My Story

by Jo Malone

  I stared at that piece of paper and sighed.

  I even went to the trouble of drafting a curriculum vitae, but that exercise proved even more disillusioning, because all roads led back to my former brand. Hobbies: building a business. Achievements: building a business. Experience: building a business. The rest of it didn’t read that well: quit school, no qualifications, and three brief stints as a shop assistant when a teenager.

  I walked into the sitting room and interrupted Gary’s guitar session. He took one look at my face and stopped strumming. ‘My CV is pathetic!’ I said. ‘Outside of beauty and cosmetics, I think I’m unemployable.’

  Gary didn’t understand my self-imposed pressure – he thought I was being needlessly hard on myself – and I felt for him because as much as he tried to find the positive, he could see the regret forming within me. We had both made the decision together and jumped together, but for the first time in our lives we were reacting in very different ways. Our enforced gardening leave was Gary’s bliss but my kind of hell. As a result, I cannot have been easy to live with, rattling aimlessly around our apartment.

  Because I didn’t want him to bear the brunt of it all, I met up with Joel Cadbury for lunch and poured it all out: how demotivated I felt, how I had abandoned all that I had valued, and how my recovery from cancer may have fogged my clarity. And then I told him about my CV.

  Joel shook his head, disbelievingly. ‘What are you doing, Jo?! I don’t understand. You don’t need to work for someone else. You’re an entrepreneur!’

  He shared with me a wonderful story about his mother, the late Jennifer d’Abo, who had passed away three years earlier and was ‘one of Britain’s best-known entrepreneurs’, as the Daily Telegraph described her. If you’ve ever used a colour Post-lt note, then you’ve been touched by this formidable woman’s vision because it was she who turned around the fortunes of the Ryman chain of stationery shops among countless other achievements, and introduced the multi-coloured, self-adhesive, mini-notepads to the market. Joel told me that she never had a curriculum vitae in her life, and whenever she was asked to present one, she would reach into her handbag, pick out a conjoined, solid silver ‘C’ and ‘V’, and place them on the table of whatever male-dominated boardroom she was in. ‘And that, gentlemen, is the nearest you’ll get to a CV from me,’ she’d say. In other words, ‘If my record doesn’t speak for itself, then what are we doing?’

  A week or so later, after talking me down from the walls I had been climbing, Joel came round to the apartment with a gift, and he placed into my hands his mum’s solid silver letters. ‘Let these be a reminder – you don’t need a CV either,’ he said.

  The one blessing of this enforced hiatus was that Gary and I could watch Josh grow from a cheeky, tender, irrepressible boy into a mature, wise-beyond-his-years, big-hearted ten-year-old. I may have struggled with the hours when he wasn’t home but not the hours that he enriched when we were all home together. I’m proud that we provided him with a loving, happy, secure childhood, and I’m sure that our tightness as a family today is rooted in the cohesiveness that we had the room to nurture as he grew up.

  If anything, our closeness brought into sharp focus my distance from Mum, Dad and Tracey. That gulf was glaringly obvious in how little I’d heard from them when fighting cancer. But my time away from the business provided an opportunity for reflection, and I felt the need to find peace between us, even if I didn’t harbour any expectations about becoming the best of friends.

  Sadly, after several attempts at reconciliation – lunch at our apartment, day trips to the countryside, and several lengthy phone calls – it became obvious that nothing was going to change. I see no purpose in revisiting the details; suffice it to say that in the years we hadn’t nurtured ourselves as a family, it was clear there had been a dissolution of everything we once shared. For me, the love remained, but I realised that I was trying to rekindle something based on memories and ideals and how I wanted things to be, rather than how they were. Sometimes, love cannot fix everything, although it did enable me to forgive and move on. I forgave myself for not trying harder in the past. I forgave them for being equally as ambivalent. And so I decided that the only thing I could do, for my own good, was place my early years into a box inside my head, to be preserved as childhood memories that cou ldn’t be distorted, f orever remembering them as the people who had meant the world to me.

  It became clear that severance was also required with my over-attachment to the former business. I struggled with being on the sidelines, and I couldn’t help but keep looking over my shoulder. Gary knew how rudderless I felt, but he also believed that I wasn’t helping myself. ‘Darling, you can’t move on until you let go,’ he kept saying.

  I knew he was right but it’s not easy to let go of the monkey bars until you feel confident that there is another bar to leap towards and hold on to – and I didn’t have anything else to hold on to. I did not regret, and still don’t, the sale to Estée Lauder but I did underestimate the power of my connection to the brand. It had been my best friend, my teacher, my passion, and my one source of creativity. It was so much more than ‘just a business’. And yet, as it turns out, I needed to lose it before truly grasping what it represented.

  Whether you are Jo Malone, Jil Sander, Anya Hindmarch, or Coco Chanel, you become inescapably defined by what you have created, like it or not. Indeed, I think I had defined myself by it, so much so that I struggled with the public split between name and person. Anyone who has ever owned an eponymous brand will understand this inherent dichotomy in distinguishing between the public persona and the private person. Indeed, it is a psychological test that most people will grapple with at some time in their lives, when stripped of a title, a role, a status or a career with which they identify themselves. Who are we when made redundant, or when we retire? Who are we when we stand aside from something for which we have become known?

  I suppose that’s why I felt lost at the age of forty-two. I had to stand aside from my own name, because that was the deal we had signed. I had to pretend that I didn’t feel the emotional connection between me and the fragrances I created. But I didn’t truly understand how difficult I was finding the separation until one afternoon, sitting in the back of a black cab, stuck in traffic, directly outside the Sloane Street shop.

  Up until that particular day, I had somehow managed to go a good year without spotting my name above the door, or seeing anyone walking in the street with a gift bag. This was part good luck and part deliberate avoidance. I would drive different routes to avoid our old shop. Of course, some associations were unavoidable: official invitations would be sent out, saying ‘Jo Malone invites you to . . .’ and people would come up to me and say, ‘I can’t wait to see you at next week’s event!’ I’d have to make it clear that it wasn’t me; that I was no longer involved. Honestly, at times it felt like I was caught up in my own warped version of the movie Trading Places, standing on the outside looking in.

  Which is exactly the scene that unfolded when the black cab took a turn down Sloane Street and stopped outside No.150.

  I kept my eyes dead ahead, not wanting to look left, willing the cars in front to start moving. But, as the cab continued to idle, the pull proved too strong, and I turned to face the shop, which looked as elegant as ever. In my mind, the window reflected back to me the past: shopfitters asleep on the shelves, the wooden trestle table for our impromptu ‘market’, the laughter from the opening party, and me, busy inside, reorganising the shelves. And as those bittersweet memories flooded in, making me want to smile and cry at the same time, all I could hear was Gary saying, ‘You can’t move on until you let go’ over and over.

  As the cab drove away, I felt this immense wrench, far more intense than my last day in the shop, and I found this ‘closure’ – if closure was what it was – befuddling. Am I still the creator? Or am I now the consumer? I actually felt like neither. So the better question was, as Gary suggested that night, ‘Who am I going to be
now?’ The answer to that question would take its time, but I resolved there and then not to connect emotionally with the product any more.

  I also decided that it wouldn’t serve me to work my nose for the foreseeable future – I would normally test it two or three hours a day, keeping it tuned, if you like. I’d cut a lemon in half and focus on the notes that came to mind. I’d pass a restaurant, smell the aromas and run with it. But no more. In my field, there is nothing more frustrating than being stuck in a creativity cul-de-sac and having nowhere to go. So I made the conscious choice to tune out, shutting out notes like I’d shut out negative thoughts. And with that decision, I placed my Jo Malone London years into another box inside my head, to be preserved as memories that couldn’t be distorted, forever remembering the business as it was when it meant the world to me.

  When an official-looking cream envelope, addressed to ‘Mrs Joanne Willcox’, arrived in the post, I was instantly suspicious. When I ripped it open and unfolded the Downing Street headed paper, I rolled my eyes. And when I read the typewritten words explaining how Her Majesty the Queen was honouring me with an MBE, I laughed out loud. Someone was clearly playing an elaborate joke, which, among my circle of friends, was more than possible. Why on earth would I be receiving an MBE from the Queen? And now, of all times, when I had left the business? It seemed too implausible to be true.

  It was only on closer inspection, and after running it by Gary, that I realised it was the real thing. I was being made a ‘Member of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire for services to the beauty industry’.

  It took some believing that I was being honoured by my country for doing something I loved. It was as though life was telling me to focus not on what I had lost but on what Gary and I had achieved. And even though the award was in my name, it was actually our honour to share – the ultimate recognition of a dedication that I had perhaps lost sight of in recent months.

  I was sworn to secrecy until the ‘gongs’ were announced in late December 2007, although I obviously shared the news with Gary and Josh. And there was one other special person I had to tell in confidence: Larry Norton. You are allowed to take three guests to the ceremony, so I would take my husband, my son, and the man who saved my life.

  I waited until the afternoon to call New York, allowing for the five-hour time difference. Larry is one of the busiest men I know so I wasn’t sure if he’d be able to make space in his diary, but the way I couched the invitation made it hard for him to resist.

  ‘Larry, do you think you can spare a week in London next July?’

  ‘Why, what’s happening?’

  ‘I have a date at Buckingham Palace. I’d love you to join me . . .’

  The last time I had visited the palace had been twenty years earlier when the Queen’s home was one of my house-to-house calls, at a time when I was unsure if the business would ever grow beyond two dozen clients. And now I was returning to receive an MBE, presented by HRH Prince Charles, at a time when the brand was flying high around the world, without me.

  An added bonus of the day was that Kylie Minogue was being honoured at the same time. She and I had grown close after being introduced by a mutual friend in 2005 when she was diagnosed with, and then survived, breast cancer. But because we had both been sworn to secrecy, we hadn’t known about each other’s ‘gong’ until the list had been published in the newspapers. She was receiving an OBE for services to the music industry – recognition of the more than sixty million records she had sold worldwide. It was going to be a poignant day for both of us and, for me, having her there only added to the sense of occasion.

  For the investiture, I had bought a dark navy Louise Kennedy lace dress, and a rather dramatic, bright pink Philip Treacy hat, complete with a long pink feather. Shaune, my hairdresser, came to the apartment to fix the hat to my head before I dashed out – in a t-shirt and jeans – to pick up Larry from his hotel. I couldn’t have been happier that he, too, would share such a special day. When I had been at my lowest ebb in New York, the idea that we would be attending Buckingham Palace together, to witness me receive an MBE, would have been dismissed as a chemotherapy-induced hallucination.

  When I arrived outside the hotel and saw him standing there, I was so excited that I parked up, jumped out and gave him the biggest hug. ‘Welcome to London!’ I said. I was so excited to see him that, as I hurriedly got back in the car, I forgot all about the antenna-like feather protruding from my hat. I slammed the door shut, chatting away to Larry, and my head was slightly yanked to the right – pulled by my trapped feather. In fact, it was more than trapped. To my horror, as I reopened the door, it fell to the ground, snapped in two.

  There was nothing I could do. We were racing the clock as it was, and so I would have to make do with a featherless hat and hope that no one noticed the stunted, broken stem that I couldn’t remove.

  I thought I had got away with my fashion faux pas until we arrived at the palace and approached the main door, where a cheeky member of the Royal Household raised one eyebrow and said, ‘Nice hat, Miss Malone.’ Trained eyes missed not a detail, and Josh couldn’t stop laughing.

  As the boys took their seats in the Ballroom, I lined up in the Throne Room, which is where I first saw Kylie, along with the crowd of other recipients. I definitely felt the nerv es that the sense of occasion brought on, and it helped having a friend there, going through the same surreal experience. Ordinarily, I suppose most visitors would be in awe of the ornate majesty of the room, but I was in awe of a group of British soldiers who were all being decorated for their service and courage. That was a sobering comparison as I took my place among them, thinking, ‘These men and women have served their country and done heroic things . . . and all I’ve done is make bath oils.’

  Everyone’s excited chatter died down as the investiture began. It feels like you are waiting in the wings, about to walk on the grandest stage, and no amount of preparation can ready you for the sound of your name being called. As I walked into the formal hush of the Ballroom, I glanced to my right and saw Gary sitting beside Larry, and then Josh, his eyes out on stalks, craning his neck. And then I was standing before HRH Prince Charles.

  ‘I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you,’ he said, as he leaned forward and pinned the beautiful medal, with a rose-pink ribbon, to my chest. I cannot remember another thing he said because I was concentrating so hard on not bursting into tears. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such a deep sense of patriotism and pride.

  Outside, in the shingled courtyard, I posed for the standard press pictures, though my attention was distracted by the sight of my now thoroughly bored seven-year-old son bending down, picking up stones and putting them in his pocket.

  ‘Put them back, Josh! What do you think you’re doing?!’

  ‘Collecting some of the Queen’s pebbles!’

  He was fascinated by the fact we were at the Queen’s house. I took him with me to the ladies before we were due to head off to a celebration lunch at Harry’s Bar with Larry. When we came out, Josh was aghast at how old-fashioned the toilets were.

  ‘Mummy,’ he whispered, ‘there was no chain in there!’

  I laughed. ‘Yes, I know, darling, you have to use the pump.’

  ‘You’d think the Queen could afford a chain, wouldn’t you?!’

  That night, my friends threw a party at the Admiral Codrington, a little pub not far from Walton Street. There must have been about sixty of us in a private room at the back, including Aunty Dot and Uncle Gordon. But we didn’t only toast my MBE, we toasted Kylie’s OBE, too – I invited her along to make it a double celebration. We were two breast cancer survivors who had come through the other side to be recognised for our life’s work, so it seemed fitting that we should raise our glasses together, surrounded by the most amazing group of people, who I will forever regard as my chosen family.

  TWENTY-SIX

  As wonderful as the MBE was, it didn’t stop me feeling in a state of limbo. I chalked off days in my
mind the same way I had counted ‘X’s on the calendar in New York, somehow managing to stumble through the first half of my lock-out period. Gary compared me to a caged tiger prowling our home, which I couldn’t refute – it seemed like an eternity since I had been meaningfully creative (outside of jam- and ice-cream making).

  Because of this drought, and because I needed to find something to do, I went in search of ideas and inspiration, wandering food halls and markets until I was blue in the face, surrounding myself with merchants, trying to feel connected to creativity. ‘What about that – could I do that?’ I asked myself, flitting from stall to stall. I’d see a florist and wonder about turning back the clock. I’d see kitchenware and imagine my own version of Crate & Barrel. I’d see sheets and towels and entertain vague notions of my own lifestyle brand. And yet as lovely as these thoughts were, why go from the master of one to a jack of all trades?

  But this exploration of the markets didn’t turn out to be a waste of time because, in seeing the array of products on offer, and in talking to different traders, I appreciated the extent of the undiscovered entrepreneurial talent that existed, with savvy retail brains and impressive brands, but perhaps without the connections or road map to take the next step up. One Saturday, while visiting Camden Market, the idea came to me that if I couldn’t do what I loved for the foreseeable future, then maybe I should help others develop their brands. I remembered how an agent had recommended us to Bergdorf Goodman, so how great would it be, I thought, if I could be the bridge for someone else? That random idea might well have come to nothing had I not later mentioned it to television agent Jacquie Drewe at Curtis Brown. We had been introduced a few years earlier and, over coffee, she coincidentally aired the possibility of me doing a TV show. ‘Funny you should say that,’ I said. ‘I had an idea only the other day: imagine being able to take an entrepreneur from a market stall to a deal of a lifetime?’