It's Only Rock 'n' Roll

by Jo Wood

  When we’d finished work, Richard suggested we go back to his place ‘for a celebratory glass of wine’. I knew Peter would still be at work and Jamie was happy with Ushi. So I went.

  Richard lived nearby in a studio flat that was cluttered with camera equipment and rolls of paper. While I looked at his photos hanging on the walls, he got a bottle of white wine from the fridge and a couple of glasses and put the Steve Miller Band on the stereo. Then we sat down together on the sofa. It was late afternoon and the sun was filtering through the shutters at the window, casting bars of light on the wall behind us.

  ‘To you, Jo,’ he said, clinking his glass against mine. ‘Just as gorgeous as ever.’

  I smiled and took a sip. Richard was holding my gaze with those sexy brown eyes of his. I just knew something was about to happen. Suddenly he put his glass down, took mine from my hand, then leant over and started to kiss me. Softly at first, but then things got seriously wild and soon we were tearing off each other’s clothes.

  That was the day I had my first ever orgasm. I even remember the song that was playing at the time: ‘The Joker’ by Steve Miller Band. That was also the day that Richard and I started an affair. It was intense – just raw passion. The scales fell from my eyes and I finally knew what I’d been missing while I was married to Peter.

  A month or so later I was over at Richard’s flat when someone started banging at the door. A man’s voice: ‘Jo? Come out, I need to talk to you!’

  Richard and I froze. ‘It’s Peter!’ I mouthed at him, horrified.

  ‘Jo?’ Peter was still hammering on the door. ‘Jo, I know you’re in there!’

  Eventually he gave up and went away, but it was a major wake-up call for me. I immediately called things off with Richard, but we parted as friends – and I couldn’t be more grateful for what he did for me.

  God, I felt guilty. The shock of my husband nearly catching me with another man jolted me into putting some effort into my marriage. For the next few weeks I tried to be the perfect wife: cooking Peter’s favourite meals, being affectionate, keeping the house immaculate. I tried so hard to be good, really I did, but having Ushi to take care of Jamie and working in an industry that brought me into contact with so many handsome, charming men made it too easy to be bad. And while I never went looking for an affair, they seemed to keep finding me.

  I met David on a shoot. He was an actor and model: blond, charismatic, kind of cool and very funny. We spent the shoot in fits of giggles, which made me realize how little Peter and I laughed any more. Afterwards, we went to the pub – and things progressed from there.

  If anything, this was even more passionate than the affair with Richard had been. I was desperate for David and tried to see him whenever I could. I even faked a modelling job so I could go away with him to Brighton for a weekend. Things got very serious very quickly.

  But as much as I was crazy about him, I knew we had no future. I was already married and the last thing I wanted was to get into another serious relationship. So I put my sensible hat on and called a halt to the affair, probably breaking poor David’s heart.

  Things between Peter and me were worse than ever. We were like a couple of OAPs: I’d cook dinner while Peter watched TV, and then we’d go to bed with barely a peck on the cheek. And the sex? Well, maybe it was because our relationship was so bad, but Peter wasn’t interested.

  Soon after David, it was another fashion photographer. His name was Eric Swayne and he was closer to my dad’s age than mine – probably in his early forties. I was booked to do some test shots for a new magazine at his studio, which was below his split-level apartment on Thurloe Square in South Kensington.

  The shoot was one of the sexiest I’d ever done: me in a silk kimono with nothing underneath, then in a little denim mini with braces. Eric had this sexy Cockney voice, and kept telling me how fabulous I was. He was very good-looking: dark, rugged, with a strong jaw. And when he suggested we should open a bottle of wine after the shoot . . . well, you can probably imagine what happened.

  Eric might have been older than me, but he was so charismatic, so worldly. And he wanted to save me, which for a young girl in my miserable situation was a very attractive quality. I opened my heart to Eric and told him how unhappy I was, and he promised to be there for me. He told me, ‘If you feel you can’t take it any more and you need somewhere to stay, I’ll take you in. I’ll take you and your son.’ He was truly my knight in shining armour.

  A few days after Jamie’s first birthday I was having lunch with my friend Samantha in Morton’s Brasserie in Mayfair. Samantha used to date Richard Best but was now married to Adrian Lyne, who went on to direct the movie 9½ Weeks. We were sitting chatting – no doubt about my latest problems with Peter – when a smartly dressed woman came over to our table. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch,’ she said, in an American accent. ‘But I need to do your numbers.’

  She was looking directly at me, but I had no idea what she was talking about.

  ‘I’m a numerologist,’ she explained. ‘There’s something about you, my dear. I know it’s none of my business, but I really think I might be able to help.’

  With Samantha’s encouragement, the woman sat down and I told her my date of birth and the other information she wanted. She scribbled a few notes, stared at her figures, then put her hand over mine. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you are clearly a very unhappy young woman.’ My eyes filled – she was spot-on. ‘And if you don’t sort out your current situation and follow your heart then you’re going to be a very unhappy woman at forty.’

  I looked at Samantha. ‘You’ve got to leave, Jo,’ she said. ‘You’ve just got to.’

  I knew she was right, but I was petrified. This was going to destroy Peter. But if I stayed in that relationship I’d just get more and more unhappy, and I didn’t want Jamie to be brought up in that sort of toxic environment. And, of course, there was Eric on the horizon.

  I’ll take you and your son.

  The next day I packed one small suitcase with a pair of my favourite shoes and all Jamie’s stuff. I left a note for Peter: ‘I’m so sorry, but I feel it’s time for me to go. I’m fine, Jamie’s with me, so please don’t worry. I’m somewhere safe.’ I phoned Eric and told him I was leaving Peter. He just said, ‘Okay, darling, come on over.’

  I lifted Jamie out of the cot. He gave one of his gorgeous smiles and I kissed him, breathing in that lovely baby smell. ‘We’re going on a little adventure, my darling,’ I said softly. ‘Just you and me.’

  And then I picked up the suitcase and walked out of the door.

  6

  We’ll get by

  Oh, please, Jamie don’t you cry

  your mummy will get by

  things will be hard

  but I know you’re a card

  and we’ll get by.

  Oh, little one, you look so sad

  things really aren’t that bad

  life is rough

  but I know you are tough

  and we’ll get by.

  Oh, Jamie, cheer up now

  we’ve got through and how,

  it’s because I knew

  it was all for you

  and we got by.

  It was around ten o’ clock on the second night after my escape to Eric’s when his front-door intercom buzzer sounded. He picked up the handset, listened, then turned to me.

  ‘Now, Jo, don’t panic, but Peter’s here.’

  Immediately, I panicked. ‘Oh, God, what does he want? What am I going to do? Don’t let him in!’

  ‘He’s the father of your child,’ said Eric, calmly. ‘We have to let him in.’

  Moments later Peter burst into the room. He scowled at me. ‘Where’s Jamie?’

  ‘In there,’ I said. ‘But he’s asleep . . .’

  Peter shoved his way past me and went into the bedroom. A moment later he came back into the room carrying Jamie, who was by now awake and looking around him in a daze. Then he walked stra
ight past us and out of the flat with my gorgeous boy in his arms. I went to chase after them, but Eric called me back.

  ‘Don’t stop him,’ he said. ‘You don’t want Jamie to be in the middle of a scene.’

  I cried my heart out. Eric was right, of course, as it would have been terrible for Jamie to see us fighting, but at the same time I knew that Peter had no idea how to look after our one-year-old son. He’d never changed a nappy, never prepared a bottle, never put him to bed. He didn’t even know about Jamie’s Night-night, the white cotton comforter that he never went anywhere without – except he just had, because Peter had left it lying in his cot! (‘Night-night’ was even Jamie’s first word.) How on earth would he get to sleep without it? And where had Peter taken him? I had a sleepless night, imagining all these terrible scenarios, but early the next morning my mum called.

  ‘Josephine, I’ve been sworn to secrecy, but I wanted to let you know that I have Jamie here with me.’

  ‘Oh, thank God!’

  ‘But you mustn’t let Peter know I’ve told you.’

  I agreed to play along – but really! As if my own mother wouldn’t tell me that she’d got my child! So Jamie started his little life at the Old Vicarage – and within a few days I’d gone down to join him. It just wasn’t going to work with Eric: as wonderful as he was, I was an emotional mess and I needed to be with Jamie.

  Mum’s attitude to me escaping my marriage was ‘I told you so’. Dad was just pleased I wasn’t with Peter any more. And they both adored Jamie.

  After that, I barely saw Peter. One Friday evening, shortly after I’d moved down to the Old Vicarage, I’d been working in London but I was so broke I didn’t have the train fare back to Essex. In desperation, I went and knocked on the door of our house.

  ‘Hello, Jo.’ If he was surprised to see me he didn’t show it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Peter, but is there any way you can lend me some money? Just five pounds for the train back to Essex? I haven’t got a penny.’

  ‘I won’t give you the money,’ he said, ‘but I’ll cash you a cheque.’

  With no alternative, I wrote him a cheque for fifteen pounds, then watched him take a thick wad of notes from his pocket, slowly peel off three fivers and hand them over. I felt so humiliated and I guess I deserved it. But I vowed never to ask Peter for anything again. And I never did.

  We divorced when I was 21. Peter remarried and had two beautiful daughters, Sophia and Lucy, who I am very close with. Years later he moved to Spain, where he lives to this day.

  With my baby happily settled at the Old Vicarage, my priority was getting work. My parents couldn’t afford to support Jamie and me and I had no savings because I had always given my earnings straight to Peter (and I clearly wasn’t going to get a penny from him) so I had no choice. Plus, of course, I loved modelling. I was just lucky that Mum was still young – my sister Lize was 10 at the time – which meant she could easily take care of Jamie.

  I started accepting every job (and party invitation) that came my way. I was only 20, remember, and determined to catch up on all the fun I’d missed while married to Peter. Two girlfriends above all helped me in this mission. The first was Lorraine Dellal – to this day my closest friend. She is the daughter of the flamboyant London property developer, Jack Dellal, known as ‘Black Jack’ for his love of gambling. I had first met her when I was still with Peter and she was about to marry a friend of his, a charming guy named David Morris. Now we reconnected, as Lorraine was in charge of booking the models at my agency.

  My other partner in crime was a fellow model named Susan Harrison, whom I’d met at a fashion party. She had the most beautiful face, with wonderful lips, high cheekbones and a Romanesque nose, but an accent and down-to-earth attitude that were straight out of Coronation Street. Sue and I hit it off immediately. Her sister, Stephanie, had a house in Wandsworth but she was dating the motorbike champion, Barry Sheene, leaving the house empty, so Sue suggested that we rent it together. It was a perfect arrangement: we got the place cheap, as otherwise it would have been sitting vacant, and I could go down to the Old Vicarage at weekends for kisses and cuddles with Jamie. Life was about to get wild . . .

  Sue and me. Double trouble. Sue was brunette, I was blonde, but we had our hair cut in the same long, shaggy style. I bought a little orange VW Beetle on hire purchase, the first car I owned, and we were out every night in it, zipping from Morton’s to Monkberry’s to a party at so-and-so’s house. We’d only go out on dates if we could take each other so we knew we were protected. A message Sue left for me around this time is pretty typical: ‘Arrived home to the phone already ringing again, some bloke from the States – friend of Clive’s – wants to take us out. Can’t handle all these bloody men . . .’

  A few days after Christmas in 1976, Sue and I were at some party just off Hyde Park, chatting to Bryan Ferry – who by then was enjoying solo success after finding fame with Roxy Music – and Monty Python’s Eric Idle. It was getting late when Eric turned to us and said, ‘Come on, girls, we’re going back to Bryan’s place. Why don’t you come too?’ Well, Sue was up for it, obviously, because she was seeing Bryan on the quiet, but I was thinking, Sue’s got Bryan – which means I’m going to have to do it with Eric! No bloody way . . . So I told him it was late and we had to be going home, but Eric was so persistent that in the end I agreed we’d come, but that Sue and I would follow them in my Beetle as I didn’t want to abandon it in town. We set off in convoy with Bryan and Eric out in front. We were driving around Hyde Park Corner roundabout when suddenly I swerved off towards Knightsbridge at high speed – and the boys couldn’t follow us because it was one-way. Sue and I were in hysterics all the way home. When we got back to Wandsworth, the phone was already ringing. It was Eric.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Oh, we just decided to come home,’ I said. ‘We’re both tired and I’ve got to get up early tomorrow to see my parents before New Year’s Eve. Sorry.’

  ‘Come on, girls, come on over,’ he said. ‘There’s no turkey left, but there’s plenty of stuffing!’

  We didn’t do much in the way of drugs at this time. Partying was mostly about the booze, although if someone had some coke we might do the odd line. In those days it was so much purer that you didn’t get wired or zombied-out, it just gave you a little boost of confidence. I never went completely mad – that came later. But one night I was in Monkberry’s with Sue when our gay friend, Colin, called us over. He was holding out his hand and at first glance it seemed empty, but when I looked closer I saw this tiny little square, like a windowpane.

  ‘It’s acid.’ He grinned. ‘Want to try it?’

  ‘Come off it, that tiny thing? That’s not going to do anything!’

  ‘Believe me,’ said Colin. ‘This stuff works.’

  So Sue and I took it – and, WHOOSH, we were off!

  My abiding memory of my first acid trip is lots and lots of laughter. After Monkberry’s we piled into my Beetle (yes, I drove, can you believe it?) and ended up at a punk club where a bloke started chatting me up. He was coming on strong and, for a laugh, I told him, ‘I won’t have sex with you unless you do it with my friends Sue and Colin as well. We come as a package.’ He must have been keen because he agreed on the spot. Then Colin piled in: ‘We can’t have sex with you before we check out the goods.’ So that bloke came to the Ladies with us, dropped his trousers and showed us his willy. Well, that really set us off. Hysterical with laughter, we ran outside and got back into my car – but then the bloke appeared, trousers still round his ankles, and started banging on the window. As I tried to start the engine Colin locked the doors and eventually we drove away, screaming our heads off.

  At some point we ended up at Colin’s flat on Harley Street. We lay around for what seemed like hours, arguing over who was going to make a cup of tea, when suddenly the door flew open and a naked African guy was standing there holding a tray perfectly set with cups, saucers, teapot, sugar and a jug of milk. Am I halluc
inating?

  ‘Where did he come from?’ said Sue.

  Colin looked up. ‘Umm . . . I think he might be a friend of mine.’

  At that, the guy put down the tray and left the room.

  At some point the next day – or possibly the day after that – Sue and I drove back to Wandsworth. This was where things got a bit scary. I remember sitting in the bedroom with Sue, staring at our reflections in the mirror, convinced we had thick white makeup all over our faces. We sat there, rubbing frantically at our cheeks, getting increasingly frantic; we had to talk ourselves through it so we didn’t totally lose it. I hated that total loss of control so much – the feeling of being on a runaway train that you can’t get off – that I never did acid again.

  The last thing I remember is driving to the King’s Road early in the morning with Sue and getting some T-shirts made that read, ‘I love Ruby Morris.’ This was in honour of a little acid poem we’d made up at some point during those crazy hours.

  When you walk through the door, chuck,

  Cup of tea and biscuit, luv,

  Your pound’s worth more at Ruby Morris.

  Where else?

  The ‘chuck’ bit came from Sue, because she was northern, the tea – well, you know about that part, we liked the name Ruby, and Morris came from David Morris, who was now Lorraine’s husband. Sue had once had a bit of a fling with him. God, she was naughty.

  Having said that, I wasn’t exactly living like the Blessed Sister Josephine either. I had a succession of boyfriends. There was Richard North Lewis – still a friend – who worked for the company that produced model cards for the big agencies – probably because of the access it gave him to an endless stream of gorgeous girls. Women loved Richard: he was so utterly charming and good-looking, with big dark eyes and an infectious smile. He was incredibly naughty, and although I was his girlfriend for a while, I think I was probably just one of many.