Rod Stewart and Kelly Emberg, In the rock autobiography of the decade, with stunning candour and his hallmark roguish wit, ROD STEWART reveals how he struggled to stop his insatiable appetite for attractive women
When it came to beautiful women, I was a tireless seeker after new experiences. ‘Miss Inbetweens’ was the phrase I had for them. Miss Inbetweens would arise because the opportunity to be unfaithful came very easily to me, and because the opportunity looked like fun, and because in those days I simply didn’t know how to resist.
And also because I thought I could get away with it.
How did I rationalise this behaviour to myself at the time? I think I felt that, as a rock star, I had an awful lot of drinking, s****ing and general carrying-on to get done.
And, incidentally, I never thought in this period that the ‘being a rock star’ aspect of being a rock star was something I needed to apologise for. On the contrary, it seemed to me: a) where an awful lot of the fun was, and; b) exactly what one had signed up for in the first place.
Anyway, by 1983, I was living in Los Angeles and had been married for four years to my first wife, Alana Hamilton, by whom I had two children. That summer, I went to a preview screening of Portfolio, a docudrama set in the fashion world, featuring models from the Elite agency.
As moments in movie history go, it wasn’t exactly Citizen Kane, but a face on the screen took my breath away. I decided I had to meet her.
To get a date, my people told the model’s people that I’d written a song for her, which was a downright lie. But it eventually got me into a restaurant with Kelly Emberg
The date was due to take place in New York immediately after I returned from a week of partying and football at Elton John’s house in Windsor.
Now, I enjoyed staying at Elton’s. You had to be prepared to move an awful lot of priceless Victorian dolls off your bed before you could get into it, but the scene at his place was extremely lively while also — it possibly goes without saying — a touch gay.
Accordingly, I’d arranged for Kara Meyers, a charming American model — and a former squeeze of Prince Albert of Monaco — to fly in and keep me company. However, the story of our return flight to New York is pretty typical of the farcical situations I unerringly got myself into in those days.
As Arnold, my manager, patiently pointed out, I couldn’t exactly stomp through Heathrow Airport with a tall blonde model in tow without being likely to excite the interest of the press and, shortly thereafter, of my wife. So it was arranged that Kara would sit three rows behind me on Concorde.
All went well. Kara and I got through the airport without appearing to be an item, despite the fact that, in a plane-load of suited businessmen, she was wearing a black leather jacket, a tiny red leather skirt and red patent-leather high heels.
However, as we waited for the plane to pull off the stand, I noticed that Arnold had turned a shade of grey normally seen only on people who’ve been dead for some time. ‘Don’t look round now,’ he said, ‘but have you seen who Kara’s seated next to?’
I looked round. Kara was sitting next to Rupert Murdoch. Brilliant. My secret date was chatting cheerfully to the man who owned practically every tabloid newspaper in the Western world.