- Jo Wood speaks of her early years as a model - before the days of Ronnie
- Quickly learned the downsides of model life during a Paris trip aged 16
By Jo Wood
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Shipshape: Jo Wood pictured at Canvey Island in the 1970s, when she was still 16-year-old Jo Howard
I was barely 12 when my daydreams began to sharpen into a single focused ambition â€" and I certainly wouldn’t need to know quadratic equations to achieve it.
It was the end of the Sixties and everywhere you looked you saw a model called Twiggy.
From the moment I saw that girl with Bambi eyes in Jackie magazine, I knew I wanted to be her.
Hey, Jo, I thought, you could do this, too!
When my class was asked to write an essay on ‘My Future Career’, I wrote about how I was going to be a top model and live in Knightsbridge.
There was only one small thing standing between me and model superstardom: I’d been an angelic-looking little girl, but almost overnight I’d become a big-toothed, geeky-haired, skinny-legged kid.
The next day in class I found a group of girls reading my essay aloud in fits of laughter.
I was de termined to prove them wrong, and the idea of becoming a model occupied my every waking hour.
It wasn’t the money or fame that appealed: I just wanted to wear fabulous clothes and be in beautiful pictures.
So, in the summer of my 14th year, my parents sent me to the London Academy of Modelling on Old Bond Street. The tutors were former models who taught us etiquette, make-up skills and how to walk with stacks of books on our heads.
In those days it was all about deportment and nothing like the slouchy strut of today’s models.
My blossoming looks and confidence fortunately coincided with the realisation that boys were rather interesting.
As well as the school builders, my friend Dympna and I had an ongoing flirtation with a cute lad called Andrew.
That ended abruptly after he showed us his willy. I was totally cool because I had two brot hers, but for the rest of the day I’d catch Dympna shuddering: ‘Oh, it was horrible .?.?. horrible.’
Then there was the vicar’s son, Michael. The vicarage overlooked our house and whenever he saw me come into my bedroom he’d hold up a sign saying, ‘I LOVE YOU JO.’
I would smile and wave, just to be polite, but then one day I saw him at the window with a telescope trained on my room.?.?.
I was 15 when, with trembling hands, I flicked through the Daily Mirror and found what I was looking for: a photo of a young girl wearing a simple white dress and holding a daisy, her blonde hair falling about her shoulders, captioned: ‘Jo Karslake, from Benfleet in Essex’. My dream had come true. I was a model.
My big break had come courtesy of an amateur photographer called Robert Hallmann, who had heard about my modelling ambition.
 Not long after, a letter arrived addressed to ‘Jo Karslake, Benfleet, Essex’. Dad was instantly suspicious and whipped it away, but Mum told me later it was from a 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. So I changed my name to Jo Howard, after Dad’s middle name. He was a bit happier then.
I was next whisked off to a posh dentist to fix the gap between my two front teeth (a gap that, ironically, is the height of fashion these days) and I was soon armed with my new model 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.’
Big dreams: Jo Wood with siblings Vinnie, Lize and Paul aged 14, at the height of her Twiggy obsession, and determined to become a model
I started working for all the teen magazines, especially Jackie, for the fun, playful shoots: roller- skating, jumping off walls â€" 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. At the studio there was a 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. I was sent to Paris for the pret-a-porter shows and 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 flat that reeked of drains and 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, i t 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.
But things soon picked up professionally: it was as if someone had stamped on the accelerator. I embarked on some crazy years as a single girl about town, meeting pretty much everyone in London including, of course, my future husband Ronnie Wood. It was the start of an extra-ordinary 30-year adventure.
FREED FROM MY GOLDEN PRISON OF THE STONES
Last days: Jo and Ronnie at daughter Leah's wedding in 2008 shortly before they split
After Ronnie left in 2008, I couldn’t face leaving the house.
I would wander from room to room, looking at all the mementoes of our life together. I felt utterly lost.
For most of my adult life I had been defined by my relationship with Ronnie and The Rolling Stones.
I had been part of them and protected by them. Now, not only was I losing my husband, I was losing my identity.
It is only with hindsight, that I realise there was nothing to be afraid of outside the golden prison. I am now in control of my life. I get respect for my own achievements.
I’m not going to lie â€" I do miss being absolutely spoilt. That is wonderful! But if you’re constantly treated like a cossetted child, you can sometimes start to behave like one.
In that respect, stepping outside The Rolling Stones was a huge growing- up process for me â€" and I have now grown into the person I was meant to be all along.
And while I might not fly first-class every time, I’ll take freedom and independence over a bit of extra leg-room any day.
© Jo Wood 2013. Hey Jo, by Jo Wood, is published by HarperCollins, priced £16.99. To order your copy for £14.99 inc p&p, call the Mail Book Shop on 0844 472 4157 or go to mailbookshop.co.uk
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