It's Only Rock 'n' Roll

by Jo Wood

  One day we got a call saying I had been selected as HMS Caledonia’s official mascot, and would I like to come up to the naval base in Scotland as their guest? Mum and I went up for the day, had tea with the captain, and then a photographer took some shots of me parading past a line of smiling sailors, who were all holding my picture. You can see from my face in the photos how much fun I was having, although I remember feeling very self-conscious as I was wearing tiny hot-pants and had a hole at the top of my tights that I was convinced everyone was staring at. Little things like that worry you when you’re fifteen and a half.

  Not long after my first appearance in the national press, a letter arrived addressed to ‘Jo Karslake, Benfleet, Essex’. Dad was instantly suspicious and whipped it away before I could open it, but Mum gave me the gist later. Apparently it was from some bloke saying he wanted to take me ‘into the hop fields and show you what real life is about’. As you can imagine, Dad freaked.

  ‘We can’t have this, Josephine. There’s a load of strange men out there – and now they all know where you live!’ He shook his head decisively. ‘There’s only one thing for it.’

  I had a sudden dread that Dad was going to stop the modelling – but no: ‘We’ll have to change your name.’

  Actually, that wasn’t such a bad idea. Twiggy had upgraded from plain old Lesley Hornby and look where it had got her! I spent ages trying to think of something fabulous, but the best I could come up with was Goosey. Not brilliant. So in the end I stuck with Jo Howard, Howard being Dad’s middle name. He was a bit happier after that.

  The glorious day finally arrived: my last day at St Bernard’s! I’d had 10 years of school and all I had to show for it was just three CSEs. I got a B+ in Art, much to Dad’s disappointment, a B in Home Economics and a B in History. The rest? Forget it. But I was finally, amazingly, free, and without the restraints of school I could focus on my career.

  The London Academy of Modelling had recommended an agency called Gavin Robinson, so armed with my new portfolio – a little folder I’d put together with my cuttings and Robert’s pictures – Mum took me up to London for a meeting. At that time, Gavin Robinson ran one of the hottest agencies in London, so I was dizzy with excitement as we climbed the stairs at 30 Old Bond Street to his first-floor office. The girl at Reception directed us to a couch to wait and I sat, staring about me in wonder. The walls were covered with model head sheets, faces familiar to me from the pages of Honey and 19; the phones rang non-stop; and every now and then some stunning girl would waft into the room, oozing confidence and sophistication. I wanted to be part of that world so, so badly.

  We were shown into an office where Gavin was sitting behind a desk. He was very slim, trendy and had startlingly blond hair. ‘Well, helloooo, you must be Jo!’ Gavin flung out his arms in welcome. ‘Darling, come here and let me have a good look at you!’

  I was stunned. I had never met a man like this before, and I couldn’t work out why he was so flamboyant, so . . . feminine. It was fascinating.

  Mum and I sat nervously opposite as Gavin flicked through my portfolio. I stared at him, trying to work out if he thought I had what it took. He had big, popping eyes that gave his face an appealingly impish air.

  ‘Well, you’ll need catwalk lessons, of course, and you absolutely must get those teeth fixed,’ he said, as he peered at my photos.

  ‘That’s fine, no problem. I can do that.’ Just then I’d have cut off my right arm if it had meant he would sign me.

  Finally, Gavin put down the portfolio and beamed at me. ‘Well, I think you’re fabulous, darling. Just beautiful. And I’d love you to be one of my girls. You’ll be the youngest on my books.’

  The following week Gavin whisked me off to a posh dentist in Devonshire Place to have a brace fitted to fix the gap between my two front teeth; a gap that, ironically, is the height of fashion, these days. For the six weeks I wore it I spoke with a lisp. I remember going into the agency and muttering to the receptionist, ‘Can I pleathe thpeak to Gavin?’

  A willowy brunette standing nearby overheard me and gave a snort of laughter. ‘If you want to be a model, daaahling, you’d better learn to speak properly.’

  I nearly died. I’d only just turned 16 and all the other models seemed so much older and more sophisticated. But Gavin kept telling me that he loved my sense of fun and freshness, and I trusted him completely. I adored him. He was warm, generous and hysterically funny. A few weeks after our first meeting we were in a taxi together when another car suddenly cut in front of us. Furious, our driver leant out of the window and shouted, ‘Kiss my arse!’

  Gavin sat forward and said, ever so smoothly, ‘No thanks, darling, you might have dandruff.’

  Once my teeth were fixed I had some pictures done for my model card. It was my first experience in a studio with a professional photographer. Robert Hallmann had been lovely, but he was a middle-aged-dad type. This guy – Richard Best – was in his early twenties, with long hair, jeans and a cool T-shirt. He was pretty hot, too. As I posed in a selection of home-made outfits, with Richard snapping away, I almost burst with happiness.

  In September I started my go-sees, which are basically opportunities for models to meet potential clients. I was armed with my new card, featuring Richard’s shots and the following blurb: ‘Jo Howard. Height 5’ 6, bust 33, waist 23, hips 35, inside leg 31, outside 40. Hair: blonde. Eyes: blue. Specialities: T, H, L, HR, S.’ (I guess that last bit stood for Teeth, Hands, Legs, Hair and Shoes.) Go-sees were actually just a long, hard slog. I would spend all day travelling across London on a succession of buses and tubes, only for some magazine editor to take one look at me and say, ‘Your hair’s wrong. Next.’ I’d often come out of those meetings close to tears. Oh, God, my legs aren’t long enough, my face is all weird, I’m never going to make it as a model . . .

  I can imagine how you might end up a blubbering wreck with an eating disorder. But I quickly came to accept that clients would be looking for specific things for each job, and if you weren’t right for that one, you might be for the next. From then on, I enjoyed the go-sees. I loved meeting new people, having a chat and a giggle. And it was such a buzz being out in the world on my own. I’d go to the Wimpy Bar on Bond Street and have a lunch of ice-cream with chocolate sauce and nuts, just because I could.

  I started working for all the teen magazines, especially Jackie. I’d usually get booked for the fun, playful shoots: roller-skating, jumping off walls – that sort of thing. I did a job with three other models for a German magazine in which we had to have a food fight. We turned up at the studio to find a huge table covered with cream cakes, buns and jellies. The other girls were a bit timid, but I really got stuck in.

  My life became a dizzying succession of pinch-me moments. One of my earliest jobs was a TV commercial for Harp lager that was filmed up in the Lake District. The advert was set in ye olden days, with me acting the lowly wench opposite a handsome Scottish laird, played by this handsome hunk who was dating Charlotte Rampling at the time. There I was, clambering over the hills in a horrible brown outfit, while this famous actress’s lover came striding over the fells towards me in a billowing kilt! I loved every second of it.

  Considering how dramatically my life had changed in the space of a few weeks, it was little surprise that my romance with Tony fizzled out. My new world was so thrilling, so dazzling, that the Ragged Priest and its owner quickly lost their allure.

  In September I was sent to Paris for a few days for the prêt-a-porter shows. I remember setting off with dreams of the Chanel catwalk, but the reality turned out to be altogether less glamorous. I stayed in a grotty little top-floor flat that reeked of drains and, despite countless go-sees, I didn’t get a single job. Things looked up when one of the other models promised me a fabulous night out, but when I arrived at the restaurant I found her sitting with two much older men, all sweaty palms and leering eyes. Even at 16, it didn’t take me long to work out that I’d been invited as dessert. After one clammy gro
pe too many I made my excuses and fled.

  I did manage to get to a couple of the shows in Paris and it was at one of them that I met a man called Peter Greene. I was talking to a couple of people when he came over to introduce himself. My memory is of a tall guy, with a brown beard, dressed in the latest trends – high platform shoes and tight flared jeans. He worked in the rag trade, he told us, and was in Paris on a buying trip. He was self-confident to the point of cockiness, but he was funny and flirty and had us all in fits of laughter. It was only a brief meeting, but when I turned to go he grabbed my hand.

  ‘See you again, doll,’ he said, almost as if it was a command. I’d like that, I thought, with a smile.

  ‘So, darling, how would you like to go to Acapulco?’

  Gavin was smiling at me from the other side of his desk. It was November and I’d been working as a model for just a couple of months.

  ‘Acapulco?’ My eyes lit up. It sounded so glamorous. ‘Oh, yes, please! Wow, Acapulco . . . Um, that’s in France, right?’

  Gavin laughed. ‘Mexico, darling. There’s a fashion show, all the big designers are showing, and I think you’d be perfect as one of the models. You fly out next week.’

  I was unbelievably excited. There was quite a bit of hype around the show, too: the Daily Mail even ran a piece with the headline ‘Our Girl in Acapulco!’ next to my photo. For the 10-day trip I packed a tiny suitcase with just a bikini, a pair of shorts, two T-shirts and a beautiful dress Mum had made me: a backless halter-neck in blue voile with velvet trim. Apart from Paris, I’d never been abroad before. I didn’t have a clue what I was letting myself in for.

  I flew to Mexico with all the other models who were appearing in the show. To keep costs down, the plane went the longest way possible and the flight ended up taking 32 hours. Our first stop was Madrid, where we filled up with more models and their luggage until the plane was so overloaded that we hit the tops of the trees as we took off again. The girl next to me was screaming hysterically, but I was too excited–We’re going to Acapulco, baby!–to notice that we were about to crash.

  After Spain, we flew to Iceland. I’d taken my shoes off during the flight and my feet had swelled so much that I couldn’t squeeze them back on again. I had to tiptoe barefoot through the thick snow to the terminal. Really, it’s a wonder I made it to Mexico at all.

  Finally, we began our descent into Acapulco. As the plane came in to land I had a tantalizing glimpse of blue sea, palm trees, golden sand – colours so vivid they almost stung my eyes. Then I stepped out of the plane and the heat hit me like a physical blow. Bloody hell. The warmest place I’d been before then was north Devon. I had no idea anywhere could even get this hot. In moments I was flushed, dripping sweat, and my hair had sprung into a ball of frizz.

  I’ve always envied people who look effortlessly good on holiday – those lucky girls whose sleek hair goes sexily tousled and whose skin turns sun-kissed and golden. Me, I’m usually a mess for the first week. One of my defining memories of the Acapulco trip is sitting in my hotel room, staring at my reflection in horror, wondering what the hell I was going to do with my hair. I had no hairdryer, and nothing seemed to tame the frizz. I should just have given it a tousle and let it go wild, but I had never had to deal with that before.

  Worse was to come. The day after we arrived I hit the beach in my bikini – and by the end of the day had burnt to a deep, angry pink. My hair had the texture of wire wool, my skin was red in parts, stark white in others: when it came to the fashion show, it’s hardly surprising that I was given all the worst outfits. The one that sticks in my mind was a horrible cream calico dress that could have been a nun’s nightie. In short, Our Girl in Acapulco was a great big Mexi-no.

  I was one of the youngest models on the trip, but a girl called Stella – a chic 20-something with a penchant for turbans – took me under her wing. One night she invited me to a club and I jumped at the chance. Not only would I be able to give my new halter-neck dress an outing, but hopefully, in the dark, nobody would notice the sunburn and frizz.

  My memories of the club are hazy: thumping music, semi-darkness, wild dancing and, above all, FUN! Stella and I got talking (or, rather, shouting) to a Spanish artist called Giorgio and his brother. Giorgio was in his thirties and dangerously handsome. I think some coke was being handed around, although I hadn’t a clue what it was. The room was unbelievably hot, so I downed whatever drink anyone put in my hand and just danced and whirled. Wheeeee! It was such a mad night.

  At some point we left the club and my next memory is of climbing up a long flight of stairs with Stella, Giorgio and his brother to an apartment, or perhaps a hotel room. Then, to my horror, Stella and the brother started getting it on, noisily and energetically, leaving me alone with a clearly up-for-it Giorgio. Even though I was blind drunk, I started to panic. Oh, God, he’s not going to want to do that with me, is he? I remember thinking I had to get back to the hotel, but I had no idea where we were. Thankfully, after a bit of a drunken fumble Giorgio fell asleep. I immediately gathered up my things and ran down the stairs into the street where I grabbed a taxi. I had no money, but the driver took pity on me and drove me back to the hotel.

  A couple of days later, Giorgio turned up again, and I couldn’t get rid of him after that. Wherever I went, he’d be hanging around: ‘Hola, Jo! You wanna come for lunch?’ I suppose I was too young and naïve just to tell him to get lost, but by the end of the trip I was sitting on the back seat of the coach to go to the airport, waving to Giorgio as we pulled away from the hotel, feeling so relieved that I’d never have to see him again.

  A couple of weeks after we got home, I was at the Old Vicarage helping Mum get lunch ready when there was a knock at the door. Dad answered it and came into the kitchen, a suspicious look on his face. ‘Josephine, there’s a man here who says he met you in Mexico.’

  What the hell . . .?

  I went out, and there were Giorgio and his brother.

  ‘Hey, baby, we’ve come for a veeseet!’

  That night they took my parents and me to Galadoro, an Italian restaurant in Hadleigh. They were very polite and we all had a pleasant evening, but at the end, Giorgio and his brother were sent packing for good.

  Once I’d got back from Acapulco, it was as if someone had stamped on the accelerator: stuff started happening at breakneck speed. A few weeks before Christmas, the Sun asked me to be their Face of ’72, a brilliant boost for my career that led to an appearance on the BBC’s Nationwide. It was particularly special for me as Twiggy had been the Face of ’66. A few weeks after that, following months of begging my parents to let me live in London, I finally waved goodbye to the Old Vicarage and moved into a flat off North End Road in Fulham, with an African model called Pegga. And just a few weeks after that, on my 17th birthday in March 1972, I got engaged to be married.

  4

  I can’t remember where Peter Greene and I met again after that briefest of encounters in Paris. He was just one of those guys on the London scene who worked in fashion and hung out in the nightclub, Tramp. Peter was 28 and owned a very successful clothing business called She Type, which made cheap knock-offs of all the big designers’ clothes. He was loud and Jewish and totally unlike anyone I’d ever met before.

  We had our first date in February 1972. He took me out to dinner, then drove me home to Fulham in his Bentley. We snogged passionately in the car and then said our goodbyes, but as I walked up the path to my flat he wound down the window and called me back.

  ‘Do you fancy coming on holiday, Jo?’

  ‘Um . . . Yeah, I suppose so.’ I know we’d only just met, but I was always up for an adventure.

  ‘Great. I’ll pick you up next Friday and we’ll go to Tunisia. See ya, doll.’

  And with that he spun the Bentley in a tight circle and sped off with a jaunty toot of the horn.

  So, a week later I was sitting on a plane to Tunisia next to a guy I barely knew – and had only kissed a couple of times – along with his
mate, Tony Harley, and his wife, Maureen. I began to have serious doubts about the whole thing, especially when Peter nudged me midway through the flight and said, with a grin, ‘We’ve got a double room.’

  As it turned out, we had a fantastic week. We laughed and laughed. Peter had an endless lust for life and loved showing me new places and introducing me to a succession of fascinating people. By the end of the trip, while I’m not sure I was in love with him, I was certainly pretty smitten.

  When we got back to London we went straight to his apartment in Baker Street and I fell for him even harder. The flat was the height of seventies cool, with thick cream shag-pile carpet on the floors, mirrored walls and a spiral staircase leading upstairs. Oh, it was all so fab! Peter had all the latest gadgets, including a big round TV and an eight-track stereo sound system. The guy clearly had style. From then on, I stayed at his apartment most nights.

  Soon after we started dating, I took Peter home to the Old Vicarage to meet Mum and Dad: things were moving pretty fast between us. By now he had swapped his Bentley for a Ferrari. (Honestly, Peter changed his car more often than anyone else I knew: a black souped-up Mini with tinted windows one week, a red Jaguar E-type the next.) As we pulled up outside the house, Peter slammed on the brakes, sending a shower of gravel all over the flowerbeds. Not a great start.

  ‘Promise me you’ll be on your best behaviour,’ I begged, for the umpteenth time, as we got out of the car.

  ‘I promise, doll,’ he said, dropping a kiss on my forehead. ‘You worry too much.’

  My parents hated him on sight, I could tell. He was too loud, too old (there was an 11-year age gap), too flash: everything they didn’t want for their little girl. And any hope that Peter might charm them vanished for ever during lunch.