by Jo Wood
As I started to climb the ladder, I suddenly realized I hadn’t a clue what I was supposed to be doing when I got up there. ‘I don’t know how to samba!’ I shouted to the girl on the ground. ‘What shall I do?’
‘Don’t worry, Jo,’ she yelled back. ‘You just gotta move!’
So, as the music started and the float started to make its way along the parade, I did as I was told. And as the sun started to come up and the crowd cheered wildly I just danced my little white dash off. It took about an hour for the float to make its way along the carnival route and I was literally buzzing when I got off. Everyone else was knackered, and Ronnie was moaning, but I was on this incredible adrenalin high. When we got back to the hotel I rang my mum, Lize and anyone else I could think of to tell them I’d just been in the Rio carnival! I felt very lucky to have had this amazing experience.
Despite my Rio groundwork, years later, when I was on the BBC’s Strictly Come Dancing it was during the week of my samba that I crashed out of the competition with the lowest score ever. ‘A complete dance disaster,’ was the verdict of the judges. So, clearly, there was more to it than ‘You just gotta move’!
25
‘This house is too small,’ moaned Ronnie. ‘I feel claustrophobic and I’ve got no room to hang my paintings. Jo, we’re running out of space.’
I loved our place in Richmond, but I could understand what he was saying: we had definitely outgrown our house. The kids were bigger and we had accumulated loads of stuff over the years – there was barely room to move in Ronnie’s office. After spending most of the nineties on the road we had a happy bank manager, so although I didn’t really want to move, when my brother Paul pointed out that perhaps we should get a bigger place I could see the sense in his suggestion. In 1998, halfway through the Bridges to Babylon tour, we bought Holmwood in Kingston, a magnificent 20-room hunting lodge in three acres of tree-filled grounds that had been given to Queen Victoria and Prince Albert as a wedding present in 1840.
To be honest, when we first saw the house it didn’t look like much had been done to it since then. It was in serious need of some TLC, but that just made it all the more appealing: it was a totally blank canvas for us to create our perfect home. There was plenty of room to create a music and art studio for Ronnie, plus space for a huge organic vegetable patch. The possibility of a whole new life opened up before me. I had visions of getting all our family together for Sunday lunch around a huge table, of our kids (and grandkids) filling the numerous bedrooms, of Ronnie and me snuggling up in front of a blazing log fire. I wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, but I had high hopes that moving to Holmwood would not only solve our problems with space, it would fix the problems with Ronnie’s drinking as well.
Soon after we moved, Ronnie’s manager, Nick Cowan, came round for the evening. After dinner, Nick raised a toast to our new house and our future. Thanks to the Stones tours, Nick informed us, we were in the incredibly fortunate position of never having to worry about money again. ‘You’ve got enough to last you for the rest of your lives, unless, of course, you go out buying yachts!’
We laughed along with him: it was such an amazing feeling to be debt-free and financially secure.
‘It might be worth thinking about investing some of your money,’ Nick went on. ‘Put it to work, so it’s not just sitting in the bank.’
And he just so happened to have what he believed was the perfect investment opportunity. Nick had met a guy called Andrew Edwards, who owned a fabulous building in South Kensington – the former Pineapple dance studio – that they thought would make a perfect private members club. It was to be called the Harrington Club after the street it was situated on (although Ronnie wanted it to be called ‘Somewhere’, so people would jump in a cab and say ‘take me to Somewhere’). Nick was looking for 10 investors for the project, but had come to us first. It looked like a terrific idea – and we totally trusted Nick’s judgement – so we signed on the dotted line.
Three years later we had lost everything.
As I’ve mentioned before, business acumen had never been one of our strengths. In the eighties, just as Ronnie’s art was starting to take off, he’d had a show at a gallery in Sweden and the organizers gave us the option of whether to take £25,000 or a brand new white Volvo as payment. We took the car. Eight months later I heard a helicopter hovering low above our house and the police turned up on our doorstep, sirens blazing. It turned out the Volvo had been a hire car that the gallery had ‘forgotten’ to return to the rental company. Gosh, when I think of all the times I’d driven around London in a stolen car! We really should have taken the money.
We originally put a million into the Harrington on the understanding that there would be other investors, but Nick was struggling to find anyone else – and by this time the building was being gutted. I suppose we should have backed out there and then, but I’m never happier than when I’m poking around a building site in a hard hat, so we put in another million and kept going. Besides, Nick, the business expert, didn’t seem concerned: why should we be?
I had caught the interior-design bug in a big way after doing up our Mandeville Canyon home, so when they asked me to design the club’s interiors I jumped at the chance. I was aiming for a homely, comfortable atmosphere with an eclectic mix of modern and vintage pieces; I’ve never been much into minimalism. The ground-floor bar had the feel of a traditional English club, with book-lined shelves and leather couches, but with feminine touches too, like lots of fresh flowers and pretty objects. Upstairs was the restaurant, quite a simple space but with quirks, like picture frames without pictures and Ronnie’s painting, Beggars Banquet, his portrait of the Stones, as the centrepiece. The menu, all organic, would change according to what was in season and would use produce from my vegetable garden. We hired a brilliant young chef called Arthur Potts Dawson, whose stepfather was Mick Jagger’s brother, Chris, and gave him free rein. Next to the restaurant was a private dining room, a little jewel with the most beautiful chandeliers, and at the very top of the club was the library, where you could go in the morning to relax with coffee and the papers on comfy sofas.
My proudest achievement, however, was the basement spa. I interviewed and hired all the beauty therapists myself; I sourced organic beauty products from New York, and hunted down the best of everything, including organic cotton towels, beautiful massage beds for the four treatment rooms and massive Hawaiian crystals as the centrepiece for the steam room.
As the bills started piling up, we had to plough in yet more money. The Harrington had to look great: people would be paying a lot of money for membership so we couldn’t do it on the cheap. Besides, Ronnie and I were paying for the furniture and decorations out of our pocket on the understanding that anything we bought for the club would belong to us. I even borrowed furniture from our home, including our living-room couch, to ensure the place lived up to my vision.
There was a real buzz about the Harrington Club when it opened in September 2000. I was so proud of what we had achieved: it had all come together beautifully. Ronnie and I made sure we were there every night and were often back in the morning for breakfast and a massage, too. We had some really great nights there. You might find Mick and Jerry dining in the restaurant, Tess Daly having a facial in the spa or Mick Hucknall break-dancing in the bar (he was actually quite good). We started with 300 members and the number grew to include the likes of Eric Clapton, Frankie Dettori, Geri Halliwell and Kate Moss – the members and their guests were as eclectic as the vibe.
Kate had become a friend after I’d met her at a party at Noel Gallagher and Meg Mathews’ house, Supernova Heights, for Noel’s birthday. It was the mid-nineties and we’d settled so well back into London life. The Brit Pop scene was thriving, we were meeting new musicians and artists – it was a really fun time all round. We arrived and the house was rocking. Every room was jammed with interesting people. As I was getting a drink – passing a huge fish tank that ran all the way up the stairs – I bumped
into Keith’s son, Marlon. The little boy I used to look after in Paris and dress up as an alien had grown into a tall, handsome and brilliant man with the most beautiful wife, Lucie.
‘Hello, darling,’ I said, putting my arms around his neck and giving him a kiss on the cheek.
‘I’ve got someone I want you to meet,’ said Marlon. ‘You’re going to love her.’ He led me into the other room and there was Kate Moss. We clicked immediately.
Over the next few years Kate became very much part of our lives. A few weeks after our first meeting, she brought her gorgeous boyfriend, Johnny Depp, over to our house. While Johnny and Ronnie played guitar in the living room, I took Kate upstairs to see my attic of clothes, and we bonded over a love of vintage fashion and a good party. I was really sad when Johnny and Kate split up, as they made such a wonderful couple. We remained friends with Johnny, though, and introduced him to Keith, who famously inspired his movie character, Captain Jack Sparrow. One night in Paris we were all sitting round drinking and I admired Johnny’s grey check shirt. ‘It’s yours, Jo,’ he said – and immediately undressed to give it to me.
I literally took the shirt off Johnny Depp’s back.
The Harrington hadn’t been open for many months when alarm bells started to ring. Ronnie and I were footing the bill for everything – staff wages, overheads, food and booze – and not seeing a penny in return. On top of that, we were paying Andrew Edwards half a million a year in rent. Then Andrew said he wanted to manage the place, so Nick drew up a contract and told us we had to look at the bigger picture and invest more money. I don’t think Andrew had ever been a manager of a club before and I began to worry about some of his decisions, like making his wife the membership secretary.
When the Harrington had first opened we didn’t have a late licence so the drinking had to stop at 11 p.m.–far from ideal for a club – but Andrew had assured us it was just a formality and we would have it any day. A year later we still didn’t have that licence. I started complaining loudly and frequently to Nick about Andrew’s management and in time, incredibly, we were banned from our own club.
Then one day, out of the blue, Andrew called to tell us we needed to put in more money.
I was stunned. ‘But we’ve already invested millions!’
‘Well, you need to invest more or pull out,’ he said.
It was then I realized that something was seriously wrong. How could we be expected to keep pumping in money without getting anything in return?
I phoned Jamie, who was proving to be a brilliant businessman.
‘Honey, I need your help.’
‘What for, Mum?’
‘It’s the Harrington. Andrew has just asked for more money, but I have no idea why.’
‘Okay, let’s get hold of the contract and run it by another solicitor, but don’t tell Nick what we’re doing.’
The solicitor told us that the contract was seriously flawed. It turned out we weren’t ever going to make any money out of the club, and if we decided to walk away we would not only leave with nothing, we would actually have to pay several hundred thousand just to disentangle ourselves from the lease. To make matters even worse, according to the contract everything in the club belonged to Andrew Edwards, so we no longer owned any of the beautiful things we’d bought – not even the items I’d borrowed from our home, Holmwood.
In the end, the Harrington stayed open for two years at a personal cost to us of £10 million. It was a disaster. At least we knew that Nick had kept some of our money to one side. But when he came to see us during a trip to Ireland, where we had gone to get as far away as possible from the whole nightmare, he looked like a broken man.
‘There’s nothing left,’ he said, quietly.
Ronnie and I exchanged worried looks.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Ronnie.
‘Your money. It’s all gone.’
So we had nothing. For the next week I had a headache down the side of my face from sheer stress. We had to remortgage Sandymount and Holmwood; if there hadn’t been another tour coming up we’d probably have had to sell them. We fired Nick Cowan as Ronnie’s manager and hired Jamie in his place.
My elder son had always been good with money. When we lived on a budget in New York I’d take Jamie to the supermarket with me; as I put the food in the trolley he’d be totting up the cost in his head. If I was over budget when we reached the checkout he’d make me put stuff back on the shelves. Now Jamie got us back on a budget and quickly made huge inroads into sorting the mess of our finances. Amazingly, thanks to my son’s talents, we would pull through again, and a year later Jamie produced another miracle for us – my first grandchild, Charlie.
I have to admit, when I learnt that Jamie’s girlfriend, Charlotte, was pregnant and that I was going to be a granny at the tender age of 44, I was horrified. I felt a bit uneasy right up until the day of the birth, which I was lucky enough to attend. Charlotte had just given birth to a perfect little boy when joy turned into terror as she started to haemorrhage. The doctors, who were clearly extremely concerned, handed me the baby and rushed Charlotte off to the operating theatre. As I looked down at him I felt such an overwhelming rush of love for this beautiful little boy that being a granny suddenly seemed like the best thing ever. Within a few hours Charlotte was fine – and I was still on my blissful grandmotherly high.
Charlie was the start of a whole new generation of children for our family. My brother Paul already had a son, Teddy, who was six, but now they came thick and fast. My sister Lize had a son, Elian, and a daughter, Kitty; my brother, Vinnie, had two sons, Bill and Ben; Leah and Jack now have Maggie; Jamie has Leo and Kobi with his wife, Jodie; and Jesse has Arthur and Lola – by the time this book comes out, he and his girlfriend, Fearne Cotton, should hopefully have made me a granny for the seventh time. While Jesse’s then wife Tilly was pregnant with Lola in 2005, his mum (and Ronnie’s ex-wife) Krissy died tragically from a drugs overdose. Krissy and I had become friends and I was devastated that she would never see her granddaughter, so I swore that I would be a granny in her place – which I’m honoured to say I have become. I adore each and every one of my grandchildren and now all I need is for Ty to complete the set – although he’s currently insisting he’s going to stay a bachelor for life!
26
It was well past midnight, but it was still so warm that I was perfectly comfortable sitting outside in just a summer dress. The buzz of cicadas and the scent of cinnamon and rose petals filled the air, and while our table was dotted with candles, the full moon would have provided more than enough light on its own.
It was 2003 and Ronnie and I were in Udaipur, our latest stop on a magical holiday around India with Keith, Patti and Jane Rose. We’d ridden elephants, shopped for saris and jewellery and stayed at the fabled Lake Palace Hotel – although a drought had dried the lake into a dustbowl when we arrived. Tonight we were at a restaurant having dinner with a large group of people, some of whom I knew well, such as our friend, Dilip, an Indian cricketer turned rock promoter, and others we had met that evening. The food was fabulous and the wine was flowing freely – a little too freely in the case of Ronnie, who had already started on the vodka. To my dismay, he was well on the way to getting wasted.
I could always tell when Ronnie was on one of his binges. He got this crazed look in his eyes, although he wasn’t able to look at you directly, and all he wanted to do was drink and tell funny stories and entertain everyone. Ronnie is an extremely lovable guy and such a charmer – if he walked in the door now he’d charm the pants off you – and he was an extremely charming drunk, too. All his drinking buddies thought he was fantastic. They would never have believed he had a darker side: ‘Ronnie ever get angry? No way!’ But while he was Mr Charisma with everyone else, the booze could make him unbelievably nasty to me and to those closest to him.
When Ronnie signalled to the waiter for more vodka I decided to risk a quiet word. ‘Ronnie,’ I said, putting my hand on his arm. ‘Don’t you
think you’ve maybe had enough to drink?’
As he turned to me I knew I should have stayed quiet.
‘You fucking cunt,’ he said, making no attempt to keep his voice down. ‘Don’t you fucking tell me what to do.’
I flushed with embarrassment, acutely aware of the glances from the other guests sitting nearby, but I just tried to laugh it off. ‘Ronnie, I don’t—’
‘Didn’t you fucking hear what I said? Shut the fuck up!’
By now I knew the whole table must have heard, although I was too ashamed to look up to check. I was mortified at being spoken to like that, especially in front of people we’d only just met; I would hate them to think of me as some sort of victim. But the last thing I wanted was to make any more of a scene so I shrugged and rolled my eyes and the moment blew over. Ronnie went back to his vodka and the woman sitting on the other side of him. But as I reached over to top up my water, I caught Jane Rose staring at me from across the table. The expression in her eyes made me want to cry. She looked concerned and sympathetic but, worse than that, she looked like she felt sorry for me.
Despite the hopes I’d had for Ronnie and me to share a healthier future, our lives had taken very different paths in the years since my illness. I wanted to live a normal life when we were at home, but for Ronnie it was still all about drink and drugs and rock ’n’ roll – and the more he drank, the less I wanted to: I could cope with him better if I had a clear head. Getting pissed out of my brain didn’t hold much allure for me any more: nowadays, I got far more excited about getting into the car and driving to a lovely hotel in the country for the weekend. I tried hosting dinner parties at Holmwood, but Ronnie would always want to stay up all night, so I’d get up in the morning to find all these blokes still snorting, drinking and smoking, and wonder, What happened to my lovely sophisticated dinner party?
