LILY: One of my earliest memories is of when Mum and Dad split up. We were in our council flat in Bloomsbury, and Dad was saying: “Me and Mum are splitting up now.” I was about four and I was thinking: “Does that mean we’ve got to look for a new dad?” It was very hard for Mum. She was producing her first film, and my younger brother, Alfie, was a difficult kid. I just lived within my own brain. I had this blanket and I’d suck my thumb and watch the world go by. That’s how I became quite independent.

We had nannies, most of whom I hated. One was really horrible. Me and Alfie once called 999 and hung up. The police called back and she answered it. She went mental. She hit me, really hard, and sent me to bed. I sat on my top bunk, praying — I was at a Catholic school at the time — “Please God, let my mum walk in in 20 seconds.” I counted to 20 — and Mum walked in! I believed in God for a bit. Then I tried it again and it didn’t work. I couldn’t come out of myself at home, so I used to do it at school. I wanted to get attention. I was at a girls’ school, Cavendish, in Camden, and we did a play of The Railway Children. The other girls got the best girl parts and the best songs, and I got given the part of Bert, the stationmaster’s son. I was really upset. Then we had a school concert and I sang a song called Baby Mine, from Dumbo. The teacher came up to me afterwards and said: “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you were capable of that. I should have given you a bigger part in the play.” I thought: “Yeah, f*** you! I am good at something.” Until then I was never good at anything.

I went to a lot of schools. The only one I liked was Bedales. I found it hard at those posh schools because everybody else was much richer. They’d be picked up in helicopters and Rolls-Royces, and I’d be picked up by Hippie Dave in a VW camper with flowers painted on it. It was a happy time when Mum was with Harry [Enfield]. It wasn’t so much him, but we lived in a nice, big house in Primrose Hill. We had Chinese in Hampstead every Sunday and a nice car.

Nothing made me feel passionate. Nothing does, to this day. I got bored and I got expelled a lot. I left Bedales at 15. I wanted to be back in London with my friends, going out, raving and clubbing. I was never angry with Mum.

I love her and think she’s brilliant, but I don’t want to work as hard as she did to provide for us. That’s why I’ve always wanted to make lots of money early on. She worked so hard to pay for our education. It was pointless; none of us have any qualifications.

Mum and I do have a very odd connection. I can tell what she’s feeling just by her footsteps when she walks in the door. I knew when she was feeling vulnerable. I’d pick away at her, like a grumpy teenager. I think she feels quite scared of me: I pick up on how she feels so easily. I love her more than anything, but I don’t want to be her. She’s a busybody, and I hated that when I was younger and smoked a lot of weed. But I can see myself turning into that. I need to be doing something 100% of the time.

In my teens I did experiment with drugs. I don’t know anyone now who isn’t a drug-taker, in recovery from drugs or on prescription drugs. I was about 15 when I smoked my first spliff. I knew all about it early on: when I was 10 Mum went into rehab [for depression]. I would go there on Family Day and listen to people talk about their heroin overdose and awful things, so I knew what was bad and what to avoid.

I’ve had two long-term boyfriends and now I’m with someone else [Ed Simons, 37, of the Chemical Brothers]. The first time somebody leaves you, it’s heart-wrenching, terrible and awful, if you’re in love with them. I saw Mum like that with Dad, and a bit with Harry. But I’m really happy at the moment. Two weeks ago my therapist said: “It’s a waste of money you coming here. You’re fine now.”

I never had the sex talk with Mum.

I don’t go to her with problems. I would hug her, but as soon as I met my first boyfriend, Lester, at 15, that stopped.

I had to share my mum’s bed recently and she woke up and gave me a hug, and I said, “Get off me,” and she said, “Why?” and I said: “I’m 22 and I don’t want you to hug me any more.” She started crying and I thought: “Oh, grow up.” I’m just not a touchy-feely person.

I think my attitude to life comes from Dad. He’s very blunt — we’re both direct about how we feel. I didn’t have attention as a kid — when I went out it was: “This is Lily, Keith’s daughter.” Not any more. Now it’s: “This is Keith, Lily’s dad.”

Times recommends

• Ingrid Betancourt's homecoming
• Geraint Anderson: Trust me, greed ain’t good
• The 10 best campsites in Greece