It's Only Rock 'n' Roll: Thirty Years with a Rolling Stone. Jo Wood
jumping off walls – that sort of thing. I did a job with three other models for a German magazine in which we had to have a food fight. We turned up at the studio to find a huge table covered with cream cakes, buns and jellies. The other girls were a bit timid, but I really got stuck in.
My life became a dizzying succession of pinch-me moments. One of my earliest jobs was a TV commercial for Harp lager that was filmed up in the Lake District. The advert was set in ye olden days, with me acting the lowly wench opposite a handsome Scottish laird, played by this handsome hunk who was dating Charlotte Rampling at the time. There I was, clambering over the hills in a horrible brown outfit, while this famous actress’s lover came striding over the fells towards me in a billowing kilt! I loved every second of it.
Considering how dramatically my life had changed in the space of a few weeks, it was little surprise that my romance with Tony fizzled out. My new world was so thrilling, so dazzling, that the Ragged Priest and its owner quickly lost their allure.
In September I was sent to Paris for a few days for the prêt-a-porter shows. I remember setting off with dreams of the Chanel catwalk, but the reality turned out to be altogether less glamorous. I stayed in a grotty little top-floor flat that reeked of drains and, despite countless go-sees, I didn’t get a single job. Things looked up when one of the other models promised me a fabulous night out, but when I arrived at the restaurant I found her sitting with two much older men, all sweaty palms and leering eyes. Even at 16, it didn’t take me long to work out that I’d been invited as dessert. After one clammy grope too many I made my excuses and fled.
I did manage to get to a couple of the shows in Paris and it was at one of them that I met a man called Peter Greene. I was talking to a couple of people when he came over to introduce himself. My memory is of a tall guy, with a brown beard, dressed in the latest trends – high platform shoes and tight flared jeans. He worked in the rag trade, he told us, and was in Paris on a buying trip. He was self-confident to the point of cockiness, but he was funny and flirty and had us all in fits of laughter. It was only a brief meeting, but when I turned to go he grabbed my hand.
‘See you again, doll,’ he said, almost as if it was a command.
I’d like that, I thought, with a smile.
* * *
‘So, darling, how would you like to go to Acapulco?’
Gavin was smiling at me from the other side of his desk. It was November and I’d been working as a model for just a couple of months.
‘Acapulco?’ My eyes lit up. It sounded so glamorous. ‘Oh, yes, please! Wow, Acapulco … Um, that’s in France, right?’
Gavin laughed. ‘Mexico, darling. There’s a fashion show, all the big designers are showing, and I think you’d be perfect as one of the models. You fly out next week.’
I was unbelievably excited. There was quite a bit of hype around the show, too: the Daily Mail even ran a piece with the headline ‘Our Girl in Acapulco!’ next to my photo. For the 10-day trip I packed a tiny suitcase with just a bikini, a pair of shorts, two T-shirts and a beautiful dress Mum had made me: a backless halter-neck in blue voile with velvet trim. Apart from Paris, I’d never been abroad before. I didn’t have a clue what I was letting myself in for.
I flew to Mexico with all the other models who were appearing in the show. To keep costs down, the plane went the longest way possible and the flight ended up taking 32 hours. Our first stop was Madrid, where we filled up with more models and their luggage until the plane was so overloaded that we hit the tops of the trees as we took off again. The girl next to me was screaming hysterically, but I was too excited – We’re going to Acapulco, baby! – to notice that we were about to crash.
After Spain, we flew to Iceland. I’d taken my shoes off during the flight and my feet had swelled so much that I couldn’t squeeze them back on again. I had to tiptoe barefoot through the thick snow to the terminal. Really, it’s a wonder I made it to Mexico at all.
Finally, we began our descent into Acapulco. As the plane came in to land I had a tantalizing glimpse of blue sea, palm trees, golden sand – colours so vivid they almost stung my eyes. Then I stepped out of the plane and the heat hit me like a physical blow. Bloody hell. The warmest place I’d been before then was north Devon. I had no idea anywhere could even get this hot. In moments I was flushed, dripping sweat, and my hair had sprung into a ball of frizz.
I’ve always envied people who look effortlessly good on holiday – those lucky girls whose sleek hair goes sexily tousled and whose skin turns sun-kissed and golden. Me, I’m usually a mess for the first week. One of my defining memories of the Acapulco trip is sitting in my hotel room, staring at my reflection in horror, wondering what the hell I was going to do with my hair. I had no hairdryer, and nothing seemed to tame the frizz. I should just have given it a tousle and let it go wild, but I had never had to deal with that before.
Worse was to come. The day after we arrived I hit the beach in my bikini – and by the end of the day had burnt to a deep, angry pink. My hair had the texture of wire wool, my skin was red in parts, stark white in others: when it came to the fashion show, it’s hardly surprising that I was given all the worst outfits. The one that sticks in my mind was a horrible cream calico dress that could have been a nun’s nightie. In short, Our Girl in Acapulco was a great big Mexi-no.
I was one of the youngest models on the trip, but a girl called Stella – a chic 20-something with a penchant for turbans – took me under her wing. One night she invited me to a club and I jumped at the chance. Not only would I be able to give my new halter-neck dress an outing, but hopefully, in the dark, nobody would notice the sunburn and frizz.
My memories of the club are hazy: thumping music, semi-darkness, wild dancing and, above all, FUN! Stella and I got talking (or, rather, shouting) to a Spanish artist called Giorgio and his brother. Giorgio was in his thirties and dangerously handsome. I think some coke was being handed around, although I hadn’t a clue what it was. The room was unbelievably hot, so I downed whatever drink anyone put in my hand and just danced and whirled. Wheeeee! It was such a mad night.
At some point we left the club and my next memory is of climbing up a long flight of stairs with Stella, Giorgio and his brother to an apartment, or perhaps a hotel room. Then, to my horror, Stella and the brother started getting it on, noisily and energetically, leaving me alone with a clearly up-for-it Giorgio. Even though I was blind drunk, I started to panic. Oh, God, he’s not going to want to do that with me, is he? I remember thinking I had to get back to the hotel, but I had no idea where we were. Thankfully, after a bit of a drunken fumble Giorgio fell asleep. I immediately gathered up my things and ran down the stairs into the street where I grabbed a taxi. I had no money, but the driver took pity on me and drove me back to the hotel.
A couple of days later, Giorgio turned up again, and I couldn’t get rid of him after that. Wherever I went, he’d be hanging around: ‘Hola, Jo! You wanna come for lunch?’ I suppose I was too young and naïve just to tell him to get lost, but by the end of the trip I was sitting on the back seat of the coach to go to the airport, waving to Giorgio as we pulled away from the hotel, feeling so relieved that I’d never have to see him again.
A couple of weeks after we got home, I was at the Old Vicarage helping Mum get lunch ready when there was a knock at the door. Dad answered it and came into the kitchen, a suspicious look on his face. ‘Josephine, there’s a man here who says he met you in Mexico.’
What the hell …?
I went out, and there were Giorgio and his brother.
‘Hey, baby, we’ve come for a veeseet!’
That night they took my parents and me to Galadoro, an Italian restaurant in Hadleigh. They were very polite and we all had a pleasant evening, but at the end, Giorgio and his brother were sent packing for good.
* * *
Once I’d got back from Acapulco, it was as if someone had stamped on the accelerator: stuff started happening at breakneck speed. A few weeks before Christmas, the Sun asked