Being Jordan: My Autobiography

Being Jordan: My Autobiography

by Katie Price


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Being Jordan: My Autobiography by Katie Price

Katie has brought this paperback edition of her autobiography right up-to-date with full details of her love for Peter, their new life together, their engagement, and their impending wedding. She also reveals the projects she has been working on and what the future holds for her career. No fan will want to miss out on the next installment of Katie's life—so fasten your seatbelts for another rollercoaster ride.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781844541324
Publisher: John Blake Publishing, Limited
Publication date: 07/28/2005
Pages: 288
Product dimensions: 5.00(w) x 7.70(h) x 0.90(d)

Read an Excerpt

Being Jordan

My Autobiography

By Katie Price

John Blake Publishing Ltd

Copyright © 2005 Katie Price
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-84454-132-4



My family are the most important people in my life. I love them all to bits. Through the bad times and the good times they have always been there for me, especially my mum. It is something the press has managed to twist over the years. The way some journalists have described my background, you would think I had the most miserable and unstable childhood, which couldn't be further from the truth. Yes, my real dad finally walked out on the family when I was three, but I had hardly seen him anyway so he was no loss to me. After that my mum fell in love with Paul Price and, although I've never called him Dad, I definitely see him in that role. He and Mum got married when I was nine and they have the strongest marriage of anyone I know.

My real dad, Ray Infield, met my mum Amy at school. They were childhood sweethearts from the age of fifteen. They had some happy times together and were deeply in love, but Ray couldn't be relied on. He was a bit of a playboy, incapable of being faithful to one woman, and, after they were married and Mum was pregnant with my brother Daniel, Dad just left, claiming he was depressed and couldn't handle fatherhood. When Daniel was born he returned for a while, leaving again when his son was nearly a year old. My poor mum, I really feel for her; I know only too well what it's like to be abandoned by the father of your child. Fortunately she could handle it, and I take after her in that respect: I'm strong and independent and, while I've often fallen for the wrong type of man, I can pick myself up again.

Dad claimed to have had a nervous breakdown, and he and Mum ended up seeing a counsellor. The bottom line was that my dad wanted to be with Amy, but he also wanted to be free to do what he wanted, where he wanted, when he wanted – and to see who he wanted. Because my mum loved him so much she put up with all of this, but she wasn't happy about it. Then one of my dad's friends told Mum that he'd been seeing a sixteen-year-old girl. Can you imagine how she felt with a young baby, trying to hold together a failing marriage?

She and my nan discovered where the girl lived and met her parents. They were horrified that Ray was seeing their daughter, especially when Mum told them she had a baby. They all agreed to confront the couple. So one night my dad walked into the house with his young girlfriend to be greeted by my mum, my aunt and my nan. 'Oh,' he said. 'I've been caught out.'

'That's it!' shouted Mum, and she took the house keys from him.

A couple of months passed and Mum tried to get on with her life, but she was still irresistibly drawn to Ray; even after all he had done, she still loved him. They decided to make a fresh start, to buy a new house and give their marriage another go. I'm pleased they did, because I was the result. Ray stayed until I was three, but I barely saw him. He was an antiques dealer and was away most of the week on buying trips; at the weekend he would be down the pub or playing golf. He wasn't an important person in my life. I had all the stability and love a child could want from my mum and my grandparents.

By now my mum had met Paul Price, who worked for my dad. Whenever Dad returned from one of his trips, he'd give Paul money to take Mum out for dinner. Ray wanted to do his own thing, play cards and snooker, without having Mum on his case. But he couldn't have imagined the consequences! Paul fell in love with Amy. Whenever Mum went out with her friends, he would turn up as well and he was forever calling at her house. As she says, he started to grow on her.

As they got closer, Paul told my mum that Ray was seeing other women on his trips away. Mum was horrified. By now she'd had enough. My parents split up, this time for good, but Ray still owned part of the house. One day Paul said to him, 'What will it take for you to be out of this house and Amy's life forever?' Ray named his price, Paul paid him and he left. As Mum says, she was bought and sold in a lounge.

Given her stormy first marriage, it's not surprising that Mum has been so tolerant of some of my relationships with men. She knows what it's like to be passionately in love with someone, even if they are treating you badly. Her story turned out happily and she is now with a man who gives her all the love and stability she deserves. Perhaps there is hope for me yet.

I don't blame my unsuccessful relationships with men on the fact that my dad left when I was three. Yes, I can be insecure in relationships; I do need constant reassurance; I need the man to tell me that he loves me, to give me cuddles, to say I look good; but I don't think it's because of my dad. I didn't feel abandoned when Ray left; in fact, I can honestly say it didn't affect me. Paul has always been there for me. And, although he and Mum moved house lots of times, she always kept me and my brother at the same schools so we wouldn't feel disrupted. We had a stable family life. When Mum gave birth to my half-sister Sophie, I was twelve and I couldn't have been happier. As far as I was concerned my family was complete.

My dad was free to see us whenever he wanted. Usually we'd spend alternate weekends with him. As I got older I started to get the feeling that he favoured my brother over me. The two of them would do father–son things like go fishing together, but he didn't really make much of an effort with his daughter. When he met another woman, he would often leave me with her and go down the pub. Not exactly an ideal father figure. Gradually our visits grew fewer, and by the time I was a teenager I rarely saw him.

I don't feel any bitterness – when he remarried in 1988 I was one of the bridesmaids – but I haven't seen my real dad for two years. We have gone our separate ways now, and we don't know each other. My brother still sees him, and my mum and Paul are friends with him. I was upset when his second marriage broke up and he went off with another woman. Shay, his wife, sold a hurtful story to the papers saying he'd gone off with a Jordan lookalike who was only two years older than me. It was cheap and nasty, but I just shrugged it off: she became just another in the long line of people who had used their connection to me to make a bit of money.



I'd always wanted to be a model; either that or a pop star – or both! I can almost hear you thinking, She must think a lot of herself. But I don't. I've just always been a bit of an exhibitionist. I love showing off and being the centre of attention. Modelling gives me the perfect chance to do that. It's not that I think I'm God's gift, but I know I'm not half bad looking, and I know how to work it. Mum reckons I get my exhibitionist streak from her mother. One of her many jobs was as a topless mermaid at an exhibition. She had to lie behind a fish tank with only her long red hair to preserve her modesty. She was one of the more popular attractions, but got the sack for smoking – just like me she could never obey rules.

Let's face it: I was never going to be a brain surgeon. But I've probably earned more money than anyone else from my school. I was only eighteen when I bought my first house, and how many people do you know who have done that? Now I own two houses with a fair bit of land, a couple of flats, several very nice cars, including a Range Rover and a Bentley, and three horses. I'm in the position where I can pretty much have what I want. I didn't get all that by being a dumb bimbo. I've done very well out of being a model, but success didn't just fall into my lap. I've worked for everything I've got.

I was eleven when I enrolled for a series of modelling lessons, and believe me they were anything but glamorous. For two hours a week I would have to strut my stuff up and down a tiny studio surrounded by mirrors, pretending to be on a catwalk, with Tina Turner's 'The Best' blasting out. The classes were run by a former model. Typically for a child, I remember thinking that she couldn't really have been a model because she looked so old – in truth she was probably only in her thirties.

I laugh about the experience now, but when you're young and naïve you really think, Yes! This is it. I'm going to be a model because I'm doing these lessons. I will get spotted. One day I will be famous. In reality, if anyone had videoed these amateurish modelling classes I would have been more likely to appear on You've Been Framed. They were well dodgy.

Then, when I was thirteen, a proper job did come up: modelling for Joe Bloggs jeans. I had to go to the shopping centre in Brighton – not a very exotic location, I admit – and pose with a group of girls in jeans and T-shirts. Then we were taken to a local park to do some more shots, this time on horseback. It was a revelation to me, and I absolutely loved the whole experience. It gave me a real taste for modelling and I knew I wanted more. I knew inside that I was good at it, and when everyone saw the pictures they thought the same. It was such a great feeling.

I'd got on really well with the photographer who had done the shoot. He had made the whole session a real laugh, and I felt relaxed posing for him. A few days later he called my mum and said that I should seriously think about modelling, that I had a lot of potential and could go far. He said that he could help because he had an agency in London. He was very convincing. He showed Mum his portfolio and it looked totally legit. He seemed completely trustworthy, and so we trusted him. We thought he was a professional photographer. As it turned out, we couldn't have been more wrong.

He arranged with Mum to do more pictures of me. He said he could get me into catalogues. Great, I thought. Katie Price, you're going somewhere!

Every week, Mum would take me to his house and then leave me alone with him. He convinced her that if she was in the same room as me it would put me off, so she'd go and walk the dogs or have a cup of tea with his mum. He still lived with his parents, and his so-called studio was his bedroom. That should have alerted us straight away. But Mum and I had never been to a professional studio before, so to us a couple of lights, a backdrop and a big camera looked like the business. And of course he looked normal and was very charming. But then, paedophiles don't wear badges advertising who they are. They are clever and manipulative; they know how to make children trust them. When I think of what might have happened, I feel sick.

So I became his model and I really enjoyed it. At first he took pictures of me in my own clothes. He particularly liked me to pose in my black velvet skintight catsuit – no prizes for guessing why. Or he liked me to dress up as a schoolgirl – not that hard, as I was one. Then he started to take pictures of me being cheeky, sticking my tongue out at the camera, or sucking a lollipop and looking saucy. When he showed Mum and me the contacts, we just thought I looked as if I was having fun. We didn't realise that the whole cheeky schoolgirl look was fuelling his depraved sexual fantasies.

He kept saying that he could get me lots of work, he just needed more pictures for the agency. And I was happy to model for him, as it was a laugh to go to his house after school. I liked him, he let me be as lippy and cheeky as I wanted. There were a few strange things about his behaviour, like the fact he always offered me a milkshake every session, even though I told him I didn't like them, but I thought nothing of it.

After a while the schoolgirl look wasn't enough for him and he started to get more extreme. He wanted me to pose in lacy underwear and he got me to wear suspenders and stockings. He didn't get me to do any explicit poses – everything was covered up even if it was with lacy underwear – but I did have to wear high heels and red lipstick. I must have looked atrocious – a little girl dressed up to look like a woman. It was all done under subdued lighting, me standing with my hand on my hip looking straight at the camera. At the time I thought it was 'arty'. I didn't really think anything of it – it's not as if he had me lying spreadeagled in crotchless knickers with my legs wide open. It all still seemed like a game.

One day I went round as usual to do a shoot and he introduced me to a woman. Like him, she seemed perfectly ordinary, nice even. He said that she was his stylist, there to help him get a new look with me. This time he wanted to try something different: he wanted me to pose wearing a wet shirt with nothing on underneath. Suddenly this didn't feel like a game any more. I didn't want to show off my body in front of these people. I felt really uncomfortable with the idea, and for the first time I was quite frightened. I was alone with them – my mum had gone off for a walk with the dogs – and there was no one else in the house.

'No,' I said, 'I don't want to. It'll be too cold.' Well, I had to think of something!

'Don't worry,' he replied, 'we'll use warm water.' It was horrible, both of them standing really close to me trying to get me to do something I didn't want to do. And they were very persistent, joking at first and then getting cross. The woman was the most persuasive, saying it would make a really good picture, and didn't I want to be a model? She told me I had to learn to take direction, that they knew what was going to look right, how he had done all these pictures of me, how I owed him one. But thank God I am stubborn and strong-willed because I didn't give in; the more they tried to talk me into it, the more I refused. After a while they gave up.

I couldn't face doing any pictures with them. I felt really freaked out, so I said I would wait outside for my mum to come. Typically she was late – she always was – so I had to sit outside in the freezing cold for what seemed like hours, willing her to come and rescue me. Suddenly he came outside. My heart started pounding – I didn't want to be with him. He apologised and said could we just forget about what had happened and pick up next week where we left off. I nodded without saying anything. I'd already decided I wanted nothing more to do with him. Then he leaned towards me and said, 'Don't I get a kiss goodbye then?'

I could smell the coffee and stale cigarettes on his breath, and could see where the saliva had dried at the corners of his mouth. My skin crawled at the thought of having any contact with his lips. I took a step backwards. 'No way,' I said. All I wanted was for my mum to come and take me away; all I could think of was that I was alone with him, and he was bigger than me.

Fortunately for me, at that moment a group of school kids went by. He gave up and went back into the house. At the doorway he called out, 'See you next week then.' I didn't answer.

My mum finally turned up and I ran and got in the car. 'You look terrible,' she said. 'What's the matter? Why are you outside?'

'I don't feel very well.' I couldn't bear to talk about what had happened until we were back home safely. But when I recounted what had happened to my mum, she told me not to be so silly. She shrugged off the whole incident saying that I was being oversensitive.


Excerpted from Being Jordan by Katie Price. Copyright © 2005 Katie Price. Excerpted by permission of John Blake Publishing Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents


Title page,
This is why ...,
Chapter One: Meet the Family,
Chapter Two: A Narrow Escape,
Chapter Three: First Love,
Chapter Four: Sparky,
Chapter Five: Becoming Jordan,
Chapter Six: Here's Looking at You, Kid ...,
Chapter Seven: Oh, Teddy, Teddy!,
Chapter Eight: My Gorgeous Gladiator,
Chapter Nine: Pit-stop Pin-up,
Chapter Ten: I Did it My Way: The Story of My Surgery,
Chapter Eleven: Formula 1 Love,
Chapter Twelve: Nightmare in Germany,
Chapter Thirteen: Poptastic,
Chapter Fourteen: Torn Between Two Lovers ...,
Chapter Fifteen: From the Heart,
Chapter Sixteen: Posh?,
Chapter Seventeen: Falling Apart,
Chapter Eighteen: A Bit of All Dwight,
Chapter Nineteen: Footballers' Wives,
Chapter Twenty: La-La Land,
Chapter Twenty-one: Monte Carlo Misery,
Chapter Twenty-two: Bunny Girl,
Chapter Twenty-three: Oh Baby,
Chapter Twenty-four: All By Myself,
Chapter Twenty-five: Pop Idol,
Chapter Twenty-six: Single Mum,
Chapter Twenty-seven: Hello Harvey,
Chapter Twenty-eight: The Bombshell,
Chapter Twenty-nine: The Only Way is Up,
Chapter Thirty: Back to La-La Land,
Chapter Thirty-one: The Big C,
Chapter Thirty-two: Return of the Pop Idol,
Chapter Thirty-three: Lover Boy,
Chapter Thirty-four: Jungle Fever,

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