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A journalist once called Brian "deceptively genial," but he wasn't deceptive at all. His warmth was sincere, and he was without guile. It was more accurate to describe Brian as being "deceptively happy." It may be a cliché, but it's true; riches and fame can seem a bitter reward if there's no one to share them with. Brian found it impossible to form a personal relationship with someone who was appropriate. In England at that time, homosexuality was not only considered sick and shameful but also against the law. When Brian was discharged from the British Army on medical grounds, an officer told his mother, Queenie Epstein, that Brian was a "poor unfortunate man." I'm afraid Brian believed that too. Over the years, he had been depressed and suicidal, and he made one serious attempt that I thwarted before taking him to the hospital to have his stomach pumped.

When Brian moved to London, he became the patient of a physician who was amenable to overprescribing sleeping medications, uppers and downers, for his star patient. Ironically, the people who first introduced Brian to pills were the Beatles. The four boys began to use diet pills called Preludin—or Prellies—during their all-night stints in Hamburg. They continued to take them when they returned to Liverpool, and Brian started to take the Prellies, too, partly because of his desire to be one of the boys, and partly to keep himself awake on the long drives home from their appearances all over northern England. Brian's friends cared deeply for his welfare, and a few of us tried at various times to have a talk with him. The thing about Brian was that no matter how close you were to him, there was a point beyond which one felt it was inappropriate to go. If you went too far, the room would freeze with his iciness.

Brian's friend and New York attorney, Nat Weiss, had it out with Brian one night at the Waldorf Towers, as Nat remembers in his transcript. I tried to have a talk with Brian about his use of prescription drugs at his London home that ended with him shouting at me, "Leave me alone!" Eventually, in May of 1967, his body broke down and he was hospitalized at the Priory, an exclusive psychiatric clinic in Roehampton that specialized in detoxification, but when he was released, Brian went back to his regimen. We stood by helplessly and hoped the Beatles wouldn't desert him.

On the three-day bank holiday weekend of August 25, 1967, Brian planned to stay at Kingsley Hill, his country house in Sussex, along with Geoffrey Ellis, our colleague at NEMS. On Friday night, Brian got fidgety and unhappy, and although it was already late, drove to London. When I spoke to him the following afternoon, he was groggy from his sleeping medications and said he would take the train back to Sussex later that day. He never arrived. On Sunday afternoon, there was a desperate call from Brian's secretary, Joanne Newfield. Brian's bedroom door was locked, and no matter how loud they banged, they were unable to raise him. I remained on the line in Sussex, listening to the double oak doors splinter under the force of the butler and chauffeur. "He's just sleeping," I could hear Joanne repeating into the phone. "He's just sleeping."

His autopsy showed that his death was caused by an accumulation of a barbiturate called Carbitral that he had taken over a long period of time. It had built up in his system and eventually killed him. For a man who threatened to take his life before, it was bitter irony that his death was an accident. Most of all, I wanted it to be an accident for Queenie's sake, because she could never live with herself if she thought Brian had committed suicide.

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One of the most endearing and illuminating moments I had with Paul was in January of 1968, when he and I attended the Marché International du Disque et de L'Édition Musicale, the international music industry convention held every year in Cannes. It was shortly after the critical debacle of 'Magical Mystery Tour', and a few weeks after Paul had announced his engagement to Jane Asher, a young actress. Paul suggested that we stop in Paris on our way to Cannes for a brief vacation. We checked into a two-bedroom suite at the Ritz Hotel, had a drink at the bar, and sat there trying to figure out what we should do next. It was Paris on a Saturday night. "What would you do if I wasn't here?" Paul asked.

I said that I would call an American friend who lived in Paris and ask if he was free for dinner.

"So, let's do that then," Paul agreed.

My American friend was delighted to hear from me and invited us over for drinks. I didn't want to say, Oh, by the way, I'm bringing Paul McCartney, so I decided to just let it happen. My friend greeted me at the door to his flat and shook Paul's hand without a blink of an eye. Paul and I were shown into the living room, where everyone realized it was Paul McCartney, and for a nanosecond the room froze. Then everything went back to normal, people chattering in French, smoking cigarettes and marijuana. I watched Paul deal with it all, easy, charming, relaxed. After dinner he asked if I was going back to the hotel. I told him that he could go back if he wanted, but I was going to a gay bar and hoped to meet someone. Paul said he would find his own fun and hailed a taxi.