My big break had come courtesy of an amateur photographer called Robert Hallmann, who had heard about my modelling ambition through a friend at the local photography shop in Benfleet and offered to take some pictures of me. I guess this sort of thing might sound alarm bells nowadays, but my parents knew Robert, so they were happy to let me have a go. I’d been going on about wanting to be a model for so long they must have thought, ‘Well, let’s see if she has what it takes.’ I can remember the first set of photos I did with Robert, and we were both happy enough with the results to start working together regularly. Robert’s talent, combined with my endless enthusiasm (and Mum’s skill at re-creating the latest designer looks on her sewing-machine) proved a winning combination, and over the next few months we did loads of photos together around Essex. Me in a satin jumpsuit and knee-high boots posing in the ruins of Hadleigh Castle; me rocking hand-painted (by my brother Paul) flares outside a derelict farmhouse; me standing on a Canvey Island jetty, staring wistfully out to sea.
After the Mirror bought the daisy picture, Robert regularly sent photos to the paper, which ran shots of pretty (clothed) girls in the same way as the Sun now has Page Three. In another of Robert’s photos that appeared, I’m wearing purple brocade hot-pants (made by Mum) and lilac boots, with the caption ‘Miss Hot-pants!’ You can imagine what a kick I got out of seeing my picture in print.
One day we got a call saying I had been selected as HMS Caledonia’s official mascot, and would I like to come up to the naval base in Scotland as their guest? Mum and I went up for the day, had tea with the captain, and then a photographer took some shots of me parading past a line of smiling sailors, who were all holding my picture. You can see from my face in the photos how much fun I was having, although I remember feeling very self-conscious as I was wearing tiny hot-pants and had a hole at the top of my tights that I was convinced everyone was staring at. Little things like that worry you when you’re fifteen and a half.
Not long after my first appearance in the national press, a letter arrived addressed to ‘Jo Karslake, Benfleet, Essex’. Dad was instantly suspicious and whipped it away before I could open it, but Mum gave me the gist later. Apparently it was from some bloke saying he wanted to take me ‘into the hop fields and show you what real life is about’. As you can imagine, Dad freaked.
‘We can’t have this, Josephine. There’s a load of strange men out there – and now they all know where you live!’ He shook his head decisively. ‘There’s only one thing for it.’
I had a sudden dread that Dad was going to stop the modelling – but no: ‘We’ll have to change your name.’
Actually, that wasn’t such a bad idea. Twiggy had upgraded from plain old Lesley Hornby and look where it had got her! I spent ages trying to think of something fabulous, but the best I could come up with was Goosey. Not brilliant. So in the end I stuck with Jo Howard, Howard being Dad’s middle name. He was a bit happier after that.
* * *
The glorious day finally arrived: my last day at St Bernard’s! I’d had 10 years of school and all I had to show for it was just three CSEs. I got a B+ in Art, much to Dad’s disappointment, a B in Home Economics and a B in History. The rest? Forget it. But I was finally, amazingly, free, and without the restraints of school I could focus on my career.
The London Academy of Modelling had recommended an agency called Gavin Robinson, so armed with my new portfolio – a little folder I’d put together with my cuttings and Robert’s pictures – Mum took me up to London for a meeting. At that time, Gavin Robinson ran one of the hottest agencies in London, so I was dizzy with excitement as we climbed the stairs at 30 Old Bond Street to his first-floor office. The girl at Reception directed us to a couch to wait and I sat, staring about me in wonder. The walls were covered with model head sheets, faces familiar to me from the pages of Honey and 19; the phones rang non-stop; and every now and then some stunning girl would waft into the room, oozing confidence and sophistication. I wanted to be part of that world so, so badly.
We were shown into an office where Gavin was sitting behind a desk. He was very slim, trendy and had startlingly blond hair. ‘Well, helloooo, you must be Jo!’ Gavin flung out his arms in welcome. ‘Darling, come here and let me have a good look at you!’
I was stunned. I had never met a man like this before, and I couldn’t work out why he was so flamboyant, so … feminine. It was fascinating.
Mum and I sat nervously opposite as Gavin flicked through my portfolio. I stared at him, trying to work out if he thought I had what it took. He had big, popping eyes that gave his face an appealingly impish air.
‘Well, you’ll need catwalk lessons, of course, and you absolutely must get those teeth fixed,’ he said, as he peered at my photos.
‘That’s fine, no problem. I can do that.’ Just then I’d have cut off my right arm if it had meant he would sign me.
Finally, Gavin put down the portfolio and beamed at me. ‘Well, I think you’re fabulous, darling. Just beautiful. And I’d love you to be one of my girls. You’ll be the youngest on my books.’
The following week Gavin whisked me off to a posh dentist in Devonshire Place to have a brace fitted to fix the gap between my two front teeth; a gap that, ironically, is the height of fashion, these days. For the six weeks I wore it I spoke with a lisp. I remember going into the agency and muttering to the receptionist, ‘Can I pleathe thpeak to Gavin?’
A willowy brunette standing nearby overheard me and gave a snort of laughter. ‘If you want to be a model, daaahling, you’d better learn to speak properly.’
I nearly died. I’d only just turned 16 and all the other models seemed so much older and more sophisticated. But Gavin kept telling me that he loved my sense of fun and freshness, and I trusted him completely. I adored him. He was warm, generous and hysterically funny. A few weeks after our first meeting we were in a taxi together when another car suddenly cut in front of us. Furious, our driver leant out of the window and shouted, ‘Kiss my arse!’
Gavin sat forward and said, ever so smoothly, ‘No thanks, darling, you might have dandruff.’
Once my teeth were fixed I had some pictures done for my model card. It was my first experience in a studio with a professional photographer. Robert Hallmann had been lovely, but he was a middle-aged-dad type. This guy – Richard Best – was in his early twenties, with long hair, jeans and a cool T-shirt. He was pretty hot, too. As I posed in a selection of home-made outfits, with Richard snapping away, I almost burst with happiness.
In September I started my go-sees, which are basically opportunities for models to meet potential clients. I was armed with my new card, featuring Richard’s shots and the following blurb: ‘Jo Howard. Height 5’ 6, bust 33, waist 23, hips 35, inside leg 31, outside 40. Hair: blonde. Eyes: blue. Specialities: T, H, L, HR, S.’ (I guess that last bit stood for Teeth, Hands, Legs, Hair and Shoes.) Go-sees were actually just a long, hard slog. I would spend all day travelling across London on a succession of buses and tubes, only for some magazine editor to take one look at me and say, ‘Your hair’s wrong. Next.’ I’d often come out of those meetings close to tears. Oh, God, my legs aren’t long enough, my face is all weird, I’m never going to make it as a model …
I can imagine how you might end up a blubbering wreck with an eating disorder. But I quickly came to accept that clients would be looking for specific things for each job, and if you weren’t right for that one, you might be for the next. From then on, I enjoyed the go-sees. I loved meeting new people, having a chat and a giggle. And it was such a buzz being out in the world on my own. I’d go to the Wimpy Bar on Bond Street and have a lunch of ice-cream with chocolate sauce and nuts, just because I could.
I started working for all