‘Hello, Jo.’ If he was surprised to see me he didn’t show it.
‘I’m sorry, Peter, but is there any way you can lend me some money? Just five pounds for the train back to Essex? I haven’t got a penny.’
‘I won’t give you the money,’ he said, ‘but I’ll cash you a cheque.’
With no alternative, I wrote him a cheque for fifteen pounds, then watched him take a thick wad of notes from his pocket, slowly peel off three fivers and hand them over. I felt so humiliated and I guess I deserved it. But I vowed never to ask Peter for anything again. And I never did.
We divorced when I was 21. Peter remarried and had two beautiful daughters, Sophia and Lucy, who I am very close with. Years later he moved to Spain, where he lives to this day.
* * *
With my baby happily settled at the Old Vicarage, my priority was getting work. My parents couldn’t afford to support Jamie and me and I had no savings because I had always given my earnings straight to Peter (and I clearly wasn’t going to get a penny from him) so I had no choice. Plus, of course, I loved modelling. I was just lucky that Mum was still young – my sister Lize was 10 at the time – which meant she could easily take care of Jamie.
I started accepting every job (and party invitation) that came my way. I was only 20, remember, and determined to catch up on all the fun I’d missed while married to Peter. Two girlfriends above all helped me in this mission. The first was Lorraine Dellal – to this day my closest friend. She is the daughter of the flamboyant London property developer, Jack Dellal, known as ‘Black Jack’ for his love of gambling. I had first met her when I was still with Peter and she was about to marry a friend of his, a charming guy named David Morris. Now we reconnected, as Lorraine was in charge of booking the models at my agency.
My other partner in crime was a fellow model named Susan Harrison, whom I’d met at a fashion party. She had the most beautiful face, with wonderful lips, high cheekbones and a Romanesque nose, but an accent and down-to-earth attitude that were straight out of Coronation Street. Sue and I hit it off immediately. Her sister, Stephanie, had a house in Wandsworth but she was dating the motorbike champion, Barry Sheene, leaving the house empty, so Sue suggested that we rent it together. It was a perfect arrangement: we got the place cheap, as otherwise it would have been sitting vacant, and I could go down to the Old Vicarage at weekends for kisses and cuddles with Jamie. Life was about to get wild …
* * *
Sue and me. Double trouble. Sue was brunette, I was blonde, but we had our hair cut in the same long, shaggy style. I bought a little orange VW Beetle on hire purchase, the first car I owned, and we were out every night in it, zipping from Morton’s to Monkberry’s to a party at so-and-so’s house. We’d only go out on dates if we could take each other so we knew we were protected. A message Sue left for me around this time is pretty typical: ‘Arrived home to the phone already ringing again, some bloke from the States – friend of Clive’s – wants to take us out. Can’t handle all these bloody men …’
A few days after Christmas in 1976, Sue and I were at some party just off Hyde Park, chatting to Bryan Ferry – who by then was enjoying solo success after finding fame with Roxy Music – and Monty Python’s Eric Idle. It was getting late when Eric turned to us and said, ‘Come on, girls, we’re going back to Bryan’s place. Why don’t you come too?’ Well, Sue was up for it, obviously, because she was seeing Bryan on the quiet, but I was thinking, Sue’s got Bryan – which means I’m going to have to do it with Eric! No bloody way … So I told him it was late and we had to be going home, but Eric was so persistent that in the end I agreed we’d come, but that Sue and I would follow them in my Beetle as I didn’t want to abandon it in town. We set off in convoy with Bryan and Eric out in front. We were driving around Hyde Park Corner roundabout when suddenly I swerved off towards Knightsbridge at high speed – and the boys couldn’t follow us because it was one-way. Sue and I were in hysterics all the way home. When we got back to Wandsworth, the phone was already ringing. It was Eric.
‘What happened to you?’
‘Oh, we just decided to come home,’ I said. ‘We’re both tired and I’ve got to get up early tomorrow to see my parents before New Year’s Eve. Sorry.’
‘Come on, girls, come on over,’ he said. ‘There’s no turkey left, but there’s plenty of stuffing!’
* * *
We didn’t do much in the way of drugs at this time. Partying was mostly about the booze, although if someone had some coke we might do the odd line. In those days it was so much purer that you didn’t get wired or zombied-out, it just gave you a little boost of confidence. I never went completely mad – that came later. But one night I was in Monkberry’s with Sue when our gay friend, Colin, called us over. He was holding out his hand and at first glance it seemed empty, but when I looked closer I saw this tiny little square, like a windowpane.
‘It’s acid.’ He grinned. ‘Want to try it?’
‘Come off it, that tiny thing? That’s not going to do anything!’
‘Believe me,’ said Colin. ‘This stuff works.’
So Sue and I took it – and, WHOOSH, we were off!
My abiding memory of my first acid trip is lots and lots of laughter. After Monkberry’s we piled into my Beetle (yes, I drove, can you believe it?) and ended up at a punk club where a bloke started chatting me up. He was coming on strong and, for a laugh, I told him, ‘I won’t have sex with you unless you do it with my friends Sue and Colin as well. We come as a package.’ He must have been keen because he agreed on the spot. Then Colin piled in: ‘We can’t have sex with you before we check out the goods.’ So that bloke came to the Ladies with us, dropped his trousers and showed us his willy. Well, that really set us off. Hysterical with laughter, we ran outside and got back into my car – but then the bloke appeared, trousers still round his ankles, and started banging on the window. As I tried to start the engine Colin locked the doors and eventually we drove away, screaming our heads off.
At some point we ended up at Colin’s flat on Harley Street. We lay around for what seemed like hours, arguing over who was going to make a cup of tea, when suddenly the door flew open and a naked African guy was standing there holding a tray perfectly set with cups, saucers, teapot, sugar and a jug of milk. Am I hallucinating?
‘Where did he come from?’ said Sue.
Colin looked up. ‘Umm … I think he might be a friend of mine.’
At that, the guy put down the tray and left the room.
At some point the next day – or possibly the day after that – Sue and I drove back to Wandsworth. This was where things got a bit scary. I remember sitting in the bedroom with Sue, staring at our reflections in the mirror, convinced we had thick white makeup all over our faces. We sat there, rubbing frantically at our cheeks, getting increasingly frantic; we had to talk ourselves through it so we didn’t totally lose it. I hated that total loss of control so much – the feeling of being on a runaway train that you can’t get off – that I never did acid again.
The last thing I remember is driving to the King’s Road early in the morning with Sue and getting some T-shirts made that read, ‘I love Ruby Morris.’ This was in honour of a little acid poem we’d made up at some point during those crazy hours.
When you walk through the door, chuck,
Cup of tea and biscuit, luv,
Your pound’s worth more at Ruby Morris.
Where else?
The ‘chuck’ bit came from Sue, because she was northern, the tea – well, you know about that part, we liked the name Ruby, and Morris came