A couple of days into our stay we heard that Astrid Kirchherr, a key figure from the Beatles’ Hamburg days — she invented the Beatle haircut — was also in Paris.

We met her and a girlfriend and moved from one wine bar to the next, knocking back rough red wine in vast quantities. When dawn broke the four of us could barely walk. We stumbled back to Astrid’s lodgings and downed another bottle before collapsing on her single bed. Unbelievably the four of us slept there, piled together like sardines.
Those were strange days. Despite our growing celebrity status we had no sophistication or sense of style. Back in Liverpool our idea of a classy night out had been a Scotch and Coke or a Babycham
in the pub.

The boys were now spending most of their time in London so it made sense to find homes there. Brian Epstein, their manager, was already installed in Belgravia and wasted no time in acquainting himself with the best people and places. John and I asked him to show us the ropes since we hadn’t a clue.
He took us to La Poule au Pot in Ebury Street, run by a couple of French gays.

Because homosexuality was still illegal it was only in places like this, where it was acceptable to be openly gay, that he could let down his guard. He ordered French onion soup, coq au vin and poire belle hélène. To us it was the height of sophistication.

Money was now no object, as we discovered when we talked to our accountant about buying a house. He lived in Weybridge, Surrey, and we found the perfect place nearby: Kenwood, a 16-room mock-Tudor house on the St George’s Hill estate.

We developed a taste for London’s nightlife. A favourite haunt was the Ad Lib club. We’d talk, drink and dance the night away with our old Liverpool mates, Freddie and the Dreamers and Gerry and the Pacemakers, plus the Who, the Rolling Stones, the Animals and Georgie Fame. Keith Moon, the Who’s drummer, and I had wonderful philosophical conversations. Despite his mad rocker image I found him sensitive and serious-minded.

After a night of partying, we’d leave at dawn, get the chauffeur to stop at a cafe for a meat pie and be home in time for me to get our son Julian up and off to school.

John made friends with Peter Cook, the satirist. He and his wife Wendy invited us to lunch. Their home in Hampstead was like something out of a glossy magazine. We had our first taste of garlic — unheard of in Liverpool. These people seemed effortlessly perfect.

I looked at John in horror when he invited them back to dinner. As the day approached I drew up the most impressive menu I could think of. Prawn cocktail — sauce out of a bottle, frozen prawns. Roast lamb. Apple crumble out of a packet. Custard out of a tin.

The Cooks were due at eight. John had promised to be home in plenty of time. With 15 minutes to go I tried to compose myself. Peter and Wendy arrived. I poured drinks and handed them nuts and crisps. With no sign of John, I did my best to keep the conversation going and the glasses full. The next two hours were probably the most embarrassing of my life. And the food was gently disintegrating in the oven.

It was 10 when John rolled in with a beatific smile, clearly stoned. He had fortified himself with a few joints and lost track of time. The night, however, was a great success. Peter and Wendy accepted a joint from John and by the time I served the meal they were so stoned that they wolfed it down, oblivious to its hideous state.

I didn’t go on many shopping sprees, but when I did it was for shoes. John loved shopping even more than I did. Stores would open out of hours for the boys and they’d scoop up goodies in their own version of a supermarket trolley dash. John had a thing about lingerie, unbelievably extravagant creations that I paraded for him in our bedroom.