It's Only Rock 'n' Roll

by Jo Wood

  The following day we had a family lunch at the hotel where Leah and Jack had spent the night, then everyone came back to Holmwood for a swim. Ronnie was on great form, sitting in the Jacuzzi and entertaining everyone with funny stories. I struggled up to bed around 9 p.m. and was deeply asleep when Ronnie came in, gently prodded me awake and said, ‘I’m going out. To see Damien Hirst.’

  ‘But it’s so late, Ronnie,’ I said, looking at the clock. ‘Damien doesn’t even drink – why would a sober guy be going out at this time of night?’

  ‘I’m going out,’ he said again.

  In that moment, all the stresses and fears and frustrations of the past few months combined into a fireball of fury and I just exploded. I screamed at him, told him all this craziness and lying had to end. Finally, Ronnie admitted he was going to see ‘Kat’. He said he had to see her, to ‘call it off with her’, and tell her she couldn’t ‘nag’ him into leaving me and our family. He showed me a text message from her, calling him a ‘mad dog’. And he stayed.

  The following afternoon Ronnie went to see a new counsellor – he’d seen dozens over the last few years to help with alcoholism – and sent me a text telling me he’d be home for dinner. By nine o’ clock he hadn’t turned up.

  Here we go again . . .

  I kept calling his mobile until he finally picked up.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Oh, hey, Jo, I’m at a Spanish bar in Beauchamp Place.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll come and have a drink with you.’

  I jumped into my car and drove straight to Knightsbridge. My patience had finally run out. I wasn’t prepared to put up with the lies and games for a moment longer. But when I got to Beauchamp Place – no Spanish bar!

  I phoned him. No answer. I kept ringing and ringing until eventually he picked up.

  ‘Ronnie, there is no Spanish bar in Beauchamp Place.’

  ‘So I lied,’ he said, his voice flat and emotionless. ‘I’m in the Haymarket, at a bar, not sure which one.’

  By this point I was in a desperate state. I had to know what was going on, even though I was sure I wouldn’t like it. Ronnie was clearly just going to lie and lie, so I had to confront the situation head on: it was the only way I was going to find out the truth – and bring it to an end, I suppose, one way or another.

  As I was driving into the West End, I remembered that I had met Ronnie at a hotel bar on the Haymarket about a year ago, so I parked my car and went to check it out. Sure enough, when I walked in there, they were in the corner.

  ‘I knew I’d find you,’ I said to Ronnie, with a weary smile – and then I looked at Katia. ‘And I knew you’d be here.’

  ‘Hey, Jo, have a drink!’ He was acting totally normally, as if the situation wasn’t remotely weird. So typically Ronnie.

  I ordered a vodka and tonic. Katia was very coy, always directing everything she said to Ronnie. I tried asking her about what she did for a living, but she wouldn’t tell me. I later found out that Ronnie had told Jamie on the plane to Kenya that he’d met a girl who worked in a ‘lap-dancing’ club and that they were having sex. Can you imagine telling that to your wife’s son?

  We’d had a few drinks in the bar and had gone outside for a fag break when I looked at my watch. It was well past midnight.

  ‘Ronnie, I’m tired,’ I said. ‘Shall we go home?’

  He took a long drag on his cigarette, then turned to me. ‘Nah. I want to be with my baby,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave it up to you to work out who that is.’

  I felt like the air had been punched out of me. I couldn’t believe what he had said. I had always been his baby! I just stood there, stunned, my eyes starting to pool with tears.

  Then Katia piped up: ‘Listen, do you mind if I just have a private word with Ronnie?’

  I looked at her in disbelief. ‘A private word with Ronnie?’ I said, weakly. ‘My husband?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  And I was standing there, thinking, You’ve got to leave now, Jo. Just go. You’ve got your proof. Get out of here with whatever dignity you have left. But I couldn’t walk away because my husband, the man I had known and loved so completely for 30 years, was effectively telling me he didn’t want me any more, and it was just a huge, horrible shock.

  ‘Come on, Jo,’ said Ronnie. ‘Just go and stand over there a minute. Let me see what she wants.’

  So, like an idiot, I did what he said. In a daze I turned and walked away, leaving the pair of them whispering together. It wasn’t until I saw him put his arm around her – his baby–that something in me finally snapped.

  ‘You know what?’ I said. ‘Enjoy your life, Ronnie. I’m going home.’

  I ran back to my car, trying to hold it together, but as I got ready to drive away, my phone rang. It was Ronnie.

  ‘Jo,’ he said. ‘Come back. Please. I’m at the front of the hotel.’

  Despite everything, my heart leapt. I knew he wouldn’t have been able to just throw away our lives together – we’d been through too much. As I drove round the block I started to think about how we could rebuild our marriage. Maybe we could go for counselling. Perhaps, in time, this would even make us stronger.

  I pulled up outside the hotel, but instead of opening the door Ronnie motioned for me to put the window down. Then he leant in and said, ‘You’ve been drinking – you should get a taxi.’

  So that was it. That was why he wanted me to come back: not to tell me he’d made a huge mistake, that I was still his baby, and beg my forgiveness, but to caution me against drink-driving.

  ‘Fuck you, Ronnie,’ I said.

  I slammed my foot down and drove away.

  29

  It was past one o’ clock when I got home. Leah was on her honeymoon and Ty was out – I was all on my own. I went straight upstairs and lay on our bed, still dressed. I wasn’t crying; I was numb. Oh, my God, it’s actually over . . . I lay in the dark for three hours, turning the evening’s events over endlessly in my head. Then at 4 a.m. I got back into my car and started driving to Essex. I remember going through the Dartford Tunnel just as the sun came up. When I was a few miles away from Southend, where my brother Paul and his wife, Sandra, live, I pulled over and called him – thankfully, he’s an early riser.

  ‘Paul, is it okay if I come and stay with you for a bit?’

  ‘Of course. Just let me know when you’d like to come.’

  ‘Um, how about in ten minutes’ time?’

  It wasn’t until I got to Paul’s front door that I started to cry – and the tears didn’t stop for the next two weeks. I stayed with Paul and Sandra for a few days, just sitting in their spare room or wandering vacantly around the garden. My kids and the rest of my family rallied round and were a huge support. My mum was on the phone every day. Lize was so furious she sent Ronnie a text that began, ‘Hello, Mr Paedo . . .’ Funnily enough, he never replied.

  When I got back to London, Ronnie had taken Katia to stay in Ireland. The thought of them in our beautiful house, sleeping in our bed, triggered more hysterical tears. I wrote Ronnie an email begging him to be discreet and he promised he would: I couldn’t bear the prospect of it being splashed over the press. I still thought that perhaps it was just a fling and that he might come to his senses and realize that dating a girl who was 10 years younger than his own daughter didn’t really have much of a future.

  I hadn’t been home for many days when our cleaner, Fatima, came and found me in the kitchen.

  ‘Meessis Wood!’ she said. ‘Your friend, he is waiting in the living room.’

  I walked into the living room to find a guy standing there. My friend? I’d never seen him before in my life.

  ‘Hi, Jo, my name is Richard White. I’m from the Sun.’

  Oh, fuck. But I knew I had to hold it together.

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you this,’ he went on, ‘but a teenage girl named Ekaterina Ivanova is saying she’s Ronnie’s girlfriend. They’re together at your place in Ireland.’

  ‘Oh, I know all
about that,’ I said, breezily. ‘She’s his drinking buddy. They’re just friends.’

  ‘I think it’s more than that.’

  I later discovered that the press had found out because little Katia had been sharing everything on Facebook, boasting to her friends about her trip to Ireland with her new boyfriend, Ronnie Wood – even posting pictures of herself with one of our dogs. So much for being discreet.

  As soon as the reporter left I phoned Ronnie. ‘Oh, this is a mess,’ he slurred. Then, after a long silence, ‘Don’t worry. It’ll blow over.’

  Two days later it was in all the papers: ‘Rolling Stone Ronnie Wood is living with Russian bargirl less than a third of his age – who is bragging to her pals of how he has dumped his wife of twenty-three years.’

  As soon as the story broke I was swamped by goodwill messages and offers of help from friends. Keith and Patti were one of the first on the phone to check if I was okay; Slash and Perla invited me to stay with them in Los Angeles; Bob Geldof called to tell me not to worry and that I deserved better. Not a word from Mick, and Charlie didn’t make contact until a year later. ‘Sorry I didn’t call before,’ he said. ‘I was just waiting to see how things would pan out.’ I suppose he’d thought I’d stand by Ronnie, just as I had done so many times in the past.

  The next two weeks were complete and utter madness. The press had set up camp outside Holmwood so I escaped to Lize’s house. I was chased down the motorway by reporters, but managed to shake them off; Leah was in the car, cheering me along as I swerved off down a slip road at high speed. ‘Yeah, go on, Mum! You’ve lost them!’

  Meanwhile Ronnie was trapped in Ireland, surrounded by paparazzi – although I later discovered Katia had been smuggled out before the story broke. Jesse went in to talk to his dad and then, with Damien Hirst’s help, Ronnie was flown out and taken straight to the Lifeworks clinic near Weybridge for his seventh stint in rehab.

  Ronnie stayed in the clinic for five weeks. During this time stories kept appearing in the papers: I’m convinced our phones were hacked, because details of private conversations leaked out and I certainly didn’t say anything. I took comfort, though, from the incredible outpouring of warmth and support in the press. People would write comments like, ‘He doesn’t deserve you’ and ‘Jo, don’t take him back. Stay strong.’ It really helped me feel better about myself during a tough time.

  It was a very different Ronnie who phoned me after a month in rehab and asked if I would join him for Family Week, when patients’ loved ones come in to work through any issues. I took this as a sign that he wanted to make our relationship work – and he was so sweet to me on the phone – so I travelled to the clinic with cautiously high hopes.

  I was given lots of forms to fill in before our group sessions and on one of them I wrote that I was hurt because Ronnie had betrayed me, but when this came out in discussion he looked confused. ‘I don’t think I betrayed you,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t think that running off with another woman is betrayal?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  I went through five days of this, breaking down in front of strangers, trying to work through our problems, but it was apparent that Ronnie and I were on totally different wavelengths. In another meeting I mentioned how I had cried for two weeks when he left.

  ‘Whatever for?’ said Ronnie.

  ‘Because you left me and I was devastated!’ Christ, I thought, what am I wasting my tears for?

  The thing is, although Ronnie could be utterly charming and brilliant company, he had quite a narcissistic streak. He had always seemed to find it hard to relate to other people’s emotions. There was a time at Holmwood when Ty was in bits after splitting up with his girlfriend. We were sitting in the kitchen together and I had my arms around him, trying to comfort him, when Ronnie came in.

  ‘Look at these new shoes I’ve just got from the shoot.’ He grinned.

  ‘Ronnie,’ I said quietly. ‘Ty is really upset . . .’

  ‘Yeah, but check out my shoes! The shoot went so great – it all worked out so well!’

  Suddenly Ty lost it – for the first and only time I can ever remember. He exploded in complete rage and screamed at his father, ‘All you fucking care about is yourself!’

  But Ronnie didn’t even flinch. He just walked into the other room and started reading the paper, as if nothing had happened.

  At the end of Family Week Ronnie and I went for lunch at a nearby pub. It had been a traumatic few days and I was still so confused and unsure of what the future held, yet at the same time I couldn’t imagine life without him. But as we waited for our food to arrive, Ronnie told me he had decided he wanted to be with Katia. There were no apologies, no expressions of regret – he just came out with it, as if he was telling me it was going to rain at the weekend.

  ‘So I’ve just done all this time with you in rehab for nothing?’ I asked, in disbelief.

  ‘Look, if it doesn’t work out with Katia we can make another go of it,’ he said. ‘It’ll be just like getting to know each other all over again!’

  I started to cry, so we went outside and had a cigarette. I was trying hard to be brave, but I noticed my hand shaking as I held out my lighter.

  He doesn’t want me, I thought. He’s moved on. Perhaps if I’d told Ronnie I’d wait for him while he got whatever it was out of his system we’d be together now, but when I drove away from the pub that afternoon I made a decision. Whatever happened in the future, I would never, ever go back to him.

  30

  Golden Prison

  He lives in a golden prison

  Surrounded by those who care

  He lives in a golden prison

  While people crowd out there

  He draws out of his golden window

  To the reality of life outside

  He watches from his golden room

  While inside he has to hide

  He lives in his golden prison

  And plays to a world so wide

  Up there on his golden stage

  He’s free and full of pride

  And when the golden show is over

  He’s ushered into a golden car

  Back to his golden prison

  Away from a world so far.

  When you become famous you live your life in a bubble, completely separate from the rest of society and, over time, that bubble becomes increasingly secure and detached from real life. You go to a restaurant and have security sitting at the next table; you are whisked from airport to hotel in a blacked-out limo; at home you’re hidden away behind high walls and solid gates. You’ve got everything you want and have an army of staff to ease your path through life. This might sound like a wonderful way to live – and in many ways, it is – but in return for all the luxury and ease you have to give up your freedom. Of course, unlike the boys in the band, I could easily step outside and nobody would have a clue who I was, so I was always far freer than they were, but Ronnie’s life was completely inside that bubble so at the end of the day that was always where I would have to return.

  After I got over the initial shock that my marriage really had ended, that I had lost the love of my life and my best friend, my biggest fear was of how I would cope with life in the outside world after 30 years in that golden prison. To say I was devastated was an understatement. My Stones support network literally vanished overnight: I was completely on my own. Not only that, but it was now plainly obvious to me that I’d largely put my own passions and interests aside to devote my life to Ronnie. As the summer days stretched ahead of me, silent and empty, I realized I would have to build myself a completely new life. I was going to have to fend for myself, just as I had done at 16. And that was the really scary bit . . .

  After Ronnie left, I spent the rest of the summer sitting at home on my own. Most of my friends had gone on holiday and many asked me to join them, but I couldn’t face leaving the house. I would wander from room to room, looking at pictures, photos and furniture – every item a tes
tament to our life together – wondering how on earth we were going to disentangle it all. It wasn’t like these were Jo’s things and those were Ronnie’s things: they were ours.

  Those months were so hard. I’m not a depressive sort of person, but I was intensely unhappy. I felt utterly lost. For most of my adult life, I had been defined by my relationship with Ronnie and with the Stones. I had been part of them and protected by them. Now, not only was I losing my husband, I was effectively losing my identity. I had been ‘Jo Wood, wife of Rolling Stone Ronnie Wood’; the thought of being known as ‘Jo Wood, ex-wife of Rolling Stone Ronnie Wood’ was just horrible. The only positive to come out of the whole awful mess was that I completely lost my appetite and dropped to a size eight. I might have had a broken heart, but I had a great arse. My state of mind was something like this: ‘Wow, I’m getting so skinny! But, oh, Gawd, he’s goooooooone . . .’ (Cue more tears.)

  I barely talked to Ronnie over those months and the kids didn’t hear from him, either. It was like he’d disappeared off the face of the earth – except, of course, he hadn’t, because in every newspaper I’d open there would be pictures of Ronnie and Katia walking on Primrose Hill, Ronnie and Katia having a coffee, Ronnie and Katia going to Tesco. Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look with her, Ronnie? I would think, sadly.