Las Vegas was still quite small in the early seventies, but even then it was such a mad place. I remember being particularly struck by the fact that every single car was a convertible. We stayed at Caesar’s Palace, which was the most extravagant place I’d ever seen: huge fountains and marble columns, with all the female staff dressed in tiny little Caesar’s Palace togas.
On our first night in Vegas we went to see one of Peter’s friends who had a huge house there. The door opened – letting out a blast of icy air-conditioning – and there stood this guy with a moustache, permed Afro and white flared trousers with strawberries printed all over them. I stifled a giggle. It might have been the seventies, but if you’re old enough for a moustache you’re too old for strawberry-patterned trousers. Anyway, someone rolled a joint and we all sat in a circle, passing this thing around. It was the first time I’d smoked one properly and soon I was having the most terrible giggles over this guy’s strawberry trousers. The more I smoked, the worse I got, and eventually Peter had to take me outside because I couldn’t stop laughing. By now I was so stoned that when I stepped outside I thought I’d actually gone inside, because it was so hot in the garden and cold in the house. So there we were, clutching each other and giggling hysterically, when Peter looked at me and said, ‘Let’s get married.’
And right there, in the sweltering heat of a Las Vegas night, stoned out of my mind, it seemed like the most brilliant idea in the world. ‘Yeah, come on, let’s get married! Woooo!’
The next day I went out and bought a cream dress, Peter got the ring, we had a few drinks, and then we went to County Hall and tied the knot. As far as I remember, the groom was smiling proudly and the bride was giggling.
That night we went out to dinner with the gang, and during the meal Peter leant across and gave me a little white wrap of paper.
‘Here you go, Mrs Greene, take this into the toilet.’ He smiled. ‘It’s cocaine.’
I was pretty drunk by now. ‘Ooh, great, I’ve heard about this stuff!’
Peter told me what to do with it so I dragged Jay off to the Ladies and did my first line of coke. I don’t remember it having much of an effect, but I probably only did a tiny little bit.
That night Peter and I stayed in the honeymoon suite at Caesar’s Palace. The next morning I woke up in that huge room, with its ridiculous circular bed and satin pillows, and stared at my finger. All I could think was: Mum is going to kill me.
It took me a couple of days to pluck up the courage to call home.
‘Guess what, Mum! Peter and I got married!’
There was complete silence at the other end of the line.
‘Mum? Are you there?’
After what seemed like hours, she finally spoke. ‘That’s like having my right arm cut off,’ she said, quietly.
I’m sure my parents thought that Peter and I would never get married – and if we did, at least they’d have had a bit of notice about the wedding. Mum was devastated that she’d lost her daughter to someone like Peter. But from then on they just accepted I was married and made the best of the situation; there was nothing they could do about it, so there was no point in saying anything.
After we married I converted to Judaism to keep his parents happy. Peter was by no means religious: we celebrated the main Jewish holidays, like Yom Kippur and Passover, but he was pretty half-hearted about it. Yet I loved the Jewish culture, even enjoyed studying for my conversion, and I can still remember the Hebrew blessing over the bread. Peter’s parents were also upset about our Las Vegas wedding, but for different reasons: they’d wanted us to have a big Jewish wedding. They were always lovely to me. ‘A nice shiksa girl,’ as his stepdad would say, with an affectionate smile.
* * *
Being married barely changed our relationship. I was only 18, remember, so the whole till-death-us-do-part thing didn’t mean much to me. I certainly wasn’t thinking seriously about my future, just having a wild, crazy time with my man.
The only place that things weren’t particularly wild, however, was in bed. Perhaps the age gap was to blame, or maybe we just weren’t that compatible, but while Peter was very affectionate, our sex life was never exactly dynamite. I hadn’t had much experience so I guess I would just have accepted it as the way things were, but when I was on shoots with other models I began to be aware that everyone apart from me seemed to be swinging from the chandeliers and having multiple orgasms. I’d listen to my girlfriends saying, ‘Oh, last night we made love for HOURS!’ or ‘He did this to me and then he did that to me and – oh, God! – it was just AMAZING!’ And I was just sitting there thinking, Well, I get it once a week if Arsenal’s won.
One day, after hearing yet another of my friends going on about a night of knee-trembling passion, I realized I needed to take matters into my own hands. It was time to call in reinforcements. I went into Ann Summers and came out with Spanish Fly drops and Long Stand cream. On the way home, I studied the instructions intently (‘Add three drops to a drink … Wash penis thoroughly then massage cream into penis …’) and came up with a cunning plan.
A few hours later Peter came home from work. I put the kettle on as usual, but this time added a special ingredient to his PG Tips. Drop-drop-drop. ‘Cup of tea, love?’
‘Ah, thanks, doll.’
I watched him drink it all up.
‘Shall I run you a bath?’
‘Yeah, thanks, doll, that’d be great.’
I was sitting in bed with the Long Stand cream already on my hands when he climbed in. Before he could protest, I grabbed his willy and started rubbing the cream in.
‘Oi, what are you doing?’
‘It’s fine, just some special cream. Just relax and enjoy it.’
‘What? Leave it out, Jo …’
And with that Peter turned over, snapped the light off and went quiet. I don’t suppose I can blame him – I had pretty much ambushed him. I lay there in the darkness, feeling stupid and frustrated. But about 20 minutes later, I heard Peter’s muffled voice from the other side of the bed: ‘It’s working.’
I sat bolt upright. ‘It is?’ Thank you, God!
‘Yeah,’ said Peter. ‘But because you’re such a bloody mad woman I’m going to sleep.’
Even though we weren’t having that much of it, sex was still happening, so I told Peter I needed contraception. He came home with some packets of pills and I started taking them, but they made me horribly bloated. In the end I went to the doctor, who told me they contained a dangerously high level of oestrogen and that I should never have been using them – so I just stopped. Then, in the first months of 1974, around the time of our first wedding anniversary, I discovered I was pregnant again – and as I was married there was no chance of an abortion this time. I was going to be a mum.
* * *
My bump was barely showing when one morning I woke to find Peter had thrown his arm across me in his sleep. His armpit was hovering somewhere near my face and the smell made me feel sick.
Oh, God, I thought. I’m married to this man. I’m having his baby. I quickly pushed his arm off me and he turned over, still fast asleep. I lay there feeling increasingly uneasy.
Okay, this is just because I’m pregnant. I still love him.
But it was like a switch had been flicked in my brain. My feelings for Peter seemed to change almost overnight. Perhaps it was the pregnancy hormones – or maybe it was because I’d finally started to admit the truth to myself. I didn’t really love Peter. And now that that terrible thought had wormed its way into my mind, I didn’t want the marriage, but what about our baby? I felt totally and utterly trapped – and there was nothing