The same guy approached me at a convention ten years later, I kid you not, and opened with, “I bet you don’t remember me.”
I looked at him, completely amazed.
“Oh, I remember you alright. You shot me.”
On the previous occasion, after the security guards had ripped the head off his costume, I’d gotten a good look at him. That face was burned into my brain. He had unkempt hair and wore a pair of bedroom slippers. He looked stunned, scratched his head as if trying to recall what I was talking about, and then finally brightened up.
“Oh yeah! I shot you!”
Join me for a moment in trying to imagine a life so rich and varied that you cannot remember shooting an actress at a sci-fi convention while wearing a tribble costume and then being wrestled to the ground by a security team.
Then there was the guy at a Las Vegas convention in ’97. He’d been sending flowers and love letters to my Hollywood P.O. box. He’d written of his plan to sell his house, quit his job, and move to L.A. so that we could be together. In the world he’d created in his mind we were already married. His sister wrote to me shortly after, stating that she was concerned about his mental health. Apparently he had indeed quit his job and sold his house, and his sister and family had no idea where he was. That worried me. I didn’t even go to pick up my mail, because I was frightened that he’d be there, waiting. Then another letter arrived notifying me that he was coming to pick me up from my next convention in Las Vegas. In his fantasy world I’d left my wedding ring on the sink of our kitchen prior to flying to Vegas, and he was simply being a good husband in returning it to me.
All of this led to my sitting at the police station while a bunch of cops circulated the photo the stalker had conveniently sent me for my bedside table. I went to the convention accompanied by my friend Damon and a team of policemen who looked as if they’d just come out of the armory in The Matrix. They wore fancy-looking headgear, walkie-talkies, and guns. They set up checkpoints and started patrolling while I signed things and talked with the fans. A few hours passed, and then this nice Aussie girl who had been staying at Damon’s came up and pointed to a guy who was circling the table.
“Hey mate, isn’t that your stalker?”
She’d seen the photo two days ago at Damon’s apartment and somehow memorized the face.
“Yes, it is the stalker, mate, and thank you so much.”
Apparently he’d been circling the table for about an hour, and she had thought that the armed escorts had been hanging back with some grand plan in mind when in fact they just hadn’t spotted him at all.
I urgently gesticulated in the direction of the stalker and finally my S.W.A.T. team rolled into action. Walkie-talkies screeched, bodies tumbled, and the cops ran in and handcuffed the guy before dragging him away. After Gary I’ve never married again, but whenever I contemplate the prospect, the image that instantly springs to mind is that stalker with a stack of policemen piling on top of him, desperately trying to fish a wedding band out of his pocket and yelling at me as if we were long lost lovers.
“Claudia! You left your ring back at the house! Quick, take it. People will think you’re available!”
That always helps bring me to my senses.
But this definitely wasn’t the last crazy person I would run into at a convention.
People have tattooed my signature on their bodies and legally changed their names to Susan Ivanova. I can list at least a dozen other stalkers through the years—both male and female—and I have the restraining orders to prove it. I wish I was making this stuff up.
I’m generally open and sharing with my fans, but there is a line, and if you stay on the right side of that—and don’t stalk me or try to kill me—then we’re all good.
I had a break from Babylon 5 at the end of the third season and headed off to spend time with Dodi again. I began to remember why I’d broken things off with him back when I was a teenager. Dodi was a good companion, well-versed in navigating his upper-class domain, but he had a jealous streak a mile wide.
Whenever I was visiting his world, Dodi liked to know where I was at all times. He gave me keys to his apartments in London and Paris but still insisted I sign in and out with security using a codename. Sometimes I was Black Swan, other times I was Red Hawk. It’s very cool at first—you feel like you’re in a James Bond movie. But the luster quickly wears off, and then it becomes just plain irritating.
“I’m Black Hawk.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t have a Black Hawk on the list.”
“Um . . . Red Hawk?”
“Sorry. That was yesterday’s code name.”
“What about Black Eye and Bloody Nose if you don’t let me into the building?”
I went to use his flat in Paris while he went away for business, inviting my cousin Kati to join me. She’s ten years my junior and has always been like a little sister to me. We were excited at the prospect of hitting Les Bains Douches and some of the other hot nightclubs in town.
Always exceptionally generous, Dodi had a meal sent over from the Ritz and then called to tell me that we had a curfew. If we weren’t home by 11 p.m. every night, the guard had orders not to let us back in. The whole situation was all the more ridiculous because I knew the guard. He was this gorgeous guy I used to work out with at a gym in West Hollywood. He’d worked as an actor and bodyguard, and now he was dressed in a butler suit telling me when I had to be home for bed. He was really embarrassed but explained that there were people watching him and that he’d be fired if he didn’t toe the line.
My cousin rolled her eyes. That little disappointment was the beginning of the end for me. I enjoyed the luxurious lifestyle but never had much patience for the drama and control that went with it. The rich man’s entourage—the housemen, security guards, and attendants at every turn—was starting to get on my nerves. I liked my privacy and the freedom to come and go as I pleased.
When Dodi returned we sat down and had a heart-to-heart. I expressed my doubts about his lifestyle, that it wasn’t for me. I told him that I needed to get back to L.A. to prepare for the upcoming season. Instead, Dodi convinced me that we should cruise the Atlantic for a few days on his yacht Jonikal. The weather was welcoming, and my mood cleared as well. It had been more than a decade since Dodi and I had traveled at sea, and I was looking forward to reliving the experience.
At sea there was less interference from others. Dodi and I had enough privacy to enjoy each other and reconnect. As we relaxed together all the tensions and petty annoyances that had been building up between us drifted away.
After we made love on the gently rocking boat one night a sweet intimacy settled over us. We started talking about our lives. Dodi poignantly confessed his fear of dying without becoming a father. His father Mohamed was overbearing and had never spent much time with him as he was growing up. Dodi dreamed of having kids who could be “normal.” Kids he could take to the park or the movies without having to mobilize a private army. The whole issue had been weighing on his mind. At the time, I assumed it was because he’d recently turned forty and was having a midlife crisis. Question: What does the man who has everything regret missing out on when he hits middle age? Answer: A normal life. In retrospect, though, I can’t help but wonder if he had a premonition of his own death, much as my mother had of Patrick’s.
While I lay with my head on his arm he asked if I’d consider having a child with him. I was totally caught off guard. Dodi and I had dated on and off for more than a decade, but I had always considered us to be ships passing in the night.
I was certainly touched. Dodi trusted me because I didn’t want or need anything from him. I had my own money, my own home, and my own career—in contrast to the flock of hungry seagulls who usually hovered around him.
“I’ve known you for a long time now. We have a strong friendship. We would be good parents.”
I was hit by a powerful wave of emotion. My heart lit up as I entertained the possibility that it might just wor
k.
I told him I’d think about it, that I needed time.
We had voyaged southward and entered the Mediterranean. Now we anchored at Monte Carlo. He was going away for a few days on business, and I could sense he was going to press the issue when he got back. We held each other for a long time, and when we let go and looked into each other’s tear-filled eyes, we kissed and hugged and said our goodbyes.
Back at his Kensington flat I sat surrounded by photos of Brooke Shields and other models and actresses he’d dated. I had promised Dodi that I’d think it over seriously, and I did. I knew one thing for certain—I didn’t love him. I mean, I felt a kind of love, a tender, maternal affection, but it wasn’t a mature, soulful love, the kind I’d felt with Rod and John Flinn, the kind you build a lifetime partnership on. And what kind of partnership would it be, anyway? He’d asked me to have his children, but he didn’t ask me to marry him, and that didn’t sit well with me. Wasn’t I good enough? Would Dodi’s other girlfriends keep coming around and competing with our children for his attention while I raised the kids? Screw that.
Then there was his family. Dodi treated me with respect, but his family existed in a different culture. I’d seen his father’s relationship with the mother of his youngest children, so I knew that if I had Dodi’s child—with or without marriage—I’d have to spend more time in that household. Women have to eat in a separate room, apart from the men. I was a young, successful, independent Western woman. I didn’t tolerate that kind of thing when I was at the Davises’ dinner with Kissinger, I didn’t let Dodi get away with it, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to sign up for a lifetime of it. And even if I somehow managed to avoid the family, I knew I would probably lose control of the child if anything ever happened to Dodi.
Still, I rang my mother and asked her for advice. It was a big decision, and I wanted to make sure I was being objective.
“Hi mom. Dodi asked me to have his baby. I was wondering . . . ”
“Do it!”
Was that what she thought of me? That I needed to cash in and settle for a second-rate relationship? In hindsight, I’m sure she meant well. All parents want their kids to settle down, but right then and there my mother’s enthusiasm to see me knocked up and “taken care of” was the deciding factor. I was and still am a very stubborn person. I got up early the next day, wrote Dodi a note, and caught the next flight back to L.A.
I love you Dodi, I always will, but even though you think I’m the most mature girl you know, I’m still a girl. I want my life and I want to see how it plays out. I’m sorry to leave without saying goodbye . . . but we had our beautiful goodbye in Monte Carlo after an incredible weekend. Please call me when you come to Los Angeles, I miss you already. CC
I knew it would make him angry, and later I heard from mutual friends that it had. Dodi had never spent much time around independent women, and he certainly was not used to being turned down. It felt like the coward’s way out, but I also saw it as a way for him to save face. From Dodi’s point of view, he had honored me with the ultimate request—to have his child—and I simply wasn’t ready for it. It seemed kinder just to go.
My relationship with John Flinn was quickly approaching its end, too. We were coming up to the two-year mark, and I’d never had a relationship that lasted more than three. He was very understanding about the whole thing and very forgiving. I was still relatively young, and he could see that I was restless and in need of a change.
As fate would have it I met another man who would light a fire in me I’d never felt before. There was something combustible between us. We both felt it, a little foretaste of an earth-shaking encounter, and it wasn’t long before we fell headlong into the flames of a tumultuous affair.
Toward the end of season four Joe Straczynski started calling me into his office for private conversations. He didn’t do that with many cast members, but I felt that it was a natural progression of the friendship that had been growing over the course of the series. It was common knowledge that I’d broken up with John, but I hadn’t advertised the fact that I had started seeing a new paramour. One day Joe asked me if I’d like to go and see a show with him. I agreed, and never gave it a second thought. We were all pretty buddy-buddy on the set and the cast and crew would often socialize after work, though Joe had never asked me to go anywhere with him before.
I suddenly knew I’d made a mistake in accepting his invitation when the next day a dozen red roses appeared at my front door.
Shit, this is a date!
But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Joe was just being nice. I went out to meet him, and when I saw the black stretch limo pull up any doubts I’d harbored were washed away.
Fuck, this is definitely a date!
I was more than a little freaked out. I’m not normally thrown off guard by men, but it does make a difference when your boss, the guy who puts the words in the mouth of your character, who can kill or dishonor your character, asks you out on a date. It’s not entirely inappropriate; this was Hollywood after all, and things like that do happen. But that night it totally threw me for a loop. I wondered what people would think. Here I am, I’ve just come off a long relationship with the director of photography, and now I’m climbing into a limo with the show’s creator. And then I started to worry about Joe’s expectations. I’d said yes to seeing the show, I’d accepted the roses, and then I climbed into the limo with him. How do you give back roses without causing offense? In hindsight, I should have made a joke about the whole thing: Roses? You know, I don’t date writers, Joe. I married the last writer I dated, and they’re still searching for his body.
We went to the show, and I endured some awkward conversation. It was clearly an uncomfortable evening for both of us. When he dropped me off back at home I quickly thanked him and closed the door to the limo before he had time to move in for anything physical.
It was a small thing, really, just a miscommunication between friends. But these things do change relationships. They change how people act toward one another. After that night I don’t think we ever recaptured the trust and friendship that we’d previously enjoyed.
Back on set Joe stopped calling me into his office, and I’d stay in my trailer on breaks and head home straight after work. We’d shot the last episode of the series, “Sleeping in Light,” and were preparing to shoot two Babylon 5 TV movies. Everyone had already started auditioning for other jobs. I’d even read for the character Seven of Nine on Star Trek: Voyager, a role that ended up going to Jeri Ryan.
I really thought that any discomfort between Joe and me would vanish once the show was over. But sadly for both me and Susan Ivanova, that wouldn’t happen.
Joe had originally intended Babylon 5 to run five years. Every season our ratings got better. Internationally, our popularity was higher than ever. Under ordinary circumstances we would have been able to complete the five-year story arc without a hitch. But in the fourth season the network—Warner’s Prime Time Entertainment Network—started having financial trouble, and it looked as if we weren’t going to have the money to do a fifth. Just to be safe Joe shortened the story arc so that by the end of season four all the loose ends had been tied up. The story was over. We filmed what was supposed to be the last episode, and my manager signed me to star in a TV movie on the USA cable network called A Wing and a Prayer. It was the first time I was the star of a Movie of the Week. I’d been a co-star, guest star, and everything in between, but never “the star,” and it was a big opportunity to take a leap forward in my career.
Then we learned that TNT and Warner Brothers had come through with the money for a fifth season.
That’s when the problems started. I couldn’t sign up for twenty-two episodes because I needed the first few episodes off to do the Movie of the Week. Joe promised that he would write me out for those episodes. He’d done the same thing for some of the other cast members. I was happy with that, but the cable network wasn’t prepared to take me on if I was double booked, because it would affect th
eir ability to get insurance. I pressed my manager, because I was committed to continuing with the show, and he got USA to agree that everything would be okay if I got a guarantee in writing from Babylonian Productions stating that I would be released for those episodes that would be shot while A Wing and a Prayer was shooting.
Joe told me that he was unable to do that. If he renegotiated in writing for me then it would open the door for the rest of the cast to do the same, and that would affect the budget and scheduling and jeopardize the entire fifth season. TNT wanted all the lead actors, which included me, committed to all twenty-two episodes.
They set a deadline for me to sign the contract. I was caught between a rock and a hard place and hoped that Joe and the producers could find some way to work around it.
Joe and the key cast members attended a sci-fi convention in the UK, and some of the studio guys were there, too. They plied us with wine and good scotch, and we went to bed at the hotel completely bombed. At 3 a.m. someone knocked on my door. It was a producer with a contract in hand. He started blabbering, pressuring me to sign. I found out later that they tried the same thing on some other cast members who still hadn’t signed on for the new season. I rang my manager in L.A. to ask him for advice.
“Claudia, no fucking way are you signing anything at 3 a.m. in a foreign country when I haven’t even seen the contract. I’ve been asking these guys to fax me something all week, and they haven’t sent me a goddamn thing!”
I packed my bags and left the UK. The deadline passed, and by the time I got home there was a fax waiting for me telling me that I was fired from the show. My manager contacted them to see if we could salvage the situation. The producer’s reply was that we were a “a day late and a dollar short.”
That’s show business. They had to move on with their production schedule. Joe had scripts to write and he needed to know if the female lead was part of the story. I understand that. I was upset that I couldn’t continue with the show, and I really felt that things could have been worked out. But at the end of the day it was something that often happens in the entertainment business—two parties who can’t reconcile due to scheduling conflicts.
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