Terence Conran built a £200 million empire and then watched most of it disappear. Now he’s redesigning and – he hopes – rebuilding his dreams.

SIR TERENCE Conran screws up his face, goes red, whacks the table and his coffee spoon flies up in the air. He grimaces. His wife has said he has the most tremendous temper. ‘I’ve lost complete control only half a dozen times in my life. Then I get into extreme fury and out of control. I hope it’ll never happen again in my life. It feels rather like being sick, physically draining,’ he says.

‘I lose my temper with Shirley (his former Superwoman wife). She’s somebody who just goes on and on and on and will not let the subject die.’ On other occasions, like today, he’ll thump the table and people think he’s losing his temper. ‘But actually it’s just me marking an exclamation mark.’ A boat goes by outside the window and Sir Terence lights a cigar. Next February Sir Terence will open London’s largest restaurant, Quaglino’s, in Bury Street, St James’s. Founded in 1911, it was London’s most fashionable restaurant in the Thirties and has been closed since 1980. Sir Terence is sitting in his Butlers Wharf office, overlooking Tower Bridge, with Conran furniture, modern art and freshly ground coffee. The cultural hero is wearing a navy linen suit, college shoes, red polka dot tie and gruff expression. He looks very attractive.

He opened his first Habitat shop in 1964, improved the public’s taste, helped bring the word ‘design’ into the dictionary and made a great deal of money. But he met Nemesis in 1987 when he faltered in the City and decided he wanted out of Storehouse (BhS, Habitat, Mothercare and Richard Shops). Less than five years ago, he was ‘worth £200 million on paper’. And now? ‘What I am worth is my own business.’ The expression in his eyes is lifeless. ‘The turnover of my various businesses now comes to around £35 million. Peanuts compared to the old days, but reasonably substantial . . Well, Butlers Wharf has gone into receivership. And he left Storehouse in May 1990 (a year before he was due to retire) with a seven per cent stake. Once worth more than £100 million, that stake, which he later sold, was then worth less than £30 million.

‘I don’t feel like yesterday’s man. I happen to be running probably London’s currently most successful store (The Conran Shop) and certainly three of London’s most successful restaurants (Bibendum, Le Pont de la Tour and Blueprint Cafe).’

The restaurants appear to be flourishing. But he bought the Conran Shop UK in May 1990 for £3.5 million; a year in which the shop made pre-tax profits of £506,000. Observers question whether it is now likely to see similar returns.

Sir Terence is opening another Conran Shop in Paris. In London a smoked fish shop and ‘yet another’ restaurant, Cantina, are scheduled to open in November. And then there’s Quaglino’s.

‘Quaglino’s is to be the biggest brasserie in London. It will seat 400 people. There’s going to be lots of art in it. I’ve asked contemporary art dealer Kasmin to use some of the walls as a gallery now that his Cork Street gallery has closed.’

Conran also has a furniture business, Benchmark Woodworking Ltd, is chairman of the Design Museum and is writing a couple of books for his publishing house Conran Octopus. ‘One book is rather appropriately called Back to Basics.’

Yet he has a slight air of disillusionment, a languorous feel to him. He also has a bit of a lisp and a somewhat depressed manner of speaking, as if he can’t muster the enthusiasm. But he has a wry humour, though he doesn’t go out of his way to charm. Perhaps this is defensiveness.

He studied at Central School of Art and Design and married three times – first to Brenda Davidson, then to art school graduate Shirley Pearce by whom he has two sons, Sebastian and Jasper; and now to food writer Caroline, by whom he has three more children, Tom, Sophie and Ned. ‘He has been married to Caroline for 27 years. ‘We pursue relatively independent lives’ – a fact which friends emphasise – ‘but we do get on extremely well.’ He is proud of his children. ‘I don’t think I was a model father, I’m not a family man or conventional father. But I think I was more than adequate. Shirley and I were divorced in fairly difficult circumstances, after six years of marriage – some happy, the rest deeply unhappy. I think I was discarded (he laughs) because I didn’t fit into her plans. I think she probably regretted it in later years!

‘Shirley is an extremely ambitious woman and it’s difficult to live with someone intensely ambitious. She was rushing round the world and Caroline took on the mothering role. Caroline and I were probably a haven of sanity for Jasper and Sebastian. Caroline probably compensated on the emotional side for my simplicity in that area.’

His son, fashion designer Jasper, is homosexual. Sir Terence has said that that is Jasper’s choice, though he thinks it harder to find happiness as a homosexual. ‘I don’t blame myself at all. That would be like an Indian family being upset because they’d got a girl instead of a son.’ He lights his cigar again. Extracting personal information from him is, initially, like trying to persuade him to furnish his homes with Louis XVI and ruched curtains.

‘When Jasper was only three some gay friends of mine told me, ‘Japser is going to be gay.’ They knew. Many of my friends are gay and one’s son being gay isn’t any different. I don’t think it has anything to do with upbringing – I’ve certainly never had any homosexual tendencies myself. I think people are born that way. Not for one moment have I ever been worried, sad or embarrassed that Jasper is gay.’

We talk then about Sir Terence’s childhood. His parents, both from ‘extremely wealthy’ families who had lost their money in the 1929 crash, had to scrimp to send him to school. ‘We were pretty broke. But I didn’t feel deprived. I’d never known any different. It was the war years and life was very austere.’

He was expelled from Bryanston, aged 16. ‘I was caught riding a bicycle without lights in the direction of Tarrant Rushton aerodrome at midnight. I was having a midnight tryst with my girlfriend.’

They lived in London then Liphook. ‘A perfectly pleasant upbringing.’ His father imported resin for paint. ‘He got rather fed up that things went badly for him.’ The young Terence was industrious: he collected wild flowers, was a lepidopterist and had a workshop and pottery at home. He was also like his mother, ‘emotionally controlled with a great creative talent and wonderful eye’. From this came the self-professedly self-confident, loyal and intolerant Sir Terence.

The adult Sir Terence has worked hard. He has even been called a workaholic. ‘I don’t think I am.’ Nowadays he gets up at 5.30am and goes to bed at midnight. In between he leads an ‘intensely unhealthy life, smoking cigars, eating too much and drinking good wine’. He ‘relaxes’ in the bath. ‘I lie in the bath and think about how the towel dispenser is going to fit into the wash basin at Quaglino’s.’

He is ‘sad’ about his Storehouse experience. ‘Though at one stage I was doing more work than was good for me. I felt physically and mentally exhausted. I was thinking, ‘Oh my God, I’ve got all these carrier bags of reports to do and meetings shunting up against each other.’ But I miss the mass-market element. My greatest regret is that I’ll never finish that job (of revitalising the companies). That rankles.’ He’s also sad he wasn’t able to finish Butlers Wharf in the way he dreamed.

He has never done anything ‘purely to make money’. For him, work is pleasurable. He was impoverished when he started off and has said he doesn’t want to die rich. ‘It would be silly and offensive to say one’s not interested in money though,’ says this man who believes in the principles of socialism and has never voted Tory. ‘I’ve spent my money on houses and doing them up and on pictures and sculpture. But I’ve never dreamed of owning Irises or anything. I don’t like external manifestations of wealth in any way.’

And is it true that he’s mean? ‘Ah, my meanness! I don’t like waste. I try to tell everyone how much photocopies cost and I encourage them to switch the lights out. I don’t like them to throw away anything that can be used. People confuse that with meanness.’

Sir Terence softens as the interview proceeds, smiling more, laughing often and taking the mickey. I warmed to him. But he guards his emotions more than most. ‘He doesn’t ever show his emotions or speak about them,’ Jasper once said of his father.

‘I think,’ says Sir Terence slowly, ‘emotions are very private things. I don’t express them to other people. They are just for me. I like being under control.’ He doesn’t respond well to probing questions and keeps moving his chair farther away.

He is also a surprisingly shy man. ‘I am very self-contained. I’m not shy with people I know well. But I hate going to parties. I loathe meeting new people. I really don’t know what to talk to them about. I get embarrassed.’ He is now 60 – an age when many multi-millionaires would be thinking of retiring. Would he like to wind down his work to spend more time, say, with his wife?

‘No. I’ll never retire. I’ll never stop doing things. I hope to have projects on the go until I die.’ It has been said by a friend of his that Sir Terence is deeply afraid of growing old and dying. Typically he demurs. ‘Actually, I’m quite relaxed about the idea that death is an inevitability.’

Is death The End? Is there an afterlife? How does he view dying? He shakes his head and motions with his expressive hands, does a kind of whistle, says chuuu, and does a ‘curtains’ gesture followed by a sort of Nazi salute. This indicates that ‘my body is going to be taken away and cut up for scientific research. Then there’ll be a huge fireworks display and a wonderful dinner for my friends when I hope they’ll get very merry’. So he’s not reckoning on coming back again? ‘One would be rather surprised.’ When would he like to die? ‘I hate the idea of being senile. I’d like to die at 75, no older than that. Then I think, ‘Oh my God, I’ve only got another 15 years to do all these things I want to do.’ ‘

TODAY is probably the world’s biggest ever redundancy party. Thousands of British Telecom employees will be celebrating becoming former British Telecom employees. In fact there’s never been a Black Friday quite like it. More than 30,000 jobs are to be shed this year, of which 19,000 go today. And with generous redundancy payouts for them all, the mood promises to be one of Gold Rush fever. As if everyone has won the pools.

Which has led to speculation that the pubs will be awash with BT chaps waving fat cheques and drinking themselves silly after organising a giant conga out of the BT headquarters.

There have been parties all week. Parties all round the country. Yesterday the celebratory wrist exercises started at 11.30 am. The venue? Upstairs at The Sir Christopher Wren pub in the shadow of St Paul’s, within a square mile of HQ and about a dozen other BT buildings.

One man drinks three pints before midday. ‘”Downstairs in the function room other BT folk are ringing the changes. The room has been booked from 12.30 until the evening and up to 150 people are expected. But there isn’t a Beattie in sight. ‘The assembled party goers are all male.

Bill is counting 20 lots of £20 notes and leaving them behind the bar to pay for the drinks. ‘Some of them just leave a credit card behind the bar,’ says landlady Julie Wood. ‘We’ve had a party every day this week. Some go on all day.’ After all, they’ve had their salary slips, so they know the redundancy money is in their accounts.

‘The atmosphere’s like the Notting Hill Carnival,’ says one Invisible Man – like many, he signed the Official Secrets Act in the days when BT employees were civil servants and doesn’t want to be named. ‘Some of The Suits are getting £200,000 pay-offs. And people in their twenties are getting deals that exceed £20,000.’ This Invisible Man wears a white short-sleeved shirt and grey slacks, called ‘BT Image Clothes’ by these folk.

Employees have been raring to accept voluntary redundancy. The revellers tell stories of the faxes that have been pouring out of the machines in BT over the last few weeks. One is an unprintable version of the song Please Release Me Let Me Go. Another is a tasteless joke involving Princess Diana. ‘’

Stories of those who have been turned down are legion. ‘I know a whole department which applied,’ says bearded Alex, who has taken off a half day to be at this party. Unusually, he is still employed, and happy. ‘One guy had a terrific fight. It was war. He was shouting and thumping at the table trying to get out. The ones who have asked to go and haven’t been allowed are incredibly bitter.

‘One technical officer was told he could go. He sold his house and got a place at college and a grant – and then he got a letter saying he couldn’t leave. ”

Another man whose application was accepted adds: ‘There are people who have ordered cars in the belief that they’re going to get redundancy, and they’ve been turned down.’ He is 54 years old. ‘I was turned down twice. I’m glad – because this is a much better offer.’

An anonymous engineer of 54 is holding the party today. He has left the company after 33 years. ‘I’m happy to go,’ he says, with a grin. ‘I won’t look for another job. I’ve got plenty to occupy myself at home. Only time will tell if I’ve got enough money never to work again.’ The music blares. How does he feel about his job prospects? ‘You can always take early-morning cleaning jobs if you’ve got to make ends meet.’

His friend, a man with a kindly face and coloured shirt, has also worked for the company for 33 years. He’s divorced and has three children over 18. ‘I used to enjoy the job, but morale’s got so low now.’ He’s drinking bitter shandy to stay sober. ‘I’ve already been to a party on the Regalia boat this week.’ Nearby a man pretends to kiss his friend with abandon on the cheeks. ‘I’ve retired,’ he continues, with glee. He says he’s been counting the hours since he was told in April that he could go. ‘When people ask what I do, I’m going to say I’m a ‘pensioner bumming around’. I’m going to spend every day playing golf. I’ve got to go to the dole office to get national insurance credits. If a job comes up I bet I’ll get it,’ he says morosely. ‘But I don’t want one.’ He’s having his Redundancy Party on Friday. ‘I’m putting £200 behind the bar.’ ”’

Dave Flack, 27 and single, has long hair and a gold earring. He wears jeans and T-shirt. He doesn’t mind being named. ‘”He has worked for 11 years, doing private wire maintenance. Latterly he was paid a salary of £19,000. ‘I don’t have a job to go to. I’ll probably do part time work for BT through Manpower.’ Why did he decide to leave? ‘Because I wanted a change.’ He also got ‘over £20,000′ redundancy. ‘‘Hopefully I’ll be able to buy a house.’

Chairman Iain Vallance hasn’t joined them. He’s out of town today at the BT AGM in Birmingham. ‘He’s a dove,’ says the 54-year-old would-be golfer. ‘He really knows how to look after people.’

Down the street, more former BT employees are revelling al fresco outside the Master Gunner pub. This is the party for Rick Hullett, who is bald, genial and drinking whisky. They’re all signing someone’s leaving card which reads ‘congratulations’. It’s 2pm and the atmosphere is like that in a coach of football fans. Lots of roars and cheers.

Andy Yates, 30, is ‘happy’ to leave after 14 years. He’s getting ‘over £30,000′. ‘I’m going to North London University to do computing and information technology.’

There are 20,000 people who have been refused a redundancy package because of oversubscription.

‘”‘”‘”-£ So what of the conga? ‘What!’ says a former engineer. ‘With all the people leaving, it would clog up London.’

BT: THE FACTS * 19,000 jobs will go today with another 11,000 to be axed by the end of the year. Payoffs range from between £17,000 to £204,000.

* 35,000 jobs have been cut in the past two years.

* BT made profits of £3 billion in the last financial year – £250 million a month between October and December, or £95 a second.

* BT has announced a 27.8 per cent fall in pre-tax profits for the first quarter to 30 June this year.

* Chairman Iain Vallance last year received a salary increase of 43 per cent taking his basic pay and bonuses to £534,000. This year’s 12.5 per cent increase if matched to bonuses could take his pay to well over £600,000. * The company, which was privatised in 1988, has 26 million customers, three quarters of whom rent phones at £17.88 a year.

* Complaints about BT rose to almost 41,400 last year, up from 38,530 in 1990 according to official regulator Oftel.

* Oftel has ordered BT to lower connection charges from £152.75 to £99. Also ordered a review of charges.

* BT uses 45,000 tons of paper for Yellow Pages directories, 2,300 tons in photocopier machines, 1,750 tons in brochures and publications and 25 tons for business cards.

* Maureen Lipman and the Beattie advertisement campaign was dropped in favour of the £20 million Get Through To Someone campaign. March 1992. * A £12 million campaign was launched with police to defeat obscene callers in July 1992.

Imran Khan – sex symbol, matinee idol and pin-up cricketer – is not fantastically good looking. Maybe it’s because his eyes are particularly small, his nose contrastingly large, his facial skin slightly mottled and his chest hair peeks through the gold chain over his T-shirt neck. He looks as if he’s just woken up after a hard night of drinking, although, being a good Moslem, he doesn’t drink. And he appears exhausted. Anyway, it’s difficult to see what all the fuss is about.

‘I never thought I was good looking, ever,’ he says in his accent that is a hybrid of Oxford and Lahore. ‘People started saying I was when I became successful, so I equate it with success. My sister used to say I was ugly, and I agreed.’

He doesn’t have any of the flirtatiousness or overwhelming charm one expects either, but he does have a presence, a great gentleness, and what New Yorkers call mensch. Does he like being a sex symbol? ‘It’s one of those things you don’t take seriously.’

We’re sitting in his Knightsbridge maisonette, conveniently located above L’Escapade nightclub which is always full of the Sloaney blondes who fancy him the most. Up here there’s a mirrored dining room and canopied bedroom with painted tiger on the wall, a bedroom of great expectations. Imran is wearing track-suit pants and open-toed massage sandals with plastic bobbles.

The phone rings, the first of countless times. He is, after all, one of the world’s greatest all-round cricketers, an Oxford graduate in PPE (albeit a third) and a proud Pathan from an affluent Pakistani background. In the Eighties, he became part of the high-society Party Set, a darling of the paparazzi, he practically lived in the St James nightclub, Tramp. Once constantly spied in the company of beautiful women, his companions have ranged from artist Emma Sergeant to actress Stephanie Beacham, Susannah Constantine (erstwhile partner of Lord Linley), the daughter of the exiled King of Greece, and Sita White, daughter of Lord White of Hanson. He’s now almost 40, but the image of the hunky playboy lingers. However, most of the women he steps out with are now sensibly married and cynics say he only escorts them to get press for the cancer hospital he wants to build in Pakistan. So will Imran remain a bachelor?

His eyes light up when we start to talk about women, but he doesn’t smile easily. ‘People always assume that the reason I’m scared to give up my independence is because I have lots of women around me. That’s nonsense. It has nothing to do with that . . . ‘

Does he like his playboy image? ‘It used to bother me when my mother was alive because she was religious and it upset her. But it doesn’t matter now.’ He doesn’t think the image justified. ‘No. Playboys have a lot of money and time, and I’ve never had either.’ Well, is he a womaniser? ‘No. People just say that because I’m a single man.’ He says he doesn’t have a girlfriend at the moment.

He doesn’t want to discuss whether he finds affairs fulfilling. He crosses his arms self-protectively. ‘Er, by answering that question I put myself in a difficult position because this will get quoted in Pakistan. And in Pakistan, the mere fact that you admit you’re having affairs upsets a lot of people’s sensitivities.

‘I respect my own culture and a lot of young people look up to me. It’s a big responsibility for me not to make these admissions in public. Everyone knows I’m a single man and a normal man. But there’s no need to stick it down their throats.’

‘But everyone knows you have lots of affairs,’ I say. The door bell rings. Imran goes to answer it. ‘I didn’t realise people think I have affairs,’ Imran yells back, as he opens the door.

‘This is going to hack my wife right off,’ says the postman, excitedly, basking in Imran’s presence and handing him a parcel. ‘Like half the women in the world, she’s in love with you.’ Imran returns, looking coy. Would he have an affair with a married woman? ‘No, I think that is a sin. The biggest sin in my religion and my mind is when you hurt someone. You would stand to hurt the boyfriend or husband. There are guidelines in the Koran on adultery.’

Has he ever had a love child? His voice goes low. ‘No.’ If he got someone pregnant, would he have the child? ‘I’ve never thought about it. I’m pro-abortion. I think it’s much better not to bring a child into this world if you can’t give it love and security.’ So what would he do if he got someone pregnant? ‘Well, I won’t.’

He lives in Lahore again and is in London only for a couple of months, setting up a floodlit fundraising cricket match at Crystal Palace on 28 July, and to finish writing two books.

So far this year he has not played test cricket, having injured his shoulder in April, ‘torn tendons, amazingly still sore. It happened five weeks before the World Cup, but I couldn’t stop. I knew I was aggravating the injury.’

Imran has the longest fast-bowling career (21 years) in history. He’s also considered one of the only people who could keep the vitriolic regional differences at bay in the Pakistani team.

So is he retiring? ‘It would be silly to announce my retirement again’ – he did so in 1987 and then succumbed to pressure to return to the game – ‘but in my mind, this is it. I have probably played my last match. There’s no challenge in cricket any more.’

He is obsessed with raising money for his hospital, which came about as a result of his mother’s death of cancer seven years ago. She wasn’t diagnosed early enough and by the time she came to England, her intestinal cancer had spread to her liver.

‘My faith was completely shaken by her death. I stopped believing for a while. I was with her when she died.’ He looks down and sighs deeply. ‘It was the pain that affected me. It was the most helpless feeling anyone can go through to watch someone that close to you in pain and you can’t do anything about it. Then I realised there was a reason for what had happened – that I should build this hospital. If I hadn’t watched her in that pain, I wouldn’t have done this.

‘We don’t have one cancer hospital in Pakistan and, despite there being lots of heroin smuggled out of the country, heroin-based painkillers are banned because of the narcotics laws.

‘Things started to happen which showed me there is a force up there. The sort of course my life took showed me I wasn’t really in control of my future.’ Imran now believes firmly in God and prays on a mat facing Mecca every morning. ‘When I hurt people, it always affects me,’ he continues. ‘Since I’ve started building my hospital, a lot of people have come outside my house begging.

‘I hate people pestering me. I am public during the day when I’m playing, but when I go home I want to be private,’ he says, with feeling. ‘Sometimes, I lose my patience and am rude to them. I tell them to go away. Or I give them money and tell them to get lost.’

He is altogether less anglicised than one expects. He doesn’t smoke cigarettes (‘well, I had a few when I was at school’), although a packet of Cartier sits on the table. And he doesn’t drink, due now to his growing faith. Is he sure? He looks wrecked.

‘I’ve never touched alcohol. When I was growing up, I saw a close relative – I don’t want to name him – who used to drink a lot. That affected me. He was a powerful, dignified man whom I looked up to. But when he drank, his personality would change, he couldn’t walk properly and he would fall around and be abusive.’

Imran’s Eastern roots are particularly noticeable in his beliefs about giving children tremendous attention, love and security within the framework of an extended family. ‘I think you should give the children everything. The way British children are raised is alien to me.’

His own childhood was otherwise idyllic. Holidays were spent in the Himalayas or jungles and he wanted for nothing. He describes his childhood as growing up with a ‘security blanket’.

The son of a wealthy engineer, he has four sisters and the family is still ‘very close’. One of the sisters always stays with their father and he sees nothing strange in the fact that, aged 39, he still lives with his father. ‘We have a biggish house,’ he says, genuinely surprised. ‘It’s not a problem at all.’

We return then to the subject of marriage. He uses words like responsibility, self-denial and sacrifice. He takes marriage very seriously indeed. (He doesn’t believe in living with someone.) ‘Marriage for me is one of the greatest responsibilities a man has to take. I think a man is a failure if the marriage fails.’ He deflects from the questions by doodling. ‘You shouldn’t just marry for the sake of security. There’s a lot of self-denial involved, it’s a complete change of life. I’m not scared of the risk. No, I don’t think I am scared of commitment or intimacy either. I just believe that if you make that commitment, you have to be able to live up to it. You must be able to make it work.’

He says an arranged marriage is still a possibility for him. ‘Maybe that’s what I’ll end up doing. I’m not looking for an ideal woman. If something is meant to happen, it will. I have learnt you have no control over certain things in life. I don’t live in the future.’

Friendly, unaffected, lovely, always pleasant . . . these were the words with which friends and acquaintances described murdered mother Rachel Nickell today.

The blonde, part-time model was strikingly good-looking, with natural poise and charm. She was ‘the kind of woman whose looks stopped people in their tracks’, recalled a neighbour.

Fitness fanatic Rachel, 23, followed a regular routine of swimming, walking on Wimbledon Common or playing tennis. At the local leisure centre, where she swam two or three times a week and took son Alex to the mother and baby swimming group, her beauty made sure she stood out from the crowd. ‘She had this great self-confidence,’ said assistant manager, Jacek Kaldonek.

‘Although she had a tremendous physique, she was never one to flaunt herself. I’m sure she knew she was attractive, but you would never see her flirting or anything like that.

‘She was always smiling and she was an excellent swimmer. A lovely, unaffected sort of person.’

Rachel, daughter of well-off parents from Bedfordshire, dropped out of university early and never completed her degree. The social services would no doubt describe her as an unmarried mother, but she was in a loving, stable relationship with Andre Hanscombe.

Mr Hanscombe, 29, a dispatch rider, is hard-working, good-looking, a talented semi-professional tennis player, who one day hopes to turn pro, said neighbours.

The couple behaved like newly-weds, openly affectionate in public. ‘They were close, they were in love,’ said the manager of Bucci’s Italian restaurant in Balham, where they would eat once a week.

‘They used to kiss and hold hands. They were always looking into each other’s eyes.’

Friends said Rachel was a devoted mother to Alex. She chose to give birth at home, and afterwards, her career took second place.

Elderly neighbour Walentina Korzeniowska recalled: ‘I stopped her in the street once to tell her her boy was the most beautiful child in London. She was the sort of woman you wanted to say things like that to.’ Child-minder Lorna Wilkes would help Rachel out, looking after Alex when she went on modelling assignments. ‘She was a kind, lovely person,’ said Lorna. ‘She and Andre were devoted to each other.’

Rachel, Andre, Alex and their mongrel Molly lived in the smarter end of Tooting in an £85,000 modernised two-bedroom flat in Elmfield Mansions, a well-maintained block.

Estate manager Mr Shanti Shah said the flat was under offer, and the sale is going through. ‘They wanted to live in the country,’ he added. Today the curtains of the third floor flat were drawn behind the window box overflowing with flowers which Rachel had carefully tended. The couple weren’t well off, but had a Volvo and had recently tidied up another car, ready to sell.

Rachel’s parents are not even here to hear the news and take some small comfort from their son, Mark, 25, who is studying to be a vet at London University.

Andrew Nickell, 50, and his wife Monica, 48, left for Canada yesterday to visit Andrew’s sister.

They have a £250,000 modern detached house in the Bedfordshire village of Ampthill, where Rachel and Andre had recently visited them.

In the tree-lined street with carefully manicured lawns and well-tended potted shrubs, Rachel’s parents are respected and admired. ‘They are the kindest couple. There’s nothing in the world they wouldn’t do for anybody,’ said one neighbour.

This gentlest of couples will learn over the phone of their only daughter’s murder, and will then have to return home to see their grandchild, still so deep in shock after witnessing his mother’s killing that he cannot speak.

An elderly neighbour of Rachel’s parents paid her tribute. ‘Rachel was a happy-go-lucky girl. She was full of life, very beautiful.’

Michael Crawford is not an obvious sex symbol. But there’s something about him that attracts 140 fan letters a day – and a year ago caused an obsessive female fan in LA to follow him fanatically for three months. ‘Each night I drove home from the theatre and a car pulled out from behind the hedge and started to follow me. I was on my own and the audience had gone,’ he says, wringing his hands and looking down as he does throughout most of the interview. ‘I used to come off the freeway by a different exit each night to try to lose her.

‘Being British, you don’t want to call the police or make a fuss. And I didn’t feel I was in danger. But one night I just got tired of it, so I stopped the car. The woman drove into a cul de sac. As I got out, she came streaking past me, nearly hit me and drove off. The next day I got a letter from her apologising for upsetting me. ‘I just wanted to know where you lived,’ she wrote. ‘I didn’t mean you any harm.’ ‘

She then sent him a large cheque for the Sick Children’s Trust, the charity supported by his fan club. How does Crawford feel about inspiring such passion? ‘I don’t want to think about that . . . but I don’t think it’s healthy for her to behave like that. It’s too fanatical.’

Michael Crawford is returning to the British stage for the first time since 1986, performing in his already sold-out tour of The Music of Andrew Lloyd Webber. His tours in America have been triumphant, outselling Whitney Houston and Diana Ross. His recordings are gold and platinum sellers in the States and in Britain his record sales have pipped those of Michael Jackson. His is a show business career that spans almost 25 years, from Frank Spencer in Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em to the lead in Phantom.

Crawford has a reputation for being a ladies’ man. Is he a Don Juan? ‘Not at all.’ His eyebrows shoot up. ‘I have lady friends and like having them. But I live alone. And in the last five years I’ve been travelling and living out of two suitcases. I can’t imagine any woman who would want to tolerate that. Life isn’t really conducive to having a long-term partner right now. But if I met someone I felt I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, I would stop travelling.

‘I just haven’t found that person yet. It’s very hard to meet people. It’s difficult enough for normal people who go to the pub every night. But my feet just haven’t touched the ground, I’m always in a different town,’ he says, genuinely. ‘I just meet receptionists in hotels – and we’re not all keen on women in uniform!’ He appears genuinely to dislike talking about himself and often deflects with his humour.

He has made his work a higher priority than meeting someone and one detects a certain sadness. But he disagrees. ‘No. There is no sadness about it. If I wanted to meet someone, I would go for it. I would take adverts and join a club. I would do whatever is necessary to meet a partner. I don’t think, ‘Gosh, I’ve got to get married’. I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment. But I have close friends.’ Publicly, his daughters, now 26 and 24, are Crawford’s ‘dates’. When did he last have a girlfriend? ‘I’m not going to discuss that,’ he says, somewhat petulantly.

In 1965, when he was 21 years old (‘Too young,’ he says) he married actress turned photographer Gabrielle Lewis. Almost 10 years later, they divorced. ‘If things go wrong, you either rush headlong into another relationship, or you sit back and think, ‘What went wrong? What have I done? What’s wrong with me?’. You have to resolve it . . .

‘I want to be careful about marrying for the second time. There are no guarantees, but you just wouldn’t want it to go wrong again because it’s too hurtful.’ People aren’t generally still licking their wounds 20 years later. ‘I’m not,’ he replies. ‘I’m just wary.’

Crawford looks wholesome, like some country golfer. He is neat in leaf-green jumper with sea-green shirt, gold chain round his neck and a dazzling smile of capped teeth. He also appears in robust health and wears a curious silver ring set with crystals. ‘A crystal is meant to be good for the throat,’ he says, adding that he also crosses his fingers and walks round ladders.

During his five-year run in Barnum, he was hospitalised for exhaustion; another time he went on stage just 24 hours after a hiatus hernia operation; and he pushed himself through a gruelling tour in the States with a kidney stone, checking in at the hospital in each new town.

‘I don’t know why you make it sound so dramatic. I’ve been ill twice in my life,’ he says, gently. ‘Not bad for a man of 50.’ Does he push himself to the limit? ‘No.’ Certainly he comes over as terribly normal and soft, a loving sort of person. (He admits to being shy and a perfectionist.) He has moved financial mountains in his life. ‘We never had much when I was a child,’ he says. ‘It was the kind of household where my parents couldn’t smoke and send me to school. So they gave up smoking! I wish they’d carried on smoking!’ (He left aged 15.) In the 1960s, he was also impecunious. ‘I had a flat in Clapham and my daughter Emma slept in the drawer of the chest of drawers because we didn’t have much money and she’d outgrown her crib. When she grew a little more, we put her in the bath – with the water turned off!’ He laughs. ‘No, I’ve never been ashamed of where I’ve come from or what I’ve done.’

Nowadays, he turns down lucrative job offers and earned a rumoured £20,000 a week (‘An exaggeration,’ he says) in Phantom.

‘For the first time in my life I have a feeling of security. I go where my instinct tells me, where I feel I would be happiest. The financial thing doesn’t enter into it. I made one film for money, Hello Goodbye, and it was the unhappiest time I ever had. I lost my integrity for the three months we made that movie.’

We talk then about his childhood. Born in Salisbury, he was called Michael Dumbell-Smith. (He changed his name, inspired by Crawford biscuits.) He has always said that his RAF pilot father died in battle before he was born. But author Anthony Hayward, in a recent biography, alleges that Crawford was born illegitimately and that his ‘father’ was killed 16 months before he was born.

‘I’m not going to talk about that,’ he says now, in a manner that suggests he could be quite temperamental. ‘I’m writing my book where I’m telling all about my life. That’ll be about a year and a half and then we can talk about all that . . .’

His mother married his stepfather when he was four. ‘I don’t know what I missed not growing up with a real father. That’s like asking a blind man whether he misses seeing trees. But it’s not true that I hated my stepfather. I didn’t feel he was like a blood relation, but he sacrificed a lot for me and I appreciated that.

‘I was an only child, so you spend a lot of time making your own amusement. I was always playing wall tennis. So maybe it was inevitable that I should take up a profession where I am only competing against myself. ‘But I’ve no idea what makes me tick. I agree I’m a very instinctive sort of person. I grew up mainly surrounded by aunts and female company. I also grew up with a lot of love around me, which I think helps me in my sensitivity. I don’t feel in any way tortured or scarred inside, I feel very content.’

The strongest influence in his life was his maternal grandmother. ‘She was my spiritual teacher. She taught me to live life simply and be aware of other people’s emotions and situations.’

His mother died when he was 21. ‘That was hard because I was very young and it turned me into somebody I didn’t want to be. It made me very independent and alone. That encouraged me to go looking for a relationship very quickly. I got married soon after she died.’ Today, he senses the presence of his dead grandmother and mother around him: ‘I still feel they’re with me. I feel they’re helping me.’ He says he believes in God ‘in a child-like way’.

His belief is understandable. His child, Emma, nearly died of meningitis when she was seven. ‘It was one of the worst experiences of my life.’ He becomes pensive and quiet. And, in 1990, he was caught in gang gun warfare in LA. ‘I was driving back after dinner with friends. A car came roaring up the street on the wrong side.’ The gunman shot at his target. ‘You just heard crack-crack, it didn’t sound like a bang. The bullet missed me by about a foot. I thought, ‘My God, that was close’. My head was pounding with fear.’ You can understand why Crawford doesn’t mind cars with fans.

Last month Phillip Schofield took over from Jason Donovan, one of the world’s biggest singing stars, in the leading role in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat at the Palladium. Before Schofield stood in for him for six weeks in January, he had only ever sung in the bath, and his previous stage experience was limited to two stage productions and a walk-on part in a children’s variety show.

He is now rumoured to earn around £500,000 a year from television and public appearances. He has been compared to Barbie Doll’s boyfriend Ken and dubbed a taciturn man of plastic responses and controlled gestures. A man who, in particular, has consistently refused to discuss his affair with his girlfriend Stephanie Lowe or speculation that he is homosexual. Today Schofield, 30, talks for the first time about his private life. So what about the accusations that he is gay? ‘Pheeee,’ he says, blowing the air. ‘Nobody has ever said that to my face. People say all sorts of things, about how much I earn and so on.’ He is talking fast and nervously. ‘It makes no odds to me what people say, but I think my girlfriend would have something to say about it.’ He nurses his shoulders while he is speaking, in a gesture of self-comfort, with his arms crossed defensively across his body.

Has he ever had a sexual relationship with a man, even as a schoolboy? ‘No. That sort of thing didn’t happen at my comprehensive,’ he says, sitting in yellow shorts like bathing trunks and a sleeveless USA Sporting T-shirt. He has airbrushed good looks and copper eyes, with spiky gelled hair and bronzed shoulders to match. ‘I never felt like it, no, absolutely not. Quite a lot of men I know have, but not necessarily me. I would never sleep with a man, but I’m not homophobic.’ He does, however, sometimes have a camp-cum-thespian way of expressing himself.

People, I remark, say that he has a girlfriend as a cover-up. Schofield throws his head back and laughs loudly. ‘You can’t win then, can you? But I’d defy them to find any evidence of this allegation.’ Why does he think people say such things about him? ‘I don’t know. Maybe because I’m fresh-faced. Maybe because I’m not open, so people assume there is something to hide.’ He continues to cuddle himself. ‘I just don’t talk about my private life, so people start saying, ‘There’s no smoke without fire’, but that’s not true. I’m secretive because you have to keep something private.’ He lost his virginity when he was 14 and, contrary to reports, never proposed either to his half-Russian girlfriend Marika Tautz when he was 22 or to anyone else. He now receives up to 500 letters a week from girls, has been on the front cover of Smash Hits, has a fervent young following, and is a registered heart-throb who is embarrassed to go out and buy underpants. He has known Stephanie for five years, from the days before he had to cope with adulation.

So how important to him is his girlfriend, freelance production assistant Stephanie Lowe? And does he intend to marry her? ‘We’ve not discussed marriage. But we’ve been living together for a year,’ he says. ‘I never shared a flat before I lived in London,’ he says. ‘I always ended up in a bedsit on my own and had to have stair parties because the room was too small to invite people in. So it’s taken a lot to get used to having someone else in the house and having their things around. ‘Now I like it. I like having someone to come home to and discuss things with. I like coming home when the lights are on in the house, bread’s being baked and the garden is mowed.’ They live together in a comfortable Victorian house in west London.

Is he in love? ‘I think so, I think so. What does being in love mean? We get on very well. She’s very close to me and we’re good mates. Love is about trusting someone, having them trust you, enjoying seeing them, liking their company.’ As he talks about Stephanie, his voice, which was loud and performance-like at the beginning of the interview, becomes quieter and less defensive, and his face softens.

Does he trust women? ‘Yeah,’ he stumbles, tapping his face with his hand. ‘But that’s a tricky one. You’re told that people love you all the time, so when it’s actually said genuinely it’s difficult to take notice of it. You end up analysing it too much rather than accepting it at its face value.’ Unlike many performers, he doesn’t appear to have the desperate need to feel loved by his audiences. ‘I’m not that insecure.’

And is he monogamous? ‘I tend to be monogamous because I’m terrified of Aids,’ he has said. ‘I tend to be monogamous because I am quite loyal,’ he says now. ‘That’s how I’ve led my life. I would hate to tear someone apart by them hearing that I’d had an affair.’

He finds such scrutiny of his private life makes living in the public eye difficult. He feels vulnerable being a big star. And he says he finds himself performing the whole time. ‘It’s a strange lifestyle. You’re never finished being on show.’

He finds it difficult to be vulnerable now. ‘I do it behind closed doors. Or it gets suppressed completely and you lose a part of yourself. I think the part of me that relies on other people is rather undernourished. You end up making yourself more independent than you would have been. ‘I’ve probably become more confident than I would have been and I also have a self-preservation order slapped on the inside of my eyelids.’ He has also lost many of his old friends (partly because he found it difficult to keep up with them when he went to New Zealand when he was 19). ‘A few just haven’t been able to cope with my job. It was far too strange for them to comprehend.’

Schofield is a pleasant man with an open face, who seems a reliable, optimistic sort. ‘I do have quite a short fuse,’ he admits. ‘But I haven’t lost my temper for a long time,’ he says. ‘I have a really vile temper when it rears its ugly head. I once kicked a phone off the wall in an old flat of mine. It was stealing 10p pieces like it was going out of fashion.’ More recently, he fell out with a man who had sold Schofield insurance that didn’t properly cover his mobile phone. Hearing the man was in hospital having a knee operation, Schofield offered to go in and ‘kneecap’ the other leg.

‘I’m surprised by my success – but not in television, I worked really hard at that,’ he says. According to his manager, he’s having problems with his voice. ‘Joseph is better this time round. Before I was having to prove myself, which made it a burden.’

Schofield was born, memorably, on an April Fool’s Day. ‘My mother was mortified and tried to persuade the midwife to write that I was born the day before. Until I was about seven, she told me that I’d been born after midday, ‘So you’re not a fool’.’

He had a solid family base and his parents encouraged him in his chosen profession. His father (now retired) was a french polisher. His mother worked in an old people’s home until she took over responsibility for Schofield’s mail. And his younger brother has a record shop in Cornwall. He started writing job application letters to the BBC when he was just 10 years old and also turned his bedroom into a mock television station, which he would close down each night before he went to bed. Until only 10 years ago, he used to keep crickets in a tank to lull him to sleep at night. ‘All true, I’m afraid,’ he says, with a slight Antipodean lilt in his accent. Ten years ago, his father suffered a heart attack. ‘It was very traumatic at the time. I don’t want to talk about it. It was one of the most frightening things that ever happened. One day he came home, went into the kitchen for a glass of water, came back and dropped dead in the chair. I’d learned artificial respiration by watching some American cop show on television. So I did that for 10 minutes.’ His father then had quadruple bypass surgery and Schofield got a certificate saying that he’d saved his life.

Now things are on the up and up. He won’t talk about how much he earns. But he drives a convertible green BMW and hopes to earn enough money to last him if the phone ever stops ringing. ‘I don’t have any ambitions. They’ve all been used up,’ he says, smiling a television smile. ‘I sometimes wonder whether, when I die, I’m going to leave anything behind. I worry about that less, now that I’m on at the Palladium. I’ve stood on a stage that so many famous people have stood on. Now I feel that I’ve achieved something.’

This week ‘Madame’ Vasso, Fergie’s Greek clairvoyant with the blue pyramid, is starting up a new telephone helpline service. She has 10 Mercury Premium Rate service lines on which, for 48p a minute, she will explain how to use crystals and pyramids, and give advice on loneliness, anxiety, love, health and money.

She says she’s doing it ‘to help people’. She also intends to start a ‘candle’ phone line soon. ‘To tell people how to use candles for problems with love and depression.’ How do you use a candle for love? ‘If people are very depressed, you should light the candle and say Our Father’s prayer.’ Vasso will make 15 per cent of the 48p from each phone call. ‘Nothing,’ she calls it.

This is the tale of a woman who was launched from basement obscurity to international fame in February when the papers carried a picture of her hugging her client Fergie. The story of a psychic who was going quietly about her business in Islington’s Chapel Market where she charged £10 for a tarot reading, but who now charges £50 for a reading at home and is offering an international telephone service – plus spiritual healing, hypnosis, Greek herbal medication, healing with ‘pure wax candles’ and crystals. ‘My clients,’ she says in her heavy Greek accent, ‘are professional, business people and high profile.’

Born Vissiliki Kortesis, she is actually only called Vasso. ‘Just because I’m foreign,’ she says, high-pitched and indignant. ‘People should have more respect and not treat me as if I’m in a circus and call me Madame.’ When the names of Vasso and Fergie were first linked, Vasso said she was treating the Duchess, whom she met a year ago at the house of another healer, for a bad neck and back. ‘She loves him very much,’ Vasso commented on the Yorks’s marriage. ‘They’re very happy together.’

Twenty-four hours after the announcement of the royal split, it was reported that Vasso was driven to Sunninghill Park in a chauffeured Range Rover. ‘I have nothing to say about that,’ she says now.

But does she still see the Duchess? ‘Don’t try to ask me questions. I will not answer you,’ she replies. ‘She’s a friend of mine, put it that way.’ How often does she see her? ‘You see friends whenever you feel like it.’

Born in Nafpaktos 54 years ago, Vasso is one of five children and her psychic powers were first noticed when she was just two years old – she saved her parents from a bomb on the bridge to their village. ‘I started to talk and said, ‘Run, run, run’. A few minutes later the Second World War began and the bridge was blown up.’

Then there was the time when her brother tried to board his ship. ‘I told him not to and he didn’t go. Later, the ship sank and all of the others died.’

She started healing when she was just five years old, using special heated medical glasses on the body and rubbing olive oil into her grandmother’s rib cage. Her grandmother was also a healer: ‘She used to mend bones not with plaster but with green soap and white egg.’

She left school when she was 12 and, apart from a brief spell as a seamstress and knitter, she has always worked in the field of the paranormal. She came to England 28 years ago.

Vasso claims she has healed herself of a bump on her wrist (‘I have photographs of it’) which the doctors had wanted to remove surgically. ‘I have also healed people who were crippled and they have been able to walk. I have healed people who have been to hospital expecting to die and a few days later they were fine. I have helped people give up drugs.’

We go upstairs to her room with the blue pyramid and diplomas of mysticism, a bronze of Hippocrates and a Druid calendar on the wall. She sits under her pyramid to absorb the energy of an Egyptian god whose mother was a sphinx. The dimensions of the pyramid are said to have power and significance.

She gives me some healing with hands that smell faintly of onions. ‘Can you feel energy?’ No. ‘You’re blocking it because you are testing me.’ She then prepares herself for my Tarot reading. ‘When were you born?’ September 24. ‘Ah, Virgo.’ No, Libra. ‘You had abortion.’ No. ‘You have trouble with your left leg.’ No. ‘You look like your father.’ No, I look like my mother.

But, to be fair, when she actually does the tarot reading, she comes into her own. She reveals things I haven’t told her about, things about my career and my romantic life, with great accuracy, She does not seem to enjoy her new-found fame. ‘It has made my life very difficult. I’m not free. People think I’m rich, when I’m not. I can’t go to the market, because I’m frightened. Maybe people think I have money, they can mug me or something.’

We’re sitting in what was her former council flat, her spotlessly clean two-storey Islington maisonette on a noisy road in a rundown part of town. In the sitting room are Greek photos, a picture of the Acropolis, a quarry-full of healing crystals and a takeaway-sized blue pyramid on the table beside my tape recorder.

We talk about money. Her financial circumstances must have changed post Fergie, although her home is not that of a rich person. ‘I don’t think you have the right to ask me such private questions. I don’t make money. Just very, very little. I’m not a rich person.’

A ‘one-parent family’ (twice married and divorced), she lives in her flat with her son. She bought her home for £36,000 and has now increased her mortgage to £90,000. ‘I borrow money from the bank to live. I don’t make enough money to pay the mortgage.’ So how much does she make? ‘I suppose in a week I average £250 or £300, not more than that.’ She says she sees five to 10 people a day.

She doesn’t, however, charge people for healing. ‘Anyone who charges is not a healer. Healing is coming from God,’ says this Orthodox Greek believer who goes to church every Sunday. ‘It is natural and you have to be in service. It is not to sell. If you sell the healing energy, I don’t believe you will keep it.’ She says that money isn’t important to her. ‘I am interested in helping people. I don’t believe in material things.’

They say in Mexico City that the pigeons drop dead from the sky when they hit the smog. Aldous Huxley once said he had never felt so bad tempered as he did during a week’s stay there.

Can it be that bad? Our taxi driver guide immediately takes the matter into his own hands and, ignoring red traffic lights, drives us in his yellow VW Beetle beyond the polluted city to Teotihuacan, the first great civilisation of central Mexico, which existed between AD 100 and 600. We haven’t had a chance yet to change money and so, with a smile as big as the nearby Pyramid of the Sun, the driver pulls down his socks, pulls out his cash and gives us some to be going on with. The site of Teotihuacan is sublime – with vast pyramids, plazas, esplanades and Aztec ruins. Back in Mexico City, we dine at Prendes, where Leon Trotsky and painter Frida Kahlo ate before us. Before eating, the maitre d’ thinks we should watch the game of jai-alai (pelota) being played next door with what looks like a giant banana. Gentlemen must wear a tie to watch the game and my companion is not wearing one. The maitre d’ takes his off and ties it round my friend’s neck, though he doesn’t give us any cash from his socks. The next day a policeman offers to drive us to the market in his police car, but doesn’t give us his tie either. We go to see the National Palace with its moving murals by founder of the Mexican muralist movement Diego Rivera portraying five centuries of Mexico’s history; the impressive Metropolitan Cathedral made of 3,000 tonnes of marble and granite; and the Museum of Anthropology, with its pre-Hispanic exhibits and remarkable design.

Later we visit Frida Kahlo’s house (a museum) but the man at the door says he’s taken all the pictures and furniture away and doesn’t let us in. So we go to the house where Trotsky spent his last years writing and tending his pet rabbit before he met an untimely end with an ice pick plunged into his head. The body has gone, but pictures and furniture are intact. Nearly 350 miles to the south is the graceful colonial city of Oaxaca, where the Mexicans say there are 20 earthquakes a day. The buildings are made of very chunky stones to avoid their effects. We stay in one such, the Hotel Stouffer Presidente, a heavenly former jail and 16th century convent. Nuns were banned in the anti-clerical 1860s and the hotel now has a sombre elegance, a swimming pool among the cloisters and attentive service. We feast on fried tortillas with chicharon, stuffed tamales, rolled tortillas with chocolate-based mole sauce and chicken, Tasajo beef and marinated pork with refried beans. Afterwards we sit at a sidewalk cafe in the plaza surrounded by Spanish baroque buildings and huge trees. Oaxaca has a famous twice-weekly market where ladies scrub their squealing piglets with washing-up liquid and women with flashing smiles and bright costumes sit amid the colourful riot of cardamom, pumpkin roasted in honey, papaya and glistening vegetables grown in the volcanic soil. They sell scarves woven in turquoise, pink and yellow, natural black earthenware, ponchos, green pottery and rugs that have taken two months to weave and tell the story of village life. A lady insisted that my friend ate chapulines – tiny red grasshoppers deep-fried in garlic-flavoured oil – from her brimming basket of dead and salty bugs.

We continued to Villahermosa and made an 80-mile jeep ride to Palenque, most sacred of Mayan ruins. Set in a parrot-filled, threatened rainforest, they rise on artificial terraces. Among them is the royal palace, with a tower which was possibly an observatory and a pyramid containing a royal tomb. Light in style, delicately embellished and with mysterious stone sculptures and glyphs, the place has a haunting feel.

Next stop is San Cristobal de las Casas, a little hill town 177 kilometres from Palenque. It was founded by the Andalucians in the 16th century. Indians in bright shawls drink hot chocolate and barbecue corn on the cob (served with chili) amid colonial mansions and Baroque churches. Across the border is Guatemala, with weather that the tourist authorities describe as eternal spring and a saint called Maximon whose favourite offerings are cigarettes and rum. We drive through the spectacular scenery of the Maya Highlands, 90 miles from Guatemala City to Chichicastenango, known, for obvious reasons, as Chichi. It is a very Indian town with cobbled streets and whitewashed houses and a Sunday market full of over-zealous traders selling dance masks and brand new ‘antique’ artifacts. We sit on the steps outside Santo Tomas church (16th century and built on the site of a Maya pyramid) amid the incense burning and flower sellers. Inside is the sound of praying. Our eight-year-old, self-styled guide, Tomas, points out that the rose petal and pine needle offerings are ‘pagan ritual, Mister’, but can’t answer any questions. It takes a while to twig he has simply learned his English tour script by heart.

He also takes us past a room filled with 50 young boys and shielded from the street by tarpaulin. Inside, all the Tomases of the town are glued to a television set, watching a Spanish-dubbed western.

We stay in The Mayan Inn with its open fires in bedrooms filled with Colonial chests, figures, carved furniture, antique mirrors and old Spanish chairs that the owner, Mr Clark, sometimes bought from earthquake victims in Antigua. There are no locks on the doors and attendants in local costume stand watch outside. In the courtyard a parrot sits next to an ancient Maya sculpture and a marimba band plays.

Lake Atitlan is our next stop: the romantic Hotel Atitlan overlooking the deep green lake and what appear to be most of Guatemala’s 33 volcanoes. Well, three, actually.

Next door are two partly built skyscrapers where work stopped more than 10 years ago when the Nicaraguan money from the Somoza regime dried up. We take a boat across the lake to the village of Santiago Atitlan, where local Indians throng around a man in the market selling PMT tablets as a cure for arthritis, old age, impotence and tiredness. This is also the home of the smoking and drinking Saint Maximon and of some atrocious military killings. I still dream of Guatemala City, crumbling Antigua, volcanoes, colonial charm and jungle. Of vivid fabrics, mountain regions, Mayan sites and marimba music. But not of poisoned pigeons . . .

How: This holiday was organised through Cathy Matos Mexican Tours (61 High Street, Barnet EN5 5UR; 081 440 4306) with flights to Miami with Virgin Atlantic and onward by AeroMexico. The firm could arrange an itinerary similar to that followed by Caroline Phillips from around £1,200.

The photographers stand four deep. Bagpipes are being played. The crowds, drinking champagne, are packed together like second-hand paperbacks. Michael Caine has been invited, so has Terence Stamp and, oh, here’s Jeffrey Archer.

‘Clear a space. She’s coming through,’ says one of the security men in the Waterstone’s bookstore in Harrods.

Who are we waiting for? Royalty, at least? No. We’re waiting for a woman who once married a very rich man and has written a book. The same lady who had the bad manners to arrive after Princess Margaret at this week’s Oscar de la Renta fashion show.

Suddenly, Ivana Trump is here: with too much whale-sperm or whatever it is injected into her upper lip, a body courtesy of Michael Jackson’s surgeon, stick-thin legs tipped with satin stilettos and an almost life-sized gold tree on the lapel of her white suit.

‘She’s terrific. But I thought Joan Collins would be here tonight,’ says a disappointed fellow author, Una Mary Parker, shining in sequined jacket. Ivana, whose sole purpose here is to publicise her book, shoots her dazzling smile and poses graciously with bookshop owner Tim Waterstone and author Jeffrey Archer. In public she looks so tiny, perched on ridiculously high heels. ‘I’d like to make this wonderful bookshop open,’ she says, cutting the pink ribbon. Then a mere 10 minutes after she arrived, she leaves with a sulky looking Italian millionaire walking a few steps behind. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘we have another engagement.’

That same morning, in an hour-long interview, I had encountered a very different Ivana. The style of the public Ivana is self-congratulatory and ridiculously royal. You can see immediately why she annoys people. However, on a one-to-one basis, she is charm itself, allowing you just close enough to catch a glimpse of how vulnerable she can be. The mere fact of Ivana’s survival seems to have highlighted the similar ways in which women suffer because of men – however privileged they are. That is why she’s been so popular on this trip.

The people in the queues for her books are clearly consoled by this and believe that Ivana the victim deserves her turn to be queen. She’s 43 years old and still very pretty. ‘I was not reborn by plastic surgery. People write that I transform my body. That is totally wrong,’ says the woman who describes herself as ‘good looking, not beautiful’. ‘I didn’t have my nose done. It is crooked from skiing. I look at yours and you have it a little too.’ So what did she have done? ‘That,’ she insists, ‘is a private thing.’ She considers having a manicure ‘normal maintenance’ for any woman.

Outside the sitting-room in the Draycott Hotel sat her book publicist, a make-up lady and her personal publicist.

Oddly, ‘The Donald’ is displeased, saying the book – which she persists in insisting is not at all autobiographical – was written in violation of a pre-marital agreement which precluded her from writing about him. So how has the private Ivana dealt with the pain of such a publicly humiliating divorce. ‘It hurts, of course,’ she says. ‘But my mother helped me tremendously. Maybe because of my upbringing in a communist country, where you really did have to keep your thoughts to yourself, I don’t open up very much. It still takes time until I open up. Even with my friends. ‘When I’m sad, I cry. I’m sensitive. I can get tears to my eyes quite often. Probably once a week. Somebody asked me yesterday about my dad (he died recently) and I had tears in my eyes in 10 seconds.’

She takes a sip of camomile tea. ‘I’m frightened that something mighthappen to my family. I lost my father and now I’m scared that something might happen to my mother or, God forbid, my children.’

Her faith has also helped her. ‘I go to church on Sundays. Yes, I go to confession sometimes. In Czechoslovakia, we had to hide our religion.’ The next lunchtime, back at Harrods, a very different Ivana is signing copies of her book in gold ink. Lisa Calandra, her personal publicist, stands close by: ‘Ivana loves this. She loves being with the people.’ She’s been with Ivana for 11 years and they have been travelling on this publicity tour for six weeks, starting every day at 7am and finishing at 9pm. Lisa the publicist is homesick. ‘I have these two little toy poodles at home. I miss them terribly.’

There are up to 50 people in the queue. The cameras flash and the fans are clearly in awe. ‘Ivana speaks for all women. You feel the humanity in her. It oozes out,’ says Burran Galib, a Turkish woman clutching £14.99 worth of hardback in her hand.

‘She’s what most women aspire to be,’ says Daniel Harmon, a man who wants Ivana to sign his shorts. ‘Only if you’re not wearing them,’ she replies. Daniel returns wearing another pair and her royal Trumpness obliges. There are many American fans. ‘She’s a courageous woman,’ says 81-year-old Canadian Douglas Kerr, watching Ivana work her way through the queue.

Ivana’s style is super-friendly. Later a woman in black, middle-aged and wearing plimsolls, approaches her as if for a blessing. ‘We live in Israel and we follow you,’ she says. Ivana smiles beatifically.

Harrods boss Mohammed Al Fayed appears and Ivana gives him a hug. ‘She’s wonderful,’ he says. ‘We’ve sold hundreds of the books. But I’m going to look after the money, otherwise she’ll spend it on clothes.’ At this point, Ivana’s words in the hotel room come back to me. ‘I don’t think it is a circus at all. You have to market your product.’ During the interview the private Ivana had talked about her attitude to money. ‘There is no difference between old money and new money. There is nothing wrong with money. I do believe money is not everything. I am not saying that I would like to be poor. That would be ridiculous.’ The following night, the Czech-born former international skier is on Wogan. She looks as if she’s wearing the same outfit as she wore in Harrods, plus the gold tree of course. She sits with her hands perched on her knees, a real professional. And as she answers Wogan’s questions, a funny feeling comes over me . . . the answers were just the same, almost word perfect. Last night was the final party during Ivana’s visit to London. It was held at the Queen’s dressmakers, Hartnell in Bruton Street. There were mirrored walls, chandeliers, swag curtains . . . and posters of Ivana with For Love Alone.

Glamorous in white suit and hair clipped high, Ivana worked her way professionally through the room. Her 150 guests drank champagne, ate canapes, picked strawberries off a special strawberry tree and grabbed free copies of the book.

Who was there? Superstar French designer Marc Bohan and former Moss Bros director Manny Silverman. Now Ivana is in the corner, standing tete-a-tete with American social chronicler, Liz Brewer. Nearby is her boyfriend, Riccardo Mazzuchelli.

‘The press are so nasty to her,’ he says. ‘Maybe because it’s a macho world and the men don’t like to see a woman do well. Maybe people are jealous of her and they don’t like it that she’s done well professionally. But she was up at 4.30 this morning to prepare to go on television. I take my hat off to her.’

I’ve been unfaithful numerous times. I honestly can’t remember how many. Maybe 20 times in each marriage. About three a year for each marriage,’ laughs the man with the husky voice and drink-veined nose laughs. ‘But if there were only three, that was a bad year!’

The man talking to me was first married at 19 to early love Nora Ann Simmonds, by whom he had a son, then for 11 years to actress Tarn Bassett, who bore him a daughter and, most famously, for 10 years to Maggie Smith, with whom he had two sons. For the last 18 years he has lived with actress Patricia Quinn.

He is Robert Stephens, the actor who was once talked of reverentially as Olivier’s heir, an electrifying, charismatic star who in one season in 1970 played four major roles at the National Theatre. His marriage to Maggie Smith became the stuff of legends. They became the first couple of British theatre. Then something happened.

Towards the end of the Seventies his career collapsed and he disappeared in a mist of obscurity, alcoholism and promiscuity.

Today Robert Stephens has made a triumphant return playing the greatest Falstaff in living memory in Henry IV Part I at the Barbican. His is a story – and it is writ large in his face – of self-destruction and rehabilitation, of despair and resurrection. We talk about his marriage to the said Miss Smith.

‘A long time ago,’ he says, ‘I was forced by a dentist friend to tell Maggie about my adulteries. He said, ‘If you don’t, I will’, so I had to tell her. Unfortunately, I’d had a slight romance with his receptionist who was also his mistress!’

Stephens often plays for laughs, but there is a sad figure behind the mask. ‘I think telling about an adultery is the worst thing you can ever do to a woman.’ Samuel Beckett’s line – ‘adulterers never admit’ – rings in his ears.

‘He might as well have given me a dagger to stick in Maggie’s back. I knew it would destroy our marriage. She was Scottish, puritanical, and doesn’t think of herself as being a beautiful or alluring woman.’ He lights a cigarette. ‘I never did any of these things with malice aforethought or capriciously. I prefer the company of women and have a great sympathy for them. In this business, you’re thrown together with people, sometimes when you’re away from home, and it’s very easy to become attracted.

‘You think you’re falling in love all the time, not just being a Don Juan who has to jump into bed with everyone he meets or he feels he’s not quite a man. But there’s always a reason why. Possibly you’re not happy in your own situation. There’s something lacking which you search for somewhere else.’ With Smith (‘definitely’ his most important past relationship), he blames his adultery on the fact that her career had started to take her over. Their separation, followed by divorce in 1975, was the beginning of his decline, both personally and professionally.

And was he faithful to Lady Antonia Fraser, in whom he then sought solace for a year? ‘Yes . . . mostly.’

Wearing gym shoes, an open-necked shirt and sports jacket, the 40-a-day filterless Camel smoker with hands that shake slightly has limped into the private room at the Royal Garden Hotel. Once described as debonair, flirtatious and irresistible to women, time and alcohol have now coarsened the textures of his face. ‘I always thought I was a rather plain-looking person.’

He dyes his hair so he doesn’t look ‘like Old Man Mo’ and has £8,750 worth of capped teeth, because he grinds his teeth in his sleep. He is limping because, following an operation on a fractured hip, one leg is now half an inch shorter than the other; he’s having built-up boots made. ‘You’re a cripple for the rest of your life.’

So what of his self-destructive streak? His sexually nihilistic tendency also manifested itself in his drinking habits. ‘I was drinking heavily about nine years ago so I went to a couple of meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous, but I found them boring,’ he says, defensively.

‘At one stage, I was getting through half a large bottle of whisky and a couple of bottles of wine a day. I didn’t use to smash things up or anything, but it makes you take wrong decisions and say things you wouldn’t want to say.’

He says he last had a drink two months ago, but that he hasn’t drunk heavily for nine years.

‘I had to give up because it was making me ill. I got diabetes and you tend, if you drink a lot, not to eat properly, which is very harmful for your system because you have all the sugar in the alcohol.’ He has to inject himself daily with insulin.

In addition, he almost died earlier this year. Exhausted after his Stratford season, he fell ill while on holiday in Palm Springs. He was found to be anaemic, given a blood transfusion, proved allergic to something in the blood and was given a 20 per cent chance of survival.

‘It’s an awfully expensive place to nearly die,’ he laughs. ‘My bill for one week was $59,000 and $750 for five minutes in an ambulance. But it did have policemen with pistols and everything, including a cocktail cabinet in it.

‘After they gave me the wrong blood, I woke up and couldn’t breathe. I thought I was dying. It was dreadful.’ Then he was given a drug which totally paralysed him. ‘I could hear voices talking about me, but I couldn’t say anything. It was like being tortured by the Gestapo.’

It could be that experiences like these have given depth to his acting, but he will have none of that. ‘I don’t understand why people always write that I understand failure,’ he says. ‘I feel proud of what I’ve achieved in my life. You don’t want to do rubbish, but you can’t sit and wait for 10 years for a big part to come up. The problem is that writers don’t write any more.’

Born in Bristol in 1931, he was the eldest child (he has a brother and sister) of a costing surveyor. ‘Home life was pretty bleak,’ he stumbles. His father was away for most of the war, building camps for prisoners. ‘I became the surrogate father or husband.’ His mother was away working a lot too. ‘So I had to look after my sister. It was curious having to look after a little baby when you were only eight yourself.’

On Stephens’s birth certificate, it says: ‘Father’s profession: common labourer’. He sounds slightly contemptuous and sad. ‘Well, that’s about the lowest you can go. It’s like digging up the street. But my father, being a clever man, did climb the ladder.’

Currently earning £600 a week and enjoying a ‘reasonable life’, Stephens hated his working-class childhood. ‘We were very poor, so one didn’t have an education.’ He went to Shire Hampton Boys’ School and left at the age of 14. He was often evacuated, sometimes with his mother. ‘So there was nothing constant in life.’

He says he wasn’t close to his parents, and that it wasn’t a big deal when they both died within the last eight years. ‘I left home when I was 15. If you do that and don’t go back except maybe for Christmas, then you’re not reliant on your family for anything. You have to get on with it by yourself. You have to create new families as you go from one repertory company to another.’

He hasn’t kept up with his siblings either. He talks about his brother as if he were dead, although he says there hasn’t been a falling out. ‘He was a silk-screen painter. I last saw him about 10 years ago. My sister’s married. She came last year to see me in Stratford.’

He keeps in contact with three of the four children from his marriages. He once got a note at the stage door when he was in The Murderer at Stratford. It read: ‘I am 21 and your son, but as we’ve not met since I was one, I’ll entirely understand if you don’t want to see me again.’ It was Michael, his son by Nora Ann. They saw one another for a few lunches. ‘Now we’ve lost contact. He’s in Canada, but I don’t know where.’ Fortunately, he says he’s happy now with Patricia Quinn, who is 13 years his junior. ‘Probably because we’re not married. I’ve asked her lots of times, but maybe she thinks marriage is the thing that destroys my relationships.’

She’s also more alluring because he hasn’t ‘got’ her. ‘I mean she might bugger off with someone else.’

He loves talking about himself. Stephens moves his hands a lot to speak, and verbally and with his body language he is mostly friendly, giving and effusive. Yet he has eyes that are mistrustful, sad and frightened. ‘Yes,’ he says, unconsciously covering them with his hands, ‘it was driven into me when I was little to be timorous.’ Being larger than life, acting, and being a charming and amusing raconteur is, ‘perhaps’, a cover for shyness.

And what of the character he plays? His Falstaff is not a drunken, stumbling oaf. He has a comic ability and a willingness to look at the darker side of life, never forgetting the hurt of rejection. Stephens says he is a tragic figure.

‘He’s not ha-ha-ha, hoo-hoo-hoo. He is a very tough, keen, highly intelligent man. Certainly, he’s a great survivor, and no believer in king and country or being a hero. He’s interested in himself and staying alive, not in honour. There’s that great speech where he says: ‘Honour is nothing . . . can you wear it, see it, buy a packet of cigarettes with it?’ Does he identify with the character? ‘Totally. You’re just talking about yourself.’

Wearing a spray-on black catsuit, she puts her feet on the table and lies back, stretching into a supposedly feline and sexy pose. During our hour-long interview, she proceeds to demolish her parents. They are Ronald and Nancy Reagan.

Ronald Reagan’s Daughter Speaks Out. So promises the cover of Patti Davis’s book Family Secrets, another in the Mommie Dearest tradition wherein embittered children of the famous spill the beans . . . and amphetamines. She documents everything: shocking stories of her steely mother who used to hit her, sometimes daily; her own cocaine addiction and the decades of pill-popping by the former First Lady; her sexual rivalry with her insecure mother; a ‘father whose presence felt like absence’; her Dickensian toilet-training; her political activism; nights in black satin sheets with Beach Boy Dennis Wilson and her suicidal urges.

Partly inspired by Kitty ‘Kelley’s biography, it’s a decently-written book and psychologically convincing. It’s about the reality, mostly plausible, behind the facade of a ‘model family of performers’ by a woman who has had the courage to face herself in therapy. She writes about the pain of being a child in a dysfunctional family, ‘a battlefield from which no one emerged unwounded’, from the position of one who says she has learned to forgive. Before meeting her, I felt sympathy for her.

But Davis must also have been the bane of their existence. Are these just the words of a grown-up kid – a lonely, defiant, blaming and self-centred one at that – with a hostile and spiteful attitude? Why would she want to publicise private rows and expose her parents?

This, after all, is the woman who went on television in a bikini two years ago to complain about the plight of the dolphins. The one who, that same year, sold a four-page letter her father wrote to her in high school to keep up the mortgage payments on her house.

We talk about her book, for which she is reputed to have received a £300,000 advance. ‘Why should I regret it?’ she says, astounded. ‘It’s a very healing book, about someone coming from a childhood of pain to a point of forgiveness. I’m 39 and I was angry for 37 years. If I had written it before, it would have been an angry book. No, I’m not vengeful. If I were, I would have timed it to come out at election time.’

Unsurprisingly, the book has not bought her closer to her parents. The tabloids say her father has removed her from his will. (‘Probably’.) And the Reagans issued a cool official statement: ‘We have always loved all of our children, including Patti. We hope the day will come when she rejoins our family.’

One senses Patti’s emptiness as she says: ‘I think there is a lot of love in my family. We just don’t know how to communicate from that place.’ Since 1986 she has only seen her parents twice. Plus she visited her father briefly in his office in 1991 to tell him about her forthcoming book. ‘It was as if nothing had changed. He said: ‘How can you say this family is dysfunctional? It isn’t.’

‘He then showed me some pictures of me as a baby – ‘Look how happy we were’. I pointed out that I couldn’t talk yet, that might have been why everybody was so happy.’ She hoots with laughter.

They haven’t communicated since. ‘All I hear about my parents is what I see in the papers.’ She sighs. ‘I’ve no idea what’s meant to happen next and what everybody’s lesson is supposed to be. Perhaps to recognise that we don’t do very well in each other’s presence and accept that.’ She describes her father as ‘emotionally distant’ and her mother as having a ‘harsh, defensive persona’.

She is also estranged from her brother and half-siblings. ‘We were never close to begin with. Sure I’ve felt lonely sometimes. But I don’t now. It’s important to have a family, but it doesn’t have to be of people who are related to you. The people who are there for me now are Vietnam veterans, writers, actors and body-builders.’ She laughs weakly and crinkles the nose sculpted by Michael Jackson’s plastic surgeon.

Davis has long brown hair and staring eyes which she narrows in a mannerism of defiance. ‘As soon as my face starts sagging, I’ll be the first in line for a facelift.’

Yesterday afternoon she had been up for 29 hours and went to the gym instantly she got off the plane from LA. She’s addicted to weight-lifting for an hour-and-a-half a day, five days a week. She has a defensive, don’t-care attitude and it’s difficult to warm to her. But she has bursts of humour.

We return to her book. ‘What am I meant to do, pretend I wasn’t born to who I was? Writers use their lives. I didn’t write it for catharsis or a substitute for therapy. I thought it was valuable to share the emotional changes I’d made in my life.’

She also thinks it’s historically important. ‘Understanding the Reagan family might go a long way towards understanding what happened in America in the Eighties. A lot of the things I saw happen in the family happened in the country. It was a sort of drowsy decade and we lulled.’

Does she care about hurting and exposing her parents? ‘I don’t think the truth should be embarrassing, although I realise they perceive it that way. I believe in telling the truth. But that isn’t always going to be pretty. ‘Of course I care about hurting them. But I think that sometimes people choose to be hurt when the evidence doesn’t validate their pain. I think that people reading this book are going to understand them better and feel compassionate.’ She pours herself a cup of tea, sits back and doesn’t offer me one.

Did she need to wash her dirty laundry so publicly? ‘Nobody’s childhood experiences are dirty laundry. Such phrases keep people feeling ashamed and guilty about what they went through as children. People have to feel entitled to talk about whatever pain they went through so they can heal it. There is nothing shocking in this book. We all know that people get addicted to drugs and hit their children.’

Her family, she says, is no different just because it’s famous. At least she scotches the rumour that Nancy had an affair with Frank Sinatra. So what of Davis herself? A non-smoker and vegetarian, she lives in a Santa Monica bungalow with a pet squirrel and a dog. She gave up drugs in 1981, ‘toughing it out’ on her own and smoking the occasional joint to ease the ride. She has Jungian therapy once a week and has been seeing a psychiatrist ‘on and off’ for the past 21 years.

She hasn’t had a serious romantic relationship since she divorced yoga instructor Paul Grilley in 1990. ‘I love being alone. I’m too comfortable being alone. I don’t meet people because I don’t go out enough.’ Is it true her parents didn’t know she was going to marry Grilley until they read it in the papers? ‘I didn’t know I was going to marry him until I read it in the papers!’

She explains that she had done a modelling shoot for Courreges in France and put a ring on that finger. ‘I got back to the States and Newsweek had a picture of my hand with this ring on it, saying we were engaged. We looked at each other. We were already living together and we needed a toaster, so we decided to do it.’

Davis was sterilised at 24 because she was terrified of repeating her mother’s mistakes. But she has since had the operation reversed and would love to have a child. ‘I don’t find the idea of raising a child by myself frightening. If I got pregnant, I would give the man the option to have as much or as little to do with it as he wanted.’

She doesn’t think she is spiteful, selfish or bitter. (‘I was’.) And she knows she has exploited being the daughter of the ex-President. ‘It makes me more interesting, yeah.’

CHERRY ROOMES is 43. To date she has lost 13 babies. Anne, Jane, Megan, Edwina, Emily and Eleanor survived long enough to be named. Megan lived for three days and Eleanor for seven and a half months.

THE nursery stands ready and the crib has been redecorated in new broderie anglaise. It is the crib Cherry Roomes slept in as a child. Now it awaits the arrival of a miracle.

To date Cherry has lost 13 babies. Anne, Jane, Megan, Edwina, Emily and Eleanor survived long enough to be named. Megan lived for three days and Eleanor for seven and a half months.

Two children from a previous marriage have survived, but all the other babies died in the womb and with four of them Cherry had to go through labour knowing the child was already dead. Yet next week she hopes to give birth to baby number 16 by Caesarean section. He already has a name, Benjamin.

By safely delivering him, the medical team at King’s College Hospital will be making medical history, and put an end to one woman’s extraordinary saga of love, despair and monumental determination.

Benjamin is already a miracle of human science. For the baby has already undergone the world’s first bone marrow transplant in the womb and he has been kept alive by regular blood transfusions – some of them directly into his heart.

His mother has rare rhesus negative blood. Her husband Geoff, a primary school headteacher, is rhesus positive. Every time Cherry Roomes becomes pregnant, the unborn baby is also rhesus positive, and her body simply attacks and kills it as a foreign invader.

The nursery stands ready and the crib Cherry herself slept in as a baby has been redecorated in new broderie anglaise.

‘I recovered the crib inside and out in 1981, but I’ve never had a baby to put in it,’ she says.

Although she has never heard Benjamin’s cries, she feels she already knows him. She has journeyed from their Kempston home near Bedford to King’s College for one day every week of her pregnancy. At the hospital, she watches the baby on a scanner as he undergoes a complex series of tests. Two albums full of blurry scanner pictures chart Benjamin’s development from seven weeks after conception. Cherry can locate every limb and facial movement from them.

‘To me, it’s like looking at normal photographs. He’s a very strong, fit, healthy baby.’

Cherry Roomes, who says she is talking to us because she wants to help other childless couples, is clearly remarkable, but so then is Dr Kypros Nicolaides, a consultant in foetal medicine and head of the Harris Birthright foetal research centre at King’s. It is he who has refused to be beaten by Cherry Roomes’s problems and, as a result, his relationship with the couple has become intensely close.

She finds it difficult explaining the almost primal instincts that urge her to keep trying and for putting the crushing pain of bereavement behind her, the instinct that has driven her on in the constant, dogged struggle to bear a child that comes from herself and Geoff.

In 1986, convinced they would never conceive, she and Geoff adopted baby Charlotte, then aged 15 months, and a cerebral palsy sufferer. ‘I had two sons already and we had adopted Charlotte, but I felt it would complete the family to have one child that we shared, one of Geoff’s. ‘To be honest, you blank out the pain. You just put it at the back of your mind. If you dwelled on it, you couldn’t cope. If you thought about it, you wouldn’t ever try for another one.

‘I haven’t carried all the babies to the end. A lot of my miscarriages came early. It is a lot more upsetting to carry a child 20 to 35 weeks and then lose it. Your immediate reaction is ‘I’ll never do it again’. But eventually you get over it, because time heals. But it doesn’t get any easier each time one dies.’

She found the death of Eleanor (who was severely handicapped) her worst experience. ‘She may not have been the sort of child that most people want, but we loved her. Her death was desperately painful for us. Nothing could be worse than that. I don’t think I’ll ever get over that completely. I’ll never forget her. We talk about her daily. Her photos are still around.’ With the exception of the death of her first baby, she has seen all of her offspring. ‘I’ve always asked to see them, to hold them, to look at them. They’re not people if you don’t look at them. They have to have identities. If they don’t have identities, there wouldn’t be any point. ‘I have photos of the little ones who have died. You’d be surprised how early a foetus has features, you’re not looking at some horrendous red blob. The photos help you to grieve for the baby.

‘At no time when we have lost a baby have we screamed and yelled and cried in front of Charlotte. You keep your grieving behind closed doors. My husband goes to church every week. I don’t go at the moment, because I’m not the right shape. But we do have very strong religious beliefs. We believe in life after death. Hopefully somewhere our children are all together.’ Dr Nicolaides say: ‘People may think she is mad and I am mad, but I am only trying to do what my patients want. And if that is to help them have children, then that’s what I do.’

There have been five haemorrhages during the pregnancy. During one of them, the Roomes phoned Dr Nicolaides at home in the middle of the night. ‘I just told them to get down to the hospital as fast as they could and I met them there,’ he says. ‘She was all right. She is a very brave woman.’ It was Dr Nicolaides who developed the bone marrow transplant technique which had to be carried out before the baby developed its own immune system, just 12 weeks into the pregnancy when it was less than three inches long. Marrow from Mrs Roomes’s hip was removed under local anaesthetic. It was purified and injected directly into the wriggling baby’s thimble-sized stomach using a hollow needle. The idea was to make him start producing his own rhesus negative blood.

Cherry explained: ‘Benjamin hasn’t got the same blood group as me, which was the idea of the bone marrow transplant.’

It didn’t work. It reduced the rejection process, but Cherry’s blood is still attacking the baby’s red cells. Now, the blood transfusions from Cherry not only top up his blood supply but also confuse his mother’s immune system so that it does not try to attack the growing baby.

‘Now it seems my body doesn’t recognise the baby as totally foreign, so it’s not having an all-out, vicious attempt at killing it, which has happened with my other babies. It’s only a half-hearted one,’ she says calmly, showing little of the emotional stress that must mark each minute of her day.

The transfusions carry their own deadly risks.

‘You never know with each transfusion if it’s going to kill him,’ she said.

‘The last one two weeks ago obviously created a strain on his heart. He was very quiet for several days afterwards, but I could feel him wriggling so I knew he was alive.

‘There is still one more transfusion to go before the birth. I just have not to think about anything going wrong. I have total trust in the team at King’s and I have to think they’re going to get it right.’

Her two sons Grant, 22, and William, 17, from her first marriage survived because the rhesus incompatibility was less severe.

Last year, Dr Nicolaides, who has been their mentor since 1985, offered them new hope with the experimental marrow transplant.

‘I have to believe him,’ she says. ‘It doesn’t take anything away from Charlotte and the boys that we want to have one last try.

‘At the moment, I’m the only one who’s agreed to have this treatment done. But if they don’t have people who are prepared to try, then they are never going to progress.

‘If we can get help and help others at the same time, I think that’s good.’