It was past one o’ clock when I got home. Leah was on her honeymoon and Ty was out – I was all on my own. I went straight upstairs and lay on our bed, still dressed. I wasn’t crying; I was numb. Oh, my God, it’s actually over . . . I lay in the dark for three hours, turning the evening’s events over endlessly in my head. Then at 4 a.m. I got back into my car and started driving to Essex. I remember going through the Dartford Tunnel just as the sun came up. When I was a few miles away from Southend, where my brother Paul and his wife, Sandra, live, I pulled over and called him – thankfully, he’s an early riser.
‘Paul, is it okay if I come and stay with you for a bit?’
‘Of course. Just let me know when you’d like to come.’
‘Um, how about in ten minutes’ time?’
It wasn’t until I got to Paul’s front door that I started to cry – and the tears didn’t stop for the next two weeks. I stayed with Paul and Sandra for a few days, just sitting in their spare room or wandering vacantly around the garden. My kids and the rest of my family rallied round and were a huge support. My mum was on the phone every day. Lize was so furious she sent Ronnie a text that began, ‘Hello, Mr Paedo . . .’ Funnily enough, he never replied.
When I got back to London, Ronnie had taken Katia to stay in Ireland. The thought of them in our beautiful house, sleeping in our bed, triggered more hysterical tears. I wrote Ronnie an email begging him to be discreet and he promised he would: I couldn’t bear the prospect of it being splashed over the press. I still thought that perhaps it was just a fling and that he might come to his senses and realize that dating a girl who was 10 years younger than his own daughter didn’t really have much of a future.
I hadn’t been home for many days when our cleaner, Fatima, came and found me in the kitchen.
‘Meessis Wood!’ she said. ‘Your friend, he is waiting in the living room.’
I walked into the living room to find a guy standing there. My friend? I’d never seen him before in my life.
‘Hi, Jo, my name is Richard White. I’m from the Sun.’
Oh, fuck. But I knew I had to hold it together.
‘I’m sorry to tell you this,’ he went on, ‘but a teenage girl named Ekaterina Ivanova is saying she’s Ronnie’s girlfriend. They’re together at your place in Ireland.’
‘Oh, I know all about that,’ I said, breezily. ‘She’s his drinking buddy. They’re just friends.’
‘I think it’s more than that.’
I later discovered that the press had found out because little Katia had been sharing everything on Facebook, boasting to her friends about her trip to Ireland with her new boyfriend, Ronnie Wood – even posting pictures of herself with one of our dogs. So much for being discreet.
As soon as the reporter left I phoned Ronnie. ‘Oh, this is a mess,’ he slurred. Then, after a long silence, ‘Don’t worry. It’ll blow over.’
Two days later it was in all the papers: ‘Rolling Stone Ronnie Wood is living with Russian bargirl less than a third of his age – who is bragging to her pals of how he has dumped his wife of twenty-three years.’
As soon as the story broke I was swamped by goodwill messages and offers of help from friends. Keith and Patti were one of the first on the phone to check if I was okay; Slash and Perla invited me to stay with them in Los Angeles; Bob Geldof called to tell me not to worry and that I deserved better. Not a word from Mick, and Charlie didn’t make contact until a year later. ‘Sorry I didn’t call before,’ he said. ‘I was just waiting to see how things would pan out.’ I suppose he’d thought I’d stand by Ronnie, just as I had done so many times in the past.
The next two weeks were complete and utter madness. The press had set up camp outside Holmwood so I escaped to Lize’s house. I was chased down the motorway by reporters, but managed to shake them off; Leah was in the car, cheering me along as I swerved off down a slip road at high speed. ‘Yeah, go on, Mum! You’ve lost them!’
Meanwhile Ronnie was trapped in Ireland, surrounded by paparazzi – although I later discovered Katia had been smuggled out before the story broke. Jesse went in to talk to his dad and then, with Damien Hirst’s help, Ronnie was flown out and taken straight to the Lifeworks clinic near Weybridge for his seventh stint in rehab.
Ronnie stayed in the clinic for five weeks. During this time stories kept appearing in the papers: I’m convinced our phones were hacked, because details of private conversations leaked out and I certainly didn’t say anything. I took comfort, though, from the incredible outpouring of warmth and support in the press. People would write comments like, ‘He doesn’t deserve you’ and ‘Jo, don’t take him back. Stay strong.’ It really helped me feel better about myself during a tough time.
It was a very different Ronnie who phoned me after a month in rehab and asked if I would join him for Family Week, when patients’ loved ones come in to work through any issues. I took this as a sign that he wanted to make our relationship work – and he was so sweet to me on the phone – so I travelled to the clinic with cautiously high hopes.
I was given lots of forms to fill in before our group sessions and on one of them I wrote that I was hurt because Ronnie had betrayed me, but when this came out in discussion he looked confused. ‘I don’t think I betrayed you,’ he said.
‘You don’t think that running off with another woman is betrayal?’
‘No, not really.’
I went through five days of this, breaking down in front of strangers, trying to work through our problems, but it was apparent that Ronnie and I were on totally different wavelengths. In another meeting I mentioned how I had cried for two weeks when he left.
‘Whatever for?’ said Ronnie.
‘Because you left me and I was devastated!’ Christ, I thought, what am I wasting my tears for?
The thing is, although Ronnie could be utterly charming and brilliant company, he had quite a narcissistic streak. He had always seemed to find it hard to relate to other people’s emotions. There was a time at Holmwood when Ty was in bits after splitting up with his girlfriend. We were sitting in the kitchen together and I had my arms around him, trying to comfort him, when Ronnie came in.
‘Look at these new shoes I’ve just got from the shoot.’ He grinned.
‘Ronnie,’ I said quietly. ‘Ty is really upset . . .’
‘Yeah, but check out my shoes! The shoot went so great – it all worked out so well!’
Suddenly Ty lost it – for the first and only time I can ever remember. He exploded in complete rage and screamed at his father, ‘All you fucking care about is yourself!’
But Ronnie didn’t even flinch. He just walked into the other room and started reading the paper, as if nothing had happened.
At the end of Family Week Ronnie and I went for lunch at a nearby pub. It had been a traumatic few days and I was still so confused and unsure of what the future held, yet at the same time I couldn’t imagine life without him. But as we waited for our food to arrive, Ronnie told me he had decided he wanted to be with Katia. There were no apologies, no expressions of regret – he just came out with it, as if he was telling me it was going to rain at the weekend.
‘So I’ve just done all this time with you in rehab for nothing?’ I asked, in disbelief.
‘Look, if it doesn’t work out with Katia we can make another go of it,’ he said. ‘It’ll be just like getting to know each other all over again!’
I started to cry, so we went outside and had a cigarette. I was trying hard to be brave, but I noticed my hand shaking as I held out my lighter.
He doesn’t want me, I thought. He’s moved on. Perhaps if I’d told Ronnie I’d wait for him while he got whatever it was out of his system we’d be together now, but when I drove away from the pub that afternoon I made a decision. Whatever happened in the future, I would never, ever go back to him.