by Pattie Boyd
Meanwhile George and I had been stumbling along, with things going from bad to worse. I don’t know what his feelings were about Eric when he reappeared in our lives. We had been so stoned on the night of Robert Stigwood’s party that he might have forgotten about the confrontation in the mist, but I don’t think so. He never spoke about it, but after that night I think he felt he could be as blatant as he liked in his pursuit of other women.
In the spring of 1973 we were supposed to go on holiday to Portugal together. The day before we were due to leave he said he wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t go. I told him he looked fine, but he insisted, so I canceled the flights. Then I was invited to the Bahamas by Sheila Oldham, my artist friend. George clearly didn’t want to go away with me, so I decided to go on my own and take Paula and her baby, William, with me.
Paula was in a bad way. She and her husband Andy were living in a flat in Little Venice and one day she confessed to me that she had been so stoned and so out of it that she couldn’t remember whether she had last fed William an hour or a day ago. I thought if I could get her away from Andy, who was also using, I might be able to sort her out.
My thoughts about George were right. He didn’t want to go on holiday with me and ended up going to Spain, supposedly to see Salvador Dalí, with Ronnie Wood’s wife, Krissie. Ronnie, then guitarist with the Faces, and Krissie lived in Hampton Court but often came to stay at Friar Park. I was desperately hurt: another one of my friends was sleeping with George. When I challenged him, he denied it and tried once again to make me feel as though I was paranoid.
When Paula and I met at Heathrow for the flight, I asked her what heroin was like. She said, “Try some,” so, always up for anything, I did. I went into the loo, and when I came back I felt truly amazing.
“Did you like it?” Paula asked.
“Yes, it was kind of extraordinary.”
“I’m never giving you any more.”
I said I hoped she never would have any more. Furthermore, I hoped she didn’t have any illegal substances on her as we had to go through strict Customs on arrival in the Bahamas. She assured me she didn’t.
Sheila picked us up at the airport and took us to Paradise Island by boat, where Paula and I were given the Polynesian House to stay in. It was pretty, straw-thatched, and had its own swimming pool.
As soon as we had dumped our bags Paula said, “I did have some with me, and a syringe.” She pulled out a package from under her shorts.
“Hand it over to me now,” I said, “because this is it. I hope you told your doctor to give you something to help when you come down. I’m not a nurse and I don’t know what I’m doing.” She gave me the syringe and I told her I’d bury it in the sand.
Off I went. I waited a bit, then brought it back surreptitiously and hid it with my T-shirts.
The days went by. We did yoga every morning and she seemed to be getting on quite well, William was happy and everything seemed good. But I had to hide her from my friends, Sam and Sheila, because I couldn’t trust her. When I went to see them I would tell Paula to stay in the house. And they kept saying, “Where’s Paula?” and I kept saying, “She’s got a bad cold.”
After about a week she panicked and wanted the syringe for one last hit. It was pathetic: she was desperately digging in the sand for the syringe. I couldn’t bear to see her like that so I got the syringe, dug too, and pretended to find it. She filled it, and after she had used the last of the heroin, we destroyed it.
Photo Insert
My mother (center, holding the dog) and her twin brother, John (far left), with relatives at Howleigh House, where they spent most of their childhood with an aunt.
FROM THE COLLECTION OF PATTIE BOYD
Mumps confined me to the hospital at school, but the best bit was that my mother came to visit me. I was so thrilled to see her.
FROM THE COLLECTION OF PATTIE BOYD
Colin, Paula, Jenny, and me with Salome in Kenya. Soon after this picture was taken, our mother and new father sailed to England with Paula, leaving the rest of us behind.
FROM THE COLLECTION OF PATTIE BOYD
A snapshot taken by my stepfather before I left home to live in London.
BOBBIE GAYMER-JONES
Modeling a minidress from Quorum, one of my favorite boutiques.
PHOTO BY M. MCKEOWN/EXPRESS/GETTY IMAGES
When George was away on tour I invited his parents, Harold and Louise, to come to Paris with me. I couldn’t resist giving them dinner on a tourist boat on the Seine.
FROM THE COLLECTION OF PATTIE BOYD
When I first met George on the set of A Hard Day’s Night I thought he was the best-looking man I’d ever seen. Being close to him was electrifying.
PHOTO BY MICHAEL OCHS ARCHIVES/GETTY IMAGES
Mrs. Angardi, whose husband ran the Asian Music Circle, asked whether George and I would pose for her. She gave us the portrait, which hung at Friar Park.
ANGARDI
Kinfauns, the bungalow in Esher, which we had decided needed cheering up. Mick and Marianne arrived when we were out and left us a message below the window…
PATTIE BOYD
I went to great pains to set up a tripod in front of the climbing rosebush I planted in the garden at Kinfauns, but George got bored waiting for the shutter to close and it caught him looking away.
PATTIE BOYD
Twiggy and me in Italian Vogue, working for Anna Piaggi, who ran us over five pages. The clothes were beautiful and we had such fun with our makeup.
JUSTIN DE VILLENEUVE
It was always fun on the rare occasions when Jenny and I were booked to do modeling jobs together--she was as good as I was, but never as ambitious.
FROM THE COLLECTION OF PATTIE BOYD
Another shot for my portfolio.
TERRY O’NEILL
With Jane and Cynthia in Austria on the set of Help!
PHOTO BY LES LEE/EXPRESS/HULTON ARCHIVE/GETTY IMAGES
Frank Sinatra and George locked in conversation at a studio in Los Angeles, where we had just heard Sinatra record “My Way” with a full orchestra in one take.
© 1978 ED THRASHER/MPTV.NET
Haight-Ashbury was the LSD capital of America, full of hippies. They followed George as if he was the Pied Piper, but then it suddenly turned nasty.
GRANT JACOBS
Arriving at John F. Kennedy Airport after our eye-opening experience in San Francisco.
© BETTMANN/CORBIS
With (left to right) John Cynthia, George, and my sister Jenny at Heathrow on our way to India in February 1968.
© BETTMANN/CORBIS
The Maharishi’s lectures on meditation were fascinating. From left to right: Paul, Jane, me, Ringo, Maureen, John, and George.
PHOTO BY KEYSTONE FEATURES/HULTON ARCHIVE/GETTY IMAGES
George had composed the soundtrack to Joe Massot’s film Wonderwall and we attended the premiere at the Cannes Film Festival in 1968 Ringo and Maureen.
© MIRKINE/SYGMA/CORBIS
With George at the London premiere of Yellow Submarine.
© HULTON-DEUTSCH COLLECTION/CORBIS
Friar Park on a very still day with its reflection in the lake. George’s nephew, Paul Harrison--Harry’s son--is on the stepping stones.
PATTIE BOYD
George, Ronnie and Krissie Wood, Kumar, and Joss Stick, our Siamese cat, at Friar Park in the early morning. We had been up all night and were still going strong.
PATTIE BOYD
The back garden at Hurtwood Edge, originally designed by Gertrude Jekyll. The snooker table was at the very top of the house, and our bedroom was on the floor below.
FROM THE COLLECTION OF PATTIE BOYD
Yvonne Elliman, who sang with Eric’s band, and Roger Forrester carrying my bag. Roger was like the headmaster on tour, trying to keep everyone under control.
FROM THE COLLECTION OF PATTIE BOYD
Eric and me at the premiere of Tommy in London.
© HULTON-DEUTSCH COLLECTION/CORBIS<
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Terry Doran, George, and Olivia at the wedding party Roger organized at Hurtwood Edge for Eric and me. It lasted all day and all night.
PATTIE BOYD
Jerry Hall, Jim Capaldi, and me at my wedding party at Hurtwood Edge. When Eric and I finally called it a day we found Jerry and Mick Jagger fast asleep in our bed.
FROM THE COLLECTION OF PATTIE BOYD
George phoned one day to say he was in the area and wanted to see us. I took this of him and Eric smoking in the little TV room.
PATTIE BOYD
Me and Eric.
JEAN-CLAUDE VOLPELIERE
Ronnie and Eric mucking about at Hurtwood Edge--Ronnie is right-handed, so they were clearly just mucking about. He had just met his second wife, Jo.
PATTIE BOYD
Eric and me in Bahia, Brazil. Robert Stigwood had given us first-class tickets for the Concorde’s inaugural flight to Rio. Rio was too busy, so we flew north to Bahia.
FROM THE COLLECTION OF PATTIE BOYD
On holiday on the island of Nevis in the early eighties. Eric was relaxed and in good shape and we spent a happy time swimming, reading, and snorkeling.
FROM THE COLLECTION OF PATTIE BOYD
Eric had planned concerts in Jerusalem after Cairo, but the authorities wouldn’t allow the equipment in, so he and I went to visit the pyramids on horseback instead.
FROM THE COLLECTION OF PATTIE BOYD
Me in very good spirits at Hurtwood Edge on Christmas day in the early eighties. I am posing for Colin, my brother, who was there with his wife, Debbie, and son, Alex.
ALAN ROGAN
Rod and me at Ronnie Wood’s fiftieth birthday party at his house in Richmond. The dress was “saloon bar.”
FROM THE COLLECTION OF PATTIE BOYD
Paul, Ringo, and George celebrating Ringo’s birthday at a party at his house in Sussex. George, being a minx, was trying to get Ringo to drink alcohol.
ROD WESTON
Seventieth birthday celebrations for my mother (right) and her twin brother, John (far left), at her flat in Devon. From left, Paula, Colin, Jenny, Boo, David, and me.
FROM THE COLLECTION OF PATTIE BOYD
Celebrating with Ronnie at the opening of the exhibition of his paintings and some of my photographs at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, in 2004.
PHOTO BY DAVE BENETT/GETTY IMAGES
Then Andy rang to find out how she was, and wanted to come out too so I could clean him up. I thought this would be fantastic—little William might stand a chance—but Andy was far more difficult than Paula. He wanted to stay up all night drinking vodka, and then he would wander off into the sea. I was terrified he would drown and had to watch him all the time. He was hard work but gradually he got better, and he was so much nicer when he was clean; they were both in tremendous form. But I was worried that Andy would find it difficult to stay clean when he got back to the Stones. I asked him whether he thought he’d be tempted and he said, “Maybe.”
“Andy, how can you say that? I’ll have wasted ten days!”
“Sorry, but it might be difficult for me to say no.”
At least Paula was clean—for the time being.
In the midst of all of this we had a call from Ronnie Wood. He was on tour and said he might come to see us for a few days. It was such a relief to have someone else to party with, someone who was light and fun, who enjoyed life and didn’t need looking after. He didn’t seem upset that his wife was with George—just thought it was funny that they’d gone to see Salvador Dalí. Ronnie was, and is, the most adorable man, and maybe at that moment, some fun, laughter, and a pair of comforting arms were what I needed.
In hindsight I wonder whether George’s pursuit of other women was a challenge: perhaps he was hoping to provoke me, hoping to make me put my foot down and reclaim him. At the time I saw it as rejection, and ever since the day my mother left me in Kenya while she sailed to England with Bobbie and Paula, I have lived in fear of being abandoned. When things reached such a pitch with George that I thought our marriage was past saving, I left before he had a chance to leave me.
The final straw was his affair with Maureen Starr, Ringo’s wife. She was the last person I would have expected to stab me in the back, but she did. I discovered from some photos Terry had had developed that she had been staying in the house with George one weekend when Jenny and I had gone to Devon to see my mother. He had given her a beautiful necklace, which she wore in front of me. Then I found them locked into a bedroom at Friar Park. I stood outside banging on the door and saying to George, “What are you doing? Maureen’s in there, isn’t she? I know she is,” but he laughed. He was supposed to be in the studio and everyone was waiting for him. Eventually he opened the door and said, “Oh, she’s just a bit tired so she’s lying down.” I went straight up to the top of the house and, with the help of Phil and Andy, the studio engineers, lowered the OM flag that George had flying from the roof and hoisted a skull and crossbones instead. That made me feel much better. She wasn’t even prepared to be subtle.
Maureen would turn up at Friar Park at midnight and I would say, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to listen to George playing in the studio.”
“Well, I’m going to bed.”
“Ah, well, I’m going to the studio.”
The next morning, she’d still be there, and I’d say, “Have you thought about your children? What are you up to? I don’t like it.”
“Tough.”
That whole period was insane. Our lives were fueled by alcohol and cocaine, and so it was with everyone who came into our sphere. Friar Park was a madhouse. Chris O’Dell was there, madly in love with an American; Ronnie and Krissie Wood would arrive, she with a basket that contained beautiful clothes; Eric was pursuing me; Terry was tearing off to London to see bands playing in clubs and returning at three or four in the morning. We were all as drunk, stoned, and single-minded as the other. Nobody seemed to have appointments, deadlines, or anything pressing in their lives, no structure and no responsibilities, except in the evenings when Chris and I would sometimes cook dinner.
One evening when John Hurt, the actor, was with us, Eric was due to come over and George decided to have it out with him. John wanted to make himself scarce but George insisted he stay. He remembers George coming downstairs with two guitars and two small amplifiers, laying them down in the hall, then pacing restlessly until Eric arrived—full of brandy, as usual. As Eric walked through the door, George handed him a guitar and amp—as an eighteenth-century man might have handed his rival a sword—and for two hours, without a word, they dueled. The air was electric and the music exciting. At the end nothing was said but the general feeling was that Eric had won. He hadn’t allowed himself to get riled or to go in for instrumental gymnastics as George had. Even when he was drunk, his guitar-playing was unbeatable.
Cocaine was a seductive drug because it made you feel euphoric and good about yourself. It took away your inhibitions and made even the shyest, most insecure person feel confident—usually over-confident. And we had so much energy—everyone would talk nonsense for twice as long, and drink twice as much because the cocaine made you feel sober. Every pleasure was intensely heightened and prolonged. Like everything, done in moderation it was fine. Done to excess, it was not. George used coke excessively and I think it changed him.
Smoking marijuana changed us too, but it wasn’t destructive. Dope in the sixties—a very different drug from the skunk kids smoke today—was about peace, love, and increasing awareness. It was the basis of flower power; it was innocent. Cocaine was different and I think it froze George’s emotions and hardened his heart.
Ringo didn’t have a clue what was going on until I rang him one day and said, “Have you ever thought about why your wife doesn’t come home at night? It’s because she’s here!” And he flew into a rage.
George continued to pretend that nothing was going on: “I’m not sleeping with her.”
“You must be. What e
lse are you doing?” And he would leave me feeling as though I was becoming paranoid, going quietly mad. I didn’t say, as I should have done, “Enough! Get that woman out of my house.”
I suppose I didn’t really think of it as my house. I felt very undermined and unloved and George was so terribly difficult to talk to. He would either be counting his beads and muttering under his breath all the time all day long, so if you talked to him you didn’t know whether you would get an answer in the middle of his chanting or whether he would bite your head off. He had become worse in the last year—maybe because Eric kept coming around and making it obvious that he wanted to see me. George must have sensed we were having an affair but he never said so. I felt he wanted to break us up, he wanted to get rid of me. I felt we were like chopsticks joined together and cracking apart; something had to give.
The 1973 New Year’s Eve party was at Ringo’s, and George, Terry, and I were all ready to go when I realized I’d left something behind. I dashed upstairs to the bedroom—and saw the car lights disappearing into the night. They’d gone without me. I got into my car and drove toward Ringo’s, but there was a thick fog around Ascot and so much traffic that no one could see a thing and we hardly moved. Suddenly all the cars stopped because it was midnight and everyone got out of their cars to wish each other a happy new year—complete strangers were hugging one another.
When I finally arrived George said, “Let’s have a divorce this year.”
On our wedding anniversary, January 21, 1974, I wrote in my diary: “Wedding anniversary. Joke!”