Читать книгу It's Only Rock 'n' Roll: Thirty Years with a Rolling Stone - Jo Wood - Страница 11

Although he had been fairly indifferent about the pregnancy at first, Peter became increasingly excited about the idea of becoming a dad. He was in his early thirties by now, so I guess he felt ready for it. But as my due date approached, the less convinced I was by the path my life had taken. As I could no longer drink, our social life started to slow down (although I do remember going to Tramp with my huge bump clad in a fab silky patchwork dress from Antiquarius), and as I couldn’t work, I spent a lot of time at the Old Vicarage with Mum. I tried to ignore my doubts about our marriage, blaming the negative feelings on the pregnancy, yet there was this constant nagging fear in the back of my mind that my career and my life were all but over. I was only 19.

It was a sunny September afternoon in 1974 when my contractions kicked in, then suddenly intensified. Woooaaah. I called Peter at work and shrieked, ‘I’m having the baby!’ He got a taxi home and took us both to Guy’s Hospital. I’m actually pretty good at giving birth and went through labour drug-free with my other kids, but on that occasion I took everything the doctors could throw at me. The epidural only half worked, though, so on one side I was blissfully numb and on the other I could feel every gut-wrenching spasm. Peter stayed in the waiting room while I screeched and panted my way through the birth. While he was still excited by the idea of parenthood, he had a lot less stomach for the gory details.

At seven that evening Jameson Joseph Greene, a.k.a. Jamie, made his entrance into the world – and any doubts I had about being a mum simply vanished with one look at that gorgeous little screwed-up face. Oh, my little fella! It was all-consuming love at first sight. As I held him in my arms, I was overcome with happiness.

When we got home a few days later, Peter pretty much left me to get on with it. He was the opposite of a hands-on dad: a hands-off dad, so to speak. He never once changed one of Jamie’s nappies, fed him or took him for a walk: that was all ‘woman’s work’. He just left me alone to do everything. Everything, that is, except Jamie’s circumcision.

I tried everything I could to talk Peter out of getting it done. I was so upset at the thought of anyone hurting my precious little boy and just couldn’t understand why Peter was suddenly playing the religion card. The guy had bacon on his bagels, for God’s sake! But he was adamant. So when Jamie was a few days old, a rabbi came to our house (by this time we had moved to a terraced house in Shouldham Street, Marylebone) and performed the bris, while I sat in the bedroom crying my heart out. After it had been done, Peter’s business partner, Steven, came into my room and held out a tissue with this little bit of stuff on it.

‘How can you show me that?’ I howled. ‘OH, GOD!’ It set me off sobbing all over again.

‘It’s all right, Jo,’ smirked Steven. ‘It’s just smoked salmon.’

* * *

Luckily I took to being a mum, aided, no doubt, by all those years of helping to raise my brothers and sister. Jamie wasn’t the easiest of babies, though. He was a beautiful little boy, but quite naughty and constantly demanding my attention – pretty much like he is now! I remember one particular night when he just wouldn’t go to sleep. I’d fed him, winded him, changed him, checked his temperature, but he was still screaming. After hours of this, feeling utterly exhausted and with no idea what was wrong, I picked him up and shouted at him, ‘Come on, Jamie, will you please just GO TO SLEEP!’ Instantly, I felt terrible. What is the matter with you, having a go at a little baby? I never lost it with him again – and I never once smacked any of my children.

One of the things I enjoyed most about motherhood was breastfeeding. It was such an incredible, miraculous feeling, knowing you could sustain this little person. But Peter hated me doing it. If he came in after work and found me feeding Jamie, he’d say, ‘Ugh! Don’t do that in here, go to the bedroom.’ After one too many times of being made to schlep upstairs to finish a feed, I expressed some breast milk and put it in Peter’s tea. I watched him drink the whole cup.

‘Did you enjoy that, Peter?’

‘Yeah, it was all right.’

‘Oh, I’m so pleased. ’Cos I put breast milk in it.’

His face was a picture. ‘You didn’t!’

I smiled. ‘I did, actually.’

He wasn’t at all happy, as you can imagine. I was, though. I thought it was hysterical.

We’d become more like flatmates than a married couple. While I’d hoped that having Jamie would bring us closer, it had the opposite effect. We weren’t arguing, but we weren’t really talking either. When Jamie was six months old I decided to start modelling again. I thought Peter would kick up a fuss, but he was fine with the idea so I hired a lovely Japanese au pair called Ushi and went back to work. I had left Gavin’s while I was pregnant so I joined another agency, Gill-Raine. Coincidentally, the photographer who had been booked to take pictures for my new agency model card was none other than Richard Best, the guy who had taken those very first professional shots of me back when I was just starting at Gavin’s.

The shoot took place on Primrose Hill. By this time Richard had become a good friend, but I’d always had a bit of a crush on him. Like most fashion photographers, he possessed great charm – and he laid it on thickly that afternoon.

‘Oh, yeah, that’s great, Jo, you look beautiful.’ Snap-snap-snap. ‘Just move your arm like that and turn your hip …’ Snap-snap ‘… yeah, gorgeous …’ Snap-snap-snap.

As I posed for him, I finally felt like I was getting my mojo back. I hadn’t realized how out of touch I’d become with the old free-spirited, fun-loving Jo. And Richard was outrageously flirty during the shoot. It had been so long since I’d felt desirable – and desired – that it was a real kick that this hot guy clearly found me attractive.

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.