One night, unusually, Eric and I were going out, but I couldn’t decide what to wear. Poor Eric had been ready for hours and was waiting patiently. He was so sweet – at least, in the early days. The worst he would say if I annoyed him was: “You’re a silly clown.”

While he waited for me he was in the sitting room, fiddling with his guitar. At the time he liked a country singer called Don Williams. We had talked about how beautifully simple his lyrics were, each song telling a story about everyday happenings. Eric had been thinking of writing something similar.

Suddenly, as I was flinging dresses on and off, inspiration struck.When I finally got downstairs and asked the inevitable question – “do I look all right?” – he played me what he’d written:

It’s late in the evening; she’s wondering what clothes to wear.
She puts on her make-up and brushes her long blonde hair.
And then she asks me: “Do I look all right?”
And I say: “Yes, you look wonderful tonight.”

It was such a simple song but so beautiful and for years it tore at me. To have inspired Eric, and George before him, to write such music was flattering. Yet I came to believe that, although something about me may have made them put pen to paper, it was really all about them. Wonderful Tonight was the most poignant reminder of all that was good in our relationship, and when things went wrong it was torture to hear it.

I had no idea until I met Eric that I was capable of experiencing such deep feelings for another human being; before, I had always held back. I was frightened of strong emotion and intensity and, in a way, I was right to be. There is always a price to be paid for excess. But because Eric inspired such passion in me, I was willing to forgive his bad behaviour.

As the drink took hold, Eric began to live his life in five-hour cycles: his body needed alcohol every five hours, so there was no set pattern to life, or his moods. He could be loving and caring or angry and withdrawn. If I went out, I would never know what mood I would find him in when I came back. He ate sporadically and came to bed every night with a pint glass of brandy and lemonade. When he woke in the morning he would finish what was left, then pour himself a fresh glass. He was drinking about two bottles of brandy a day, plus however many pints of beer he had in the pub.

I tried to tell him he was drinking too much, which didn’t go down well. I even tried not drinking myself, thinking he might notice and cut down but he didn’t. After a couple of days I would tire of that and get hopelessly drunk with him, which of course he loved.

The real problem was that I didn’t know that drinking in the way Eric did was an illness. In those days, nobody spoke about it.

Eric was a wonderfully entertaining person when he was in the right mood – funny, wild, unpredictable. He bought Ferraris, which he drove too fast, racehorses – he gave me one for Christmas – Armani suits, and life was one big party.

There were other times, though, when Eric didn’t want to play. He had the most disconcerting ability to give off a dark vibe, so that whoever was around would know he didn’t want to see them and slink away. That included me.

I used to excuse him in the same way that I would excuse George. Both men were so creative that there were times when they had to retreat and listen to what was going on in their heads. Eric was like a child: his wants and needs were immediate and paramount and he had no understanding that other people’s had to be considered.

His eccentricities made me laugh, particularly his need to get into the right mood to watch TV. When the Test match was on, he would change into his cricket whites and, if he was planning to watch The Godfather, he’d insist on pasta for supper.

I fell into the trap of doing the same as everyone else. I looked after the house and I packed his suitcases. And if something wasn’t exactly as he wanted it, I knew about it. He had at least 200 shirts and he’d go berserk if I couldn’t find the one he wanted that day. He’d describe it in minute detail and I’d find him one that was similar. It wouldn’t do. My life revolved around him. I played the part of the little woman.

Wonderful Today: The Autobiography of Pattie Boyd is published by Headline Review on August 23 at RRP £20. It is available from Times BooksFirst on 0870 1608080 for £18, inc. p&p.

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