Читать книгу It's Only Rock 'n' Roll: Thirty Years with a Rolling Stone - Jo Wood - Страница 13

I looked at my reflection in the mirror and gave my hair a ruffle. Not bad. I was wearing a navy-blue dress with white flecks that used to belong to my granny (I’ve always been a vintage girl) with a tweed jacket and beige high-heeled boots. I loved the outfit, but I really didn’t want to go out that night. I was, quite frankly, partied out. Giving myself a final once-over in the mirror, I tried a smile. Come on, Jo, you might even enjoy yourself.

It was 9 September 1977 and I’d had to move out of the flat in Fulham where I’d been house-sitting as the owners were returning, leaving me homeless. Although I had the option of going back to the Old Vicarage full-time, zipping back and forth to Benfleet in my Beetle was exhausting – and as much as I loved being with Jamie (who was about to turn three), I needed to be in London for work. At the time I was getting a lot of work, with Freemans and Grattan, the big mail-order fashion catalogues of the time, to give me a regular wage. More interesting jobs, when I was lucky enough to get them, included fashion shoots for Jackie and TV commercials. I yearned to be in front of the camera!

The solution to my housing crisis was, sadly, the indirect result of my friend Lorraine’s marriage hitting bad times, with her and David deciding to spend time apart. Until I found something permanent, David said, I could stay in the guest room of their beautiful three-storey house off Kensington High Street. I gratefully accepted. Then, the day before I was due to move in, he called to say he was having a big party for Richard Jefferies and his new wife that night: would I like to come? I tried desperately to think of an excuse. After nearly two crazy years as a single girl about town, I’d been to so many parties I felt I’d met pretty much everyone in London, so I had no doubt it would be the same old faces, the same old chat. But David had been sweet enough to let me move in: I really had to make the effort.

So, my expectations were pretty low when I walked into the party that evening, but when I looked around the hall I was stunned. The place was packed with everyone I didn’t know. All sorts of glamorous, exotic people – and I had no idea who most of them were! Perhaps it was going to be fun, after all.

I caught a glimpse of David, who waved and mouthed, ‘Drinks in the kitchen!’ so I made my way through the crowd, noting Rolling Stones bassist, Bill Wyman, deep in conversation with a leggy blonde. The booze was flowing and I grabbed a vodka and tonic. Reflected in the mirrored tiles above the sink, I saw a spiky-haired skinny guy standing directly behind me, pretending – and there’s no polite way of putting this – to hump me. There he was, thrusting away, clearly thinking he was hysterical. What an idiot. But then he saw me watching him and shot me this cheeky smile and I couldn’t help but return it. He was wearing a velvet jacket, a pair of gabardine trousers with strips of tapestry sewn down each side and Capezios – white dance shoes that were very popular at the time. I’ve always been a sucker for a good look and his was pure rock ’n’ roll (although the tapestry trim on those trousers was shocking