My Story

by Jo Malone

  After going through the motions of mandatory counselling, I strode into the operating theatre a week later, feeling like a completely different person the second time around. No tears. No prayers. No fear. And when I woke up, there were no bleak thoughts. I went into surgery and lost not only my left breast but also cancer’s hold over me.

  I opened my eyes to find Gary sitting by my side. ‘How do you feel?’ he asked.

  ‘Great,’ I said. ‘Empowered.’

  We went on to have the kind of conversation we hadn’t had for a while: one that didn’t revolve around cancer or treatment but around hopes and dreams, and going home and taking holidays. ‘I want to go and sit on a beach, paddle in the sea, play with Josh and not worry about a thing,’ I said. Neither of us could remember the last time we had felt sand between our toes.

  When you marry young and take your vows, you say the words ‘in sickness and in health’ without really imagining that you’ll have to live them out, but Gary had honoured that promise to the letter. He was still by my side and, mercifully, I was still by his.

  ‘Any regrets?’ he asked, checking in on my decision to have a second mastectomy.

  ‘No, I won’t regret this,’ I said. And I never have. Not once.

  Three weeks after surgery, Dr Disa issued the green light for a holiday in Antigua. After almost a year in the concrete jungle of Manhattan, and after the monotony of chemotherapy and hospitals, the prospect of white beaches and Caribbean tranquillity couldn’t have sounded dreamier. Even though I was still bearing my matching tissue expanders, I packed my beachwear and new Eres swimsuit, which is ideal for any woman who has had a mastectomy; to this day, I wear it and no one would guess that I’ve had surgery.

  I wanted a true, sun-soaked, get-away-from-it-all escape involving nothing but relaxation and, to make it extra special, we arranged for our friends Joel and Divia, Ollie and Darcy, and Steven to fly in. We booked a place belonging to my friend Gordon Campbell Gray – the Carlisle Bay Hotel on the south side of the island. Think white beaches, palm trees, bright green-hued waters, and a rainforest for a backdrop – the most perfect, idyllic escape.

  I knew Gordon, a big-hearted Glaswegian, would look after us but, on arrival, he didn’t look quite as relaxed as normal. He pulled me to one side, wringing his hands. ‘I don’t want you to worry. I’ve got this handled,’ he said, ‘but when I booked you in, I hadn’t realised that we have a big press launch going on.’

  ‘What kind of press launch?’

  He winced. ‘A beauty press launch – the world and his wife are here.’

  Oh, the irony. Over the previous months, Charlotte had fielded and declined requests from magazine editors and feature writers for an ‘exclusive’ interview with me about my cancer. One Fleet Street journalist even tried a classic manipulation technique, warning that, ‘If Jo won’t give us an interview, we’ll stand outside the hospital and take a picture anyway.’ They never did get that picture. In fact, no one did. And yet there I was, on an island, in the same hotel as every beauty/fashion journalist and editor from Britain. You’ve got to laugh at life’s comedic timing.

  My hair was probably half an inch thick by now but I was still thin, with skin desperately in need of sun and an expander-enhanced bosom that could have rivalled Dolly Parton. But what could I do? I certainly wasn’t prepared to hide away – I’d done enough of that in New York. So I decided to enjoy my holiday come what may, well aware that this crossing-over of worlds was unavoidable, and that word would soon get out. In the end, I had nothing to worry about because not one of those editors or journalists approached me or called my room. I spent time on the beach and paddled in the ocean, but no one published a photo, and not a single sentence was written anywhere. As one of them would say afterwards, everyone respected what I had come through and didn’t wish to intrude. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to express my gratitude for such collective decency and kindness that placed me ahead of any story they could file.

  I was able to kick back and enjoy a holiday in which I started to feel normal again. As a group, we lazed and read books, hired a boat and drank rum punch, sat underneath the stars and enjoyed candlelit dinners on the beach. Ollie and Darcy got engaged, and Steven bought Josh his first bicycle, leading to much excited giggling as he learned to ride on the beach path. We had a marvellous, memorable time in a paradise location that told me the good times were back. It would take me a while before I fully felt like my old self, but this was a happy start. All I had to do now was return to New York so that Dr Disa could finally carry out ‘the switch’ and provide me with my ‘new look’.

  There is a funny story attached to that final operation because Gary had been told that surgery would take no longer than sixty to ninety minutes. Two and a half hours in, having read every available magazine in the waiting room, he started to worry that there had been another complication. By the time Dr Disa emerged, Gary was in a bit of a state. ‘What’s the problem? Why the delay?!’

  Dr Disa laughed. ‘Gary, you and I both know your wife. We spent forever in there making sure the implants were evenly matched and absolutely perfect, otherwise she’d have us back here within the week, doing them again!’

  Bless Joseph Disa – he knew me so well.

  I couldn’t travel for seven days post-op so, as Gary and I started preparing our return to London, we went shopping and I had only one destination in mind: Prada, to buy a treat I had long been eyeing up as my reward when everything was over – a tan brown leather handbag with orange lining. As I walked down the street, with short, cropped hair, and dressed in a leather jacket, knee-length black dress, and biker boots, no one stared or frowned; no one seemed wary of me any more. Recovering from cancer is a lesson in rebuilding self-confidence, and the smallest gestures or comments from others seem to carry extra significance. So when I walked into Prada and the male shop assistant came over and said, ‘Oh my God, lady! I love your look!’ he had no idea the boost he gave me that day. I was only buying a handbag, and it was probably a standard compliment that he issued to others, but those words made me feel feminine again. A stranger – someone who had no idea about my story – had acknowledged me as a woman, not a survivor of cancer, and it felt bloody wonderful.

  Back at the apartment, Gary and I decided to celebrate my newfound confidence by sending out a general email that announced not only our imminent homecoming, but some surprise news that not everyone knew about. Typical of our humour, we wrote a message to our friends that simply said: ‘Gary and Jo will soon be returning home, and they are pleased to announce the birth of two bouncing girls!’

  We were, of course, referring to my new boobs but some people who hadn’t heard from us for a while initially thought we were having twins. One friend even sent matching babygrows! The humorous and confused messages we received kept us laughing for the rest of the week. I think people are frightened to laugh when a friend comes through cancer, but, for me, it was the first indication that everything was returning to normal. Second only to the words, ‘Oh my God, lady! I love your look’, laughter is probably the best sound in the world.

  My Sex and the City baseball cap was the one memento I’d retain from my time in New York. The rest – my trainers, bed sheets, patchwork duvet, and every top, sweater, tracksuit and pair of jeans – were bundled into a pile and thrown out, because to me each garment still smelled of that sterile hospital air and chemotherapy. This was my small purging of belongings that no longer served any purpose as we packed up our Manhattan life.

  We would, of course, return to New York on business but it was nevertheless sad to leave behind the friends who had offered such loving support. None more so than people like our doorman Paul, for whom I perhaps reserved my biggest hug. ‘I’ll never forget what you did for me,’ I told him as he waved us off one last time.

  ‘Just doing my job, Miss Jo,’ he said, but we both knew that he did far more than just his job. I do hope that he is reading this somewhere and realises what a uniq
ue human being he is, and how much I regard him as a hero.

  I said my goodbyes to the wonderful doctors and nurses at the Sloan Kettering, giving everyone a Jo Malone London gift bag. As Evelyn Lauder had predicted, these were the people, led by Larry Norton, who had saved my life, and I went round each department, expressing my eternal gratitude. It felt strange saying farewell to those people who had picked me up and put me back together again, and yet they couldn’t be happier to see me walk away – after all, that’s the very outcome they are always shooting for. And that’s why I chose Coldplay’s Fix You as one of my Desert Island Discs on BBC Radio 4 in 2015, dedicating it to Larry and every doctor and nurse who stands and fights cancer. Larry and I would remain dear friends because when someone as special as him walks into your life, you make sure you stay in touch. We didn’t know it yet but we would share a special occasion together in London – four years in the future – that would truly allow me to demonstrate my gratitude.

  My re-entry into London, in May 2004, felt like a reunion with an old friend who, in my lowest moments, I hadn’t been sure I’d see again. After disembarking from the plane at London Heathrow, the first thing I did was bend down and kiss the floor on entering the airport. It wasn’t quite the green, green grass of home but it was English terra firma nonetheless.

  The only work-based task I faced when I got home was the prospect of doing an interview about my cancer. The requests intensified once word got out that I was back, and if I didn’t address it straightaway, it would linger like a cloud. Charlotte had covered my back up until that point, but we both knew that the best approach to any difficult subject matter was to take control and lead from the front foot. Personally, it also felt important that I share my story in the hope that other breast cancer patients would know that there can be a positive outcome. The more we shine a light into the darkest, scariest of places, the more acceptable it seems and the less alone we have to be.

  The only people I trusted to do justice to my story and handle it sensitively were Sue Peart, the editor of You magazine, and journalist Fiona McCarthy. We had done interviews in the past and, for me, their integrity is second to none.

  A day or so after the interview was published, I was shopping at Marks & Spencer, buying every kind of meal – you would have thought an M&S prohibition was imminent the way I filled my basket. I must have been standing in the queue less than a minute when the lady in front, who was having her shopping bagged, turned around and said, ‘Excuse me, you’re Jo Malone, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. That’s me.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I read the article in You magazine. Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Do you still have nipples?’

  I promise you, I’m standing in a busy M&S, with three or four people behind me, and enough chicken Kiev to feed an army, and that’s what she asked me. I felt gobsmacked that anyone could ask such an invasive question, within earshot of so many others. The cashier, mouth agape, waited for my reaction but I was too shocked to say anything. I’m rarely left speechless but I couldn’t find the words.

  As the woman’s query was greeted by silence – mine and everyone else’s around me – I think the awkwardness dawned. ‘Well, it was a lovely interview. Nice meeting you. Good luck!’

  London: how I missed its weird, wonderful, unpredictable, brazen, unapologetic but well-intended ways. It felt great to be home.

  One event that I had been really looking forward to was the 6th Annual White Tie & Tiara Ball to benefit the Elton John AIDS Foundation. At Elton’s invitation, I had served on the event’s committee since 2000. Two years later, I had made a limited edition White Tie & Tiara fragrance to be given as a gift for each guest before one thousand bottles went on public sale, with a share of the proceeds going to the foundation.

  This event, held in the grounds of his home in Old Windsor, brings so many friends together, and the 2004 ball would be the first time that I’d been able to see everyone gathered under one marquee roof since returning from New York. I now had a healthy head of short hair and an equally healthy weight, so it felt good to be stepping out in my glad rags for a night out with a group of special people that included Jane Moore and Gary Farrow, Alan and Caroline Levy, Ruth Kennedy and Bruce Dundas, and Joel and Divia Cadbury.

  Midway through the night, I was at our table chatting with Gary when we heard a lot of whooping and cheering behind us – Elton had taken his place at the piano on stage to start playing some hits, which was a guaranteed way to get the party started. Three numbers in, I heard the opening bars of a recognisable song and I saw Ruth rushing over to pull me on to the dance floor. ‘You’re not missing this one!’

  I’m Still Standing was being played and, with my girlfriends standing around me, we started jumping and dancing and belting out the chorus as one, like it was our anthem and my song.

  ‘Don’t you know I’m still standing better than I ever did / Looking like a true survivor, feeling like a little kid / I’m still standing after all this time / Picking up the pieces of my life without you on my mind . . .’

  I turned to Gary, standing by my side, clapping along, looking as happy as I felt. And then we all started punching the air for the chorus. ‘I’M STILL STANDING! YEAH! YEAH! YEAH!’

  It was the day that Ruth had promised would arrive when she wrote her message on the photo she’d sent me in New York. ‘One day, you will wake up and feel on top of the world.’

  In this precious life, those are the kind of memories and marks that people leave behind, far more visible to me than any tissue scar. When I look at the faded red line that runs across my chest, I don’t see a reminder of cancer; I see a reminder of a wound from a war that was won with the help of friends. Moreover, it doesn’t define me – it only signifies eight months and three chapters in my life story. Mary Massie taught me that. She taught me all about putting cancer into perspective.

  PART THREE

  Reinvention

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Having got my life back, my first instinct was to reawaken the businesswoman and start making product again – the sure-fire way to reconnect the part of me that had been dormant for almost a year. Ordinarily, my inclination would have been to hit the ground running but Mary Massie had already pulled on those reins.

  Before I left New York, she told me: ‘It may feel as though you are walking a tightrope without a safety net so go easy on yourself.’ She went on to explain that many cancer survivors feel a little fragile and unsure of themselves for the first year – the body and mind don’t so easily forget the rigours of treatment. So when my old dynamic self didn’t immediately snap back into place, at least I understood the reason.

  In my mind, it also explained why I didn’t feel an immediate ‘click’ on being back at work; why my sense of smell made a stuttering return, and why my creativity was more a pilot light-sized flame rather than its usual blaze. My nose had been subdued by the effects of chemotherapy and, like throwing wet wood on a fire, it wouldn’t ignite straightaway.

  Knowing that I had no choice but to be patient, I eased my way in, working in Sloane Street, attending meetings, and working on plans for a new shop in New York. At home, I began tinkering around with different notes to rework my nose, allowing it to ramble until it felt ready to create again.

  It would take a year for the next fragrance to come to me – Pomegranate Noir.

  I wrestled to create that fragrance – the creativity arrived piecemeal rather than flowing, and I still didn’t feel the ‘click’ of everything falling into place. So when I nailed that scent, I definitely felt a sense of accomplishment because part of me had privately wondered if chemotherapy had caused some kind of irreparable damage. What I couldn’t have known was that it would be the last fragrance I’d make for Jo Malone London.

  Gary and I flew back to New York for the grand opening of our new flagship store in the US on the Upper East Side on Madison Avenue. It felt good t
o be back in Manhattan for purely business purposes, and I was determined to shine on my first ‘official’ stepping-out post-cancer.

  For that reason, I wore my ‘lucky’ DKNY black leather jacket, which always made me feel kick-ass confident. I’d often pick out those outfits or shoes that made me feel good about myself. In the initial months of resuming an active life, confidence-boosting fashions become suits of armour to cover up a sense of vulnerability that was hard to shake.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Gary, holding out his arm to link with mine as we left the hotel.

  I took a breath. ‘Ready,’ I said, even though I felt an unusual trepidation that I didn’t voice and couldn’t explain. Something niggled me even before we arrived for the spectacular launch.

  Throughout the evening, as the glitterati and media turned out in force, a mix of strangers and familiar faces wished me well and offered congratulations on another elegant store.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said to one person.

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ I said to another.

  ‘Yes, it is exciting, isn’t it?’ I said, lying to everyone.

  Because the truth was that I didn’t feel the usual excitement. At one point, I looked around and saw my name everywhere – on the signs, the gift bags and the product – and felt weirdly detached, as if this was somebody else’s life. A complete disconnect. Something had shifted so dramatically that it caught even me by surprise.

  It’s difficult to pinpoint how or why my feelings changed, but there is no doubt that coming through cancer changed my perspective. I think a period of re-evaluation follows any life-changing experience, especially one in which you have to confront your own mortality, and I began to rethink and reframe a lot of things. Indeed, I had a spring-clean of anything and everything that didn’t make me feel good. I cleared out my closet, discarding old clothes. I sifted through friendships, putting aside the ones that only brought gossip, negativity or self-centredness. I reviewed my priorities and contemplated what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. And as I stood in that shop on Madison Avenue, the future didn’t seem so clear any more.