.

If you had said to me at that moment that actually my premonition had been spot on and that I would never experience the thrill of touring with the Stones again, I probably wouldn’t have been that surprised. I was in my early fifties; I was a granny. I had no regrets – after all, I’d been there, done that and got the T-shirt. Having clocked up 30 years on the road alongside the Rolling Stones, I’d designed the bloody T-shirt!

No, what would have shocked me – in fact, what would have absolutely devastated me – would have been to know that in less than a year’s time I would have lost Ronnie. My world, my love, my everything.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ cried the circus ringmaster, ‘the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Prepare to be amazed by the Fabulous Flying Josephine!’

I stood on my bed, waving at the crowd below, then took a deep breath and launched myself onto the trapeze. I flew through the air in a series of death-defying spins and landed gracefully on the ground as the audience went wild.

‘Thank you, thank you!’ I bowed, graciously acknowledging their cheers.

I picked up Bella, my favourite doll, who was that day playing the part of the ringmaster, and waved her arm at a couple of teddies.

‘And now, bring on the clowns!’

I’ve always been a daydreamer. As a little girl I spent most of my time living in a fantasy world. I’d see something on TV or read a story and my imagination would run riot. As well as the circus phase, there was the time I saw a film about a little girl who wanted to be an actress and dreamt of ‘seeing her name in lights’. From then on I was obsessed. One day, my name will be in lights, too! If Britain’s Got Talent had existed I’m sure I’d have been first in line for the auditions. Seeing as I can’t really sing and – as viewers of the BBC’s Strictly Come Dancing will vouch – have two left feet, I’m not sure what my talent would have been, but I doubt that would have stopped me having a go.

My mum did everything she could to feed and encourage my overactive imagination. I’d find tiny letters hidden about the house from Tinker Bell, postage-stamp-sized envelopes containing a note written in tiny fairy writing: ‘Dearest Josephine, Mummy tells me you’ve been very helpful this week …’ One day I came home from school to discover all 20 of my dolls lined up on the bed dressed in identical knitted jumpers and stretchy ski-pants. Mum must have been buzzing away on her sewing-machine for months, but to me it was as if it had happened in the wave of a magic wand. She had a real fairytale touch when I was growing up – and still does to this day.

Mum – Rachel Ursula Lundell – was born in 1934 in the heat and dust of South Africa’s Eastern Cape, in a tiny village called Tsolo. My grandfather, George, was a Dutch builder, while his wife, Ellen, was the granddaughter of a woman of the Xhosa-speaking Pondo tribe. Ellen was the last of seven children and my mum, too, was the youngest of seven. According to folklore, the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter is capable of great magic, and Mum has always been convinced by her ‘powers’. She will tell you about the time she cured the local butcher of his warts and healed her neighbour’s eczema with just a touch. But whether or not Mum really does have supernatural powers, I definitely think there’s something a little bit magical about the story of how this young African girl ended up travelling to the other side of the world and falling in love with my dad, who lived in leafy Surrey.

From a young age, Mum had a headstrong streak. She was sent to a convent boarding-school, where she got up to all sorts of naughtiness. She once broke into the convent pantry with her friend, Audrey, and the pair smuggled some sugar out in their bras. Weeks later, by the time the nuns broke up the racket, Mum and Audrey had turned professional, taking orders and selling the sugar to friends. Mum got 16 lashes with the sjambok, a heavy leather bullwhip. She’s still got the scars, but she reckons it cured her sweet tooth for good.

When she was 12, a witch-doctor read her fortune and told her she would travel overseas, but it wasn’t until she was 17 that something happened to seal the deal. By this time South Africa was in the grip of apartheid. The population was segregated by skin colour: black, white or – in Mum’s case, as she was mixed-race – coloured. Shortly after leaving school she applied for a typist’s job in a bakery where her brother, Desmond, was already working. The bakery woman couldn’t have been nicer to the pretty, golden-haired girl with the Dior-style lace dress and quickly offered her the position, but just as they were walking to the door, Mum spotted Desmond and waved to him.

‘Do you know that man?’ the woman asked her.

‘Yes, he’s my brother,’ said Mum.

The woman stared at her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly, ‘but I can’t give you the job.’ She hadn’t realized that Mum wasn’t white.

In 1951 Rachel waved goodbye to Africa and went to England to stay with her sister, Joan, who was living in Surbiton with her English husband, a press photographer named Tony Booker, and got a secretarial job with the Milk Marketing Board. By now, she had grown into a very beautiful young woman – and had left a few broken hearts in South Africa. Shortly before leaving for England she had been working at her auntie’s grocery in Umtata and one of the local lads would come by every week on the pretence of buying a few bits and pieces so he could stare at her. Then one day he handed her a love letter. ‘Lots of garbage about how lovely I was,’ is Mum’s typically no-nonsense memory of it. It was a shame she didn’t keep the letter as it was signed ‘Nelson Mandela’.

A year after she’d arrived in England it was Mum’s turn to fall madly in love. She was helping Joan in the garden when a friend of Tony’s, Michael Karslake, stopped by. That evening, Michael – six foot two, with thick dark hair and a lovely smile, according to Mum – took her to the cinema. She can’t remember which film was on because they snogged the whole way through it.

It was love at first sight for my dad, too. Born in 1932 in Surrey, Michael Howard Karslake was working as an architectural model-maker, after an apprenticeship at the London County Council’s model-making department. He proved incredibly gifted at his chosen career. Nowadays, the intricate architectural models he built – ranging from the Thames Flood Barrier to a prototype helmet for racing driver Stirling Moss – would be created on a computer, but back then no project could do without the kind of skills he possessed.

Three years after that snogging session at the Surbiton Odeon, I came along, the first child of the newly wed Mr and Mrs Michael Karslake. (Scandalously newly wed, in fact: the ink had barely dried on my parents’ marriage certificate when I was born just four months later, the surprise result of a romantic jaunt to Devon, with Dad on his Lambretta scooter and Mum in the sidecar, her pin-curled blonde hair wrapped in a silk scarf. I was a love child! I’ve been a bit of a romantic ever since …)

Our first home was 44 Vange Hill Drive, a redbrick council house in Vange on the outskirts of Basildon, with chickens in the garden and acres of climbable trees in the woodland just beyond the fence. Mum’s African heritage didn’t even register with me when I was a kid. Growing up she spoke English, Afrikaans and Xhosa, but I don’t remember her having a strong accent (although she must have done, as I can hear the South African twang in her voice to this day) and, apart from being head-turningly beautiful, she didn’t look very different from any of the other mums in our white, middle-class neighbourhood. In my mind, the only unusual thing about our family was the deerskin shield with crossed spears on the living-room wall, and the avocado tree that Mum was struggling to grow among the pansies in the herbaceous border.

It wasn’t until her mother came to stay for the first time, when I was nine, that Mum’s heritage really hit home. Granny Ellen was much darker-skinned than Mum and her manner was very African. I remember Mum putting on her favourite Miriam Makeba records and Granny would stomp around the kitchen, throwing her arms up and singing: ‘Woo! Da-ba-da-ba-da-ba!’ It was hysterical. And there was the sudden, amazed realization: ‘Oh, my God, Mum’s from Africa!’

I didn’t get to visit my mother’s homeland until years later, after Dad died in 1990. I was desperate to get away, and Ronnie suggested we go to Kenya. As soon as I stepped out of the plane, I was aware that I had some sort of connection to Africa, a bond I’d never felt with any other place. I fell in love, really. Many years later, I used Xhosa words, including tula, meaning ‘quiet’, and langa, for ‘sunshine’, as the names of the scents in my Jo Wood Everyday Organics range.

* * *

As a little girl, I was perfectly happy in my dream world, and didn’t have that many friends; I still don’t really. I’m actually very shy. I’m fine once I get to know you, but it takes me a bit of time to trust people; maybe that came from living with Ronnie for all those years. Even as an adult, if I was in a hotel and room service brought the wrong order, I’d always say, ‘Oh, please don’t worry, that’ll be fine!’ rather than make a fuss. It used to drive Ronnie mad.

Apart from my siblings – Paul came along when I was two, Vinnie when I was six, and then, when I was 10, my baby sister Lize – my main playmate when we lived in Basildon was a girl called Linda Wood. She was the daughter of Mum’s best friend, Auntie Lily, and lived a few doors down. Linda was six months younger than me and quite spoilt. We used to play together with our dolls, but Linda had a real Sindy and a Barbie, whereas I just had Sindy’s cheaper cousin, Tina. I wasn’t a nasty child, but I suppose there was a bit of resentment there. On one particularly jealous day I made up a poem and chanted it to her in the garden: Linda Wood, is no good, chop her up for firewood. Linda had the last laugh, though. Years later, when I married Ronnie, she came to my wedding and was one of the first to congratulate me. ‘So, Jo, now you’re a Wood, too …’ Talk about karma.

For the first years of my life, I was Mum’s little shadow. I thought she was unbelievably glamorous, with her pencil skirts, stilettos and red lipstick. She loved clothes, and the house was always filled with pattern magazines from which she’d make the latest fashions on her sewing-machine. For a time she was an Avon lady and I would spend many happy hours playing with her makeup box, smelling the perfumes, patting the face powder so it puffed up in fragrant pink clouds and testing the lipsticks until I had tiger-stripes of Scarlet Lady and Passionate Plum up my arms. This girlie side of me frequently clashed with my inner tomboy. I loved climbing trees, so would go out looking immaculate and within minutes would have mud all over my skirt. There’s a photo of me aged five dressed as the Christmas-tree fairy for a school play, an angelic little girl with white-blonde hair, a butter-wouldn’t-melt smile, a sticky-out dress – and a pair of filthy plimsolls poking out of the bottom. To this day, that’s me all over.

As I barely left her side, Mum roped me into helping with the chores so I learnt really young to clean and cook. One of my earliest memories is of perching on a stool at the kitchen table while Mum made chocolate fudge, testing whether it was cooked by dropping a little bit into a glass of water to see if it formed a ball. To me, it was like magic! When I was eight, Mum went to South Africa to visit relatives, and for the next six weeks I helped Dad run the house: ironing his shirts, cleaning the kitchen, caring for Paul and Vinnie. At that age, six weeks seems an eternity, but I remember Dad being so proud – and I loved playing the little housewife.

We were a very tight unit: just Mum, Dad and us kids. We didn’t see much of our extended family, apart from summers spent at Auntie Mary’s beachside house in Devon and occasional trips to see my paternal grandmother, Grandma Karslake, in Surbiton. She must have been only 37 when I was born (she had my dad ridiculously young, at something like 16) and with her pinky-mauve set hair and moles that sprouted wiry hairs, she always seemed such a jolly woman. One day I was sitting on her lap, playing with her necklace. ‘Each bead is a different flavour,’ she whispered, with a wink, blowing my five-year-old mind. I sneaked a lick when she wasn’t looking.

But that’s not to say the Karslakes lived a quiet, solitary life – quite the contrary. Every weekend our house was full of people, united by one all-consuming passion: Lambretta scooters. The soundtrack to my childhood is revving engines and the clatter of crash helmets, while the smell is petrol. If we didn’t have a houseful of Lambretta fans at the weekend, we’d be heading off to a rally somewhere. Every summer we’d go to the Isle of Man for the famous TT motorbike races and watch Dad tear round and round the course for hours, thrilled by the noise, speed and smells.

A few years ago I fulfilled a lifetime’s ambition by getting my car racing licence and zipping around the track at Silverstone in a Morgan turbo classic. In 2012, I went on a fantastic charity road trip with 55 remarkable women in a fleet of Maseratis, Ferraris, Rolls-Royces and Bentleys; my sister Lize and I were in my Mercedes AMG. The route took us from London to Monte Carlo, via Paris, Geneva and Milan, but my own adventure very nearly ended at Dover.

‘Passport, please,’ said the officer at the border.

Oh, God. I’d forgotten my passport. ‘I’ve got my driving licence,’ I said hopefully.

‘You can’t get into France without a passport,’ he said.

Lize and I begged and pleaded with him and he must have taken pity on us because in the end he waved us through. ‘I haven’t seen you,’ he said, with the ghost of a smile.

By the time Dad died he had built up a museum of at least a hundred scooters, every model Lambretta had ever made lovingly restored. He was such a craftsman. When I was eight he took me to the scrapyard where we found an old bike frame and parts. He took them back to his workshop, put them all together, renovated it to mint condition and – ta-dah! – I had a beautiful new bicycle with a basket on the front. I loved hanging out with him in his workshop, watching him make incredible models of new towns, marvelling at his steady hand as he painted tiny windows or the lines down the middle of the street. Sometimes he’d let me help, teaching me how to make bits of foam into trees and spray-paint them green.

If there was one cloud on the otherwise blissfully clear horizon of my childhood, it was school. I hated it with a passion, and would do anything I could to avoid it, until the magical day when I could finally escape at 16. The only reason I learnt to count was so that I could work out how many days I had to endure before I could leave. All that ‘sit up straight, don’t talk, learn this’ just didn’t sit with my dreamy, romantic nature. Even at my primary school, Swan Mead, I would often sneak home for beans on toast, with Mum as my willing accomplice: ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ she would say. ‘You can stay and have lunch at home.’ Dad never found out because he was at work.

It was a good job he didn’t: I don’t think he’d have been pleased. Dad was in charge of learning – and he was quite the disciplinarian. I remember him shouting at me because I could not (or would not) understand how to tell the time. When I was struggling to learn my times-tables he wrote them out on rolls of wallpaper and stuck them all around my bedroom so when I lay in bed I could memorize them. I didn’t. Maybe one of the reasons I rebelled against school was because he tried to push me so hard.

Dad and I had a wonderful relationship but, God, he was strict. I think that came from his father, who was extremely tough with him, and Dad’s two years’ national service with the RAF after leaving school. You crossed him at your peril. When I was seven I sneaked a tin of drinking chocolate out of the kitchen cupboard. Dad discovered me eating spoonfuls of it and I got the wooden spoon, seven strokes on my bum, as you always got the same number as your age. Another time, my brother Paul found a crowbar – he was a cheeky little boy and very funny, but always up to mischief. Well, I came round the corner to see him smashing it on the vicarage wall and freaked. ‘Dad’s going to kill us!’ We all got the wooden spoon that time, even though I hadn’t done anything. After another misdemeanour we had to choose our own stick from a tree and then he hit the back of our legs with it. It was absolutely terrifying, the prospect of knowing that this awful thing was about to happen to you – and there was no way you could get out of it.

We were all scared stiff of Dad, even the four-legged family members. I remember once he found Mum’s cat eating food off the kitchen work surface. He picked Fusty up and threw him out of the window. That cat never went near him again. Dad was strict with us, but I learnt discipline, politeness and manners. I had the utmost respect for him.

* * *

I love animals but I’m not good at keeping pets. When I was little I had a rabbit called Snowy, but I soon got bored of taking care of him and forgot to feed him, so Dad told me he was giving him to the postman who lived down the road. ‘Okay.’ I shrugged. After a few days I started to miss Snowy and his soft white fur, so I trotted down the road and knocked on the door.

The postman’s wife answered. ‘Hello, Josephine.’ She smiled at me kindly.

‘I’ve come to see Snowy.’

She looked confused.

‘My rabbit?’ I said.

‘Oh, yes. I’m afraid we’ve eaten him, dear.’

From then on I vowed never to have another pet. I wasn’t going to go through that again.

* * *

Although they were always very sociable, my parents didn’t really drink – apart from maybe a few at Christmas – and Dad never smoked. I remember watching Ready, Steady, Go on telly – I must have been about 10, and the Rolling Stones came on. Dad looked on disapprovingly. ‘Disgusting lads.’ He tutted into his tea. You can imagine how he felt when, years later, I brought one of those very same lads home to Sunday lunch – although by that time I’d caused him and Mum so many anxious, sleepless nights that my dating a rock star probably didn’t seem so terrible, after all.

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