The night Bowie saved his wife and his bodyguard from being arrested for having sex in the pool, as revealed by the star's former stylist in her electrifying new memoir

News has already flashed around the Los Angeles nightclub: David Bowie and his band are about to arrive! As I wait for them, I notice lots of pretty young girls are visibly shaking with excitement. 

As I’m feeling in a friendly mood, I ask one of them if she wants David’s autograph. ‘No! I want to go to his roooom,’ she gasps, rolling her eyes suggestively. ‘Can you get me to his room?’

I don’t know what to say. Her friend chimes in, saying she also wants David but will settle for his guitarist Mick Ronson. She wets her lips as if preparing for a good meal.

Trying not to look appalled, I drift over to talk to David’s tour manager, who tells me both girls are regulars on the club scene. But they look so young, I protest. ‘Well, they are,’ he answers, ‘maybe 14.’ He laughs at my shocked expression.

‘Where are their mothers?’

‘I think their mothers dropped them off! They want them to have a good time.’

I look at the girls again: they’re wearing skimpy outfits and loads of make-up, but their bodies are childlike. Now they’ve cornered the tour manager.

Piping up in unison, they ask: ‘Can you tell us their room numbers?’ They sound so young and innocent; it’s almost as if they’re asking the way to the library.

David Bowie with his wife Angie in 1974. Both told me they had an open marriage

When David arrives, they both jump up and run towards him, shrieking his name, throwing themselves at him. And, as always, he soaks up the attention, taking it all in his stride.

Was it only a few months ago that I met David and his wife, Angie? It doesn’t seem possible. Already the blue nylon uniform I wore at the salon in Beckenham High Street, South London, seems a distant memory, as do the blue-rinse brigade whose tight curls I used to create with rollers.

One of these women was Ms Jones – David’s mother – and through her I met his wife, who urged me to cut his long, blond hair. I dyed it red and made it stand up in spikes, and soon afterwards David exploded on to the music scene, playing his character Ziggy Stardust with his band, The Spiders From Mars.

I’m no groupie. I’ve fought hard to make myself indispensable, looking after David’s hair and helping with the outrageous costumes Angie finds or designs. And now – incredibly – I’m in America for the first time, on tour with Ziggy and The Spiders!

For our first gig, in September 1972, we board an adapted Greyhound bus in New York bound for Cleveland, Ohio – because David hates flying. Angie takes on the role of tour mother, with much sashaying up and down the aisle. She checks on her husband at the back before sliding into the seat next to Anton, David’s bodyguard, a tall, handsome man with a huge afro.

Why am I so surprised to see that they’re fooling around under a blanket? After all, both Angie and David have told me they have an open marriage – that’s why they have separate hotel bedrooms – and tell each other everything.

We stop over at a hotel in Erie, Pennsylvania. Later that night, Angie and Anton are seen unashamedly cavorting in the pool. The staff at our small hotel are shocked and demand they get out. There’s talk of calling the police, but fortunately they call David instead.

Angie and Anton aren’t being that bad – but this is America in 1972, and interracial relationships are not common. David, no stranger to controversy, calmly comes to the rescue of his wife and bodyguard.

Suzi Ronson shares a smooch with guitarist and future husband Mick

The following evening, we’re at Cleveland Music Hall. When the lights go down I’m in the wings with David, who’s shifting nervously from foot to foot. Then he draws himself up to his full height, takes a couple of deep breaths, hands me his cigarette stub, and we’re off to the races.

The sound has never been better, the vocals up front backed with the pounding bass and thundering drums. Back at the hotel later, David disappears with a girl I’ve never seen before.

After a few more dates we’re back in New York – staying at the luxurious Plaza Hotel, where all the other guests are in classy dresses or suits and ties. Angie’s wearing a fur coat with tight jeans and high heels, David is in velvet with satin trousers. 

To say we look different is an understatement. Once I’ve settled in, I go down to David’s palatial rooms to see if he needs anything. It’s here I meet Cyrinda Foxe, a sexy platinum-blonde who wiggles up and down the suite in a 1950s pencil skirt, tight sweater and high-heels. She looks like Marilyn Monroe and she’s David’s girl of the moment.

After going shopping with Angie to buy him some platform wedges, I return to the suite and find Cyrinda curled up in a chair, flipping through a magazine. Then Angie walks in from the bedroom.

Behind her I can hear David’s voice saying: ‘I’ve got it covered, Angie, I really do. It’s time for you to go do your own thing, baby.’

Angie doesn’t say a word. I go into the bathroom and find David looking at himself in the mirror. As I throw a black cape over his shoulders to start trimming his hair, he continues talking to Angie.

‘You know you have things to do – the film part you’ve been talking about. The papers are dying to have you for a photo session. You can help me so much more in London, Angie, keeping people interested by being your fabulous self.’

She still doesn’t answer. I start slicing spikes into his hair, thinking of all the fun she’s going to miss. She’s worked so hard to help make him a success – she’s given him all her creative energy and been completely involved with the rise of Ziggy.

It’s Angie who was always encouraging David to do things he was nervous about, whether it was cutting his hair or coming out as bisexual. And now, just when it’s starting to get going, she’s being jettisoned. I can’t help wondering if her shenanigans with Anton have something to do with this.

David at the TopPop studios in Hilversum, the Netherlands, in 1974

When I’ve finished David’s spiky hair-do, Angie returns and tells him, in her joyful way, how great he looks. She’s a bit pale, and I can see she’s upset, but I don’t say anything. She doesn’t want sympathy, she just wants to be wanted.

David laughs at something Cyrinda says, and she gives a tinkly little laugh back. I hate the way he’s behaving. I decide to mix up some brilliant colours for Angie – I’m going to paint bright feathers in her hair tonight. ‘He’s right,’ she says, looking at me in the mirror. ‘This has been the plan all along. I have to start my own career.’

I doubt she means what she says. She alternates between laughing hysterically one minute, and being silent the next.

Later I go to the lobby and wait for David to come down. The elevator doors open and there he is, with Angie on one arm and Cyrinda on the other. The other guests stare and part like waves to let them through.

Outside the trio smile brilliantly as they pose for photos, then glide into a waiting car.

The tour continues. By the time we get to St Louis and Kansas, we’re all on our knees. These are tough shows, the venues only half full – and despite David and the band giving it their all, they get no energy back from the audience.

David’s now facing a different set of kids, a different set of values. America might be cool on the coasts, but the Bible Belt is dead set against anything that smacks of homosexuality.

For the LA dates in October, I fly ahead with the band from Kansas while David remains on the bus. While we wait for him, we’re invited everywhere. The only problem is that David’s manager, Tony Defries, has warned us we’re spending too much: ‘Send the groupies home before breakfast!’ he tells the Spiders.

It’s Angie who was always encouraging David to do things he was nervous about, whether it was cutting his hair or coming out as bisexual

One night there’s a knock at my door. It can only be one person. I grab a robe as David bursts in, nervous and excited.

‘Hey.’ He leans in close. ‘What do you think?’ I don’t know – I’m half asleep. He looks different – he looks really different – but I can’t put my finger on why. Suddenly it clicks: he has no eyebrows!

God knows why we have eyebrows – and after a gig in Phoenix, Arizona, so do David and I. With no eyebrows, the sweat on his forehead, along with a cascade of make-up, flows straight into his eyes. He runs to me, screaming, ‘I can’t see, I can’t see!’

There’s little I can do except wipe his brow and make a mental note to stock up on eye drops.

David’s different these days. He doesn’t socialise with the band and crew as much as he used to, and he’s staying at more expensive hotels – so we only see him at gigs. He’s skinnier than ever, he looks pale and exhausted.

He may have changed, but not with me; I’m as close to him at shows as I’ve ever been. Before they start, it’s usually just him and me in the dressing room. I lead him to the stage. I help him change into different costumes, sometimes onstage in the dark. He often shares confidences with me.

We’re now on tour in Japan. It’s a traditional kind of country, so David’s brought along Angie and their son Zowie and looks quite the family man. I’m glad for her sake.

As we gear up for the final shows, Tony Defries tells Mick Ronson and me the band will be breaking up. My mouth goes dry. I can’t take this in. He tells Mick he’ll have a solo career, but he isn’t saying anything about Woody and Trev, the drummer and bass player.

I’m sworn to secrecy, told I must keep my mouth shut if I want to continue working with David. I leave the room shaking.

Three months go by, and there’s no further mention of the Spiders breaking up, so I’m hoping David has changed his mind. Aladdin Sane is in the charts at number one. The upcoming UK tour sells out in a flash.

At the first show, David spots a beautiful girl in the audience and points her out to me. I follow his finger to a young girl with long blonde messy hair, pale-pink mouth and huge dark eyes.

I go out into the audience to tell her that David wants to meet her at the hotel, that the bus is in the car park and that she needs to meet me there in ten minutes. Her eyes widen in disbelief.

‘Me?’ she gasps with delight.

But when I take her to the hotel bar, she suddenly seems a little shy. David flashes her a smile, slides an arm round her shoulder and takes her to his room.

A few minutes later, a very pale roadie comes to find me. ‘There’s a mum in reception, looking for her 16-year-old daughter.’ [Then below the age of consent of 18.] My stomach drops as I hear raised voices, and yes, here comes trouble.

David performs with Trevor Bolder (left) and Mick (right) in 1972

A good-looking woman in her forties with a red face and a determined expression is walking into the bar. ‘I’m looking for my daughter. She’s tall and slim with long blonde hair,’ she says sharply. ‘She was seen getting on your bus. She’s only 16 and I’m not leaving without her.’

As she storms further into the bar, I slip out and tap at David’s door. There’s no answer. I tap louder and call his name, and finally hear, ‘F*** off, Suzi.’

‘David,’ I say in my best stage whisper, ‘that girl you’ve got in there is 16. Her mother’s downstairs looking for her.’ Silence. Then the girl says: ‘Oh, trust her to come and spoil my fun.’

Not a dicky-bird from David, so I tell him the mother’s kicking up a hell of a fuss. This gets some action. He pushes the girl out, kisses her and tells her to come back next year. She won’t be legal then either, is my first thought.

‘Now calm down,’ I say as the girl sobs. ‘I promise I’ll get you tickets to any gig you want. But you’re 16 – you can’t stay.’

‘I don’t care, I love him.’ Yet more tears.

‘If your mum makes a stink about this, you’ll never see him again.’

That does the trick. I take her to a bathroom so she can wash her face, then together we walk casually back to the bar. ‘She was in the bathroom,’ I say calmly.

It’s been a close call.

In July we’re at the Hammersmith Odeon. Everyone’s knows we’re moving on to America in a few weeks, so surely David’s keeping Woody and Trev. It would be crazy to get rid of the Spiders just when it’s all going so well.

After the last encore, David gestures for silence and speaks: ‘Of all the shows on this tour, this particular show will remain with us the longest’ – loud cheers – ‘because not only is it the last show of the tour, but it’s the last show that we’ll ever do. Thank you.’

The band leave the stage. ‘Did he just say what I thought he did?’ one of the crew members asks.

‘What do you think?’ I ask Woody and Trevor.

‘He means the “last show” of this tour,’ says Trevor. I drop it. I can’t believe David didn’t tell them. How could he publicly humiliate his drummer and bass player like this?

Ziggy Stardust has been a huge success, due in no small part to the band. And now what? The Spiders were forbidden to do interviews, so it’s not as if they’re well-known in their own right.

I’m now aware of just how ruthless David can be. Instead of going to the after-show party at the Café Royal, I get drunk in my room with the roadies.

The final blow comes for Woody on his wedding day. Tony Defries fires him on the telephone. Woody, confused, asks to speak to David. Request denied. He then asks to speak to Mick. Also denied.

Jack Bruce is asked to replace Trevor on bass for the Pin Ups album recording, but at the last moment can’t make it. So Trev is suddenly asked to step in. It’s bloody cheeky but Trev has a family to support. He accepts.

‘I know I really pissed off Woody and Trevor,’ David concedes years later in an interview. ‘They were so angry, I think, because I hadn’t told them that I was splitting the band up. But that’s what Ziggy did – so I had to do it, too.’

He also blamed cocaine for his bad behaviour. I laughed. I didn’t believe it for a second because I never saw any sign of cocaine on that tour. It was raw, naked ambition that made David fire the band, and bloody-mindedness.

Yes he was a blazing talent, but he couldn’t have done it all alone. Angie was the creative force behind his look and his image. Mick was the one who put a brilliant band together, then arrangements and played instruments on stage and in the studio.

In October 1973 I work on David’s hair one last time for a show at the Marquee Club in London.

His new girl of the moment is Ava Cherry, one of his backing singers, who keeps shooting him adoring looks. She takes my place onstage in the dark, peeling away one of his costumes to reveal another. And then that’s that. My time with David is over. From now on I’ll be supporting Mick as he launches a solo career.

Later, Mick calls David when they’re both in New York, but never gets an answer. I hear stories about parties at David’s hotel supplied with enough cocaine to support Bolivia. I also hear Angie’s having problems with him.

There’s bad behaviour on both sides: her desperate need for attention, his cocaine-fuelled indifference. They divorce in 1980.

I never see or talk to Angie or David again, and I’m filled with a sense of loss. I thought we were closer than that, I really had.

We had a great time. My life was all black and white until I met David, and afterwards it was glorious technicolour, as bright as the hair on his head.

Getting Iggy in strife with his blue barnet

Iggy Pop on stage at the former Rainbow Theatre in London in March 1977

One day I’m drinking a cocktail at the Beverly Hills Hotel, basking in the sun, when a shadow falls over me – Iggy Pop is standing there.

‘Hi,’ he says, then asks me what I think of his hair. I sit up and have a good look at him. To tell the truth, I like his hair: it’s long and shiny, a wonderfully messed-up, layered do. ‘I can cut it a bit, and we can play around with colour,’ I say. I decide to colour it cornflower blue. ‘Wait a couple of days before going into the pool – the colour will need time to set,’ I tell him.

The following afternoon I leave for San Francisco, and when I get there I hear that Iggy’s been asked to leave the Beverly Hills Hotel. He didn’t listen: there’s a streak of blue dye from one end of the pool to the other.

• Suzi married Mick Ronson and they had a daughter. He died of liver cancer aged 46 in 1993, and Bowie died, aged 69, of the same disease in 2016.

• Adapted from Me And Mr Jones by Suzi Ronson, to be published by Faber & Faber on April 4 at £20. To order a copy for £18 (offer valid to 23/3/24; UK p&p free on orders over £25) go to mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937.