RAYMOND: We didn’t have a television when I was young. But we had the radio, and the theatre — the Golders Green Hippodrome — up the road. My mother was a good pianist and she’d sit down at the piano, and my dad and older brother would get out their violins, and they’d play. I was a dreadful musician — I failed grade-one piano — but the music was sinking in. We’d go to pantomimes, too: Max Wall, Jimmy Edwards, all the music-hall stars would be on. One of the first operas I saw was Carmen, at Covent Garden — ladies in mantillas on swaying scenery. Then there was the D’Oyly Carte, Gilbert and Sullivan… It all made a big impression on me.

But I never thought I’d be a promoter. I just sort of drifted in. My dad knew Arnold Wesker, the playwright, and he got me an introduction to the promoter Victor Hochhauser, who put on shows with Fonteyn, Nureyev, the Kirov. He gave me a job. Then at 20 I started on my own with little concerts, three or four singers and a pianist. It grew from that.

I put shows and programmes together, in opera, ballet, light classical. We had no subsidy — I had to be mindful of what people would pay good money to see.

I was 24 when I met Louise’s mum, Johanna. I wanted to settle down and it all sort of clicked. The business was doing okay, and we had our two daughters. We had a lovely family life. Louise was a big baby, 10lb. She didn’t smile a lot, and I thought: “Oh dear, what have I done wrong?” But at three or four she became very affectionate. She didn’t like going to school — but neither did I. I’ll never forget when she was at a convent junior school, she was clinging to me, hands round my feet, and one of the nuns had to prise her away.

In 1982 the Barbican opened, and we had big names on: Pavarotti, James Galway, Yehudi Menuhin, Kiri Te Kanawa. I had a small staff then, and had to do most things myself. A lot of this job is being there on the night to meet and greet. I still attend most of my shows. It’s my passion, it’s in the blood. Nothing beats when the lights go down and you’re all there, sharing the excitement and the danger of a live performance.

So I was working very hard, weekends in particular. My wife was supportive, but it was my life. So that moved us apart. When the divorce came, it was a shock for me — I should have read the signs. The solicitor said we all had to stay living at the house. It was stressful for us all. After the settlement my ex-wife moved out, and eventually I had both girls with me. I was delighted, but taking care of them was the hardest thing. I didn’t want them eating fast food all day, so I began to cook for the first time. I found it fairly straightforward — not the mumbo-jumbo I’d been led to believe. I made blinis, muffins… I even had a pasta machine.

That time was particularly disruptive for Louise, who was 13 when we split. She became quite rebellious. She was going out a lot and I was worried. I tried to protect her, but a determined child has to learn by experience. When she was 15, I remember driving to Potters Bar late at night: she was in a phone box, frightened, and couldn’t get home.

I shouldn’t have let her get into that situation, but I got her home and to bed, and that was one lesson learnt.

Louise came to work at my company when she left school. You can’t show favouritism, so I left it to my managers to look after her. I don’t think my business suits her — it’s tough. But she is drawn to theatre and entertainment; she went to work for the English National Ballet, then for the Kilroy TV show, which was a tremendous experience for her. Now she has her own casting agency, and I’m there to advise her and help if I can. I can’t do magic, nor should I, but I’m really proud of her. We talk on the phone a lot, and my grandchildren are a joy. They stay with me in London and France, and I love that. I would never say I’m lonely. I’m not a hermit.

Louise doesn’t always know about my affairs. My life is not an open book and I wouldn’t expect hers to be. You don’t tell your parents everything. I never did.

LOUISE: As a child I never got to see Dad, because he was out working an awful lot. And we’d have to go to these classical concerts, which I hated. We’d be dressed in horrific, frilly little dresses and we had to sit there, not moving an inch. I was eight. I’d fall asleep at every performance, but on the final note I’d wake up without fail and start clapping.

A few years later Dad introduced The Snowman and the Teddy Bear concerts, which were much more fun. And he created Classical Spectacular, with all the well-known classical tunes, like the theme from Fantasia and Nessun Dorma, and lasers and special effects. Even I could relate to that — he was onto a winner. When he took me to meet Jason Donovan, who was in Joseph and who was my absolute idol, I thought: “Oh, Dad’s job isn’t so bad after all.”

We had a lovely childhood, but Dad was building up his business, which involved entertaining clients, so we often had to be on our best behaviour. Weekends consisted of the dreaded classical music at home in Barnet, or going out for Sunday lunch — admittedly to very nice restaurants — in those frilly dresses. But he did spend some quality time with us, and we were spoilt: we had ponies and we rode from a young age.

Then one New Year’s Eve my parents told us they were divorcing. I was 13, and it was a huge shock. I don’t think there was anybody else involved. But the entertainment industry is difficult — long hours, endless commitment — and for somebody who’s not in it, it’s hard to understand. My mother, a full-time housewife, never wanted to be involved.

When Mum decided to go back to her roots in Ireland, we moved in with Dad. And he was amazing. He was working so hard, but he found time to really look after us. He’d never cooked, but one day he came home with all these kitchen machines. There’d be home-made biscuits, smoothies, fresh pasta…

The divorce had been drawn out, and it was a very emotional time. I lost interest in the horses and got into boys, drinking and pubs. At 15 I was going to over-18 nightclubs, sneaking back into the house at three, four in the morning. Dad started locking me out, so I’d have to ring to get in. I put him through hell.

I hated school too. I wanted to be in entertainment and decided school work couldn’t help me, so I left before I was 16. Mum decided I should come to Ireland for a hairdressing course, which I agreed to, though it wasn’t what I wanted. The partying continued there, and my health suffered: my hands would shake when I tried to cut people’s hair because I’d drunk too much. So I came back and got a job with Dad, sorting out the tickets for groups and touring with the Classical Spectacular. I loved it.

I saw how well-regarded Dad was in the business — his enthusiasm, how he deals with people. But I did have problems with being the boss’s daughter, and my interests are different to Dad’s — my ideal business mentor would be Simon Cowell. Eventually I moved to Kent and bought a share in a pub. Then, two years ago, I started the casting agency. It was a bit naughty of me to be trading in my maiden name — I know it’s got me where I am a lot quicker. But I’m very proud of the Gubbay name.

Dad dotes on his grandchildren; he really is “Pappa Gubbs”, as I call him. I adore him, we all do. When he got his CBE it was the proudest moment of my life. I only wish he’d get married again. But I don’t think he’d have the time.

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