Flying back to Denmark I thought about his words and something about him made me curious, perhaps fatally so. If I’d been the love-struck fan maybe I wouldn’t have done anything more about it and maybe he wouldn’t either, but it was more than me being impressed by his style, the undeniably sexy rumble of his voice and the very fact that he made the effort to come and find me. Something more passed between us even in the short time we’d spent together. We’d spoken straight away about personal and painful things like divorce and he had now told me twice to call him up. Single and ready to boogie, I decided I had all the excuse I needed.
Back at home, Sylvester seemed a lot further away than he really was. Everyone, particularly my mother, seemed very impressed that I’d met such a big American star and I guess it was a thrill to talk about it, but as a young, divorced mother living in a small room in my parents’ house the chances of ever seeing him again did seem incredibly remote. Work came up all over the world and it was only a matter of time before some agent or other offered me something in America, but I needed a really good plan if I wanted to ensure I’d end up on the other end of the phone with Sylvester in Los Angeles.
Playboy. I’d worked with the legendary photographer Helmut Newton and called up the magazine in my brightest, most optimistic voice to introduce myself. It was always more than a top-shelf publication and for a long time had a reputation for good journalism and photoshoots with the likes of Annie Leibovitz and Marilyn Monroe. Besides, being Scandinavian, I didn’t mind doing arty nudes. I’d just finished a movie, I told them. I’d done shoots with Helmut and I would really like to do something for Playboy. What I really wanted, of course, was a first-class ticket to Los Angeles and to be able to say I was staying at the prestigious Beverly Hills Hotel – immortalised by The Eagles in ‘Hotel California’ – when I called Sylvester. I figured I had a much better chance of making him listen to me if we were both working in the same world.
The deal worked almost too well. Playboy also gave me use of a limo for a week and offered me a fee. I had been so wrapped up in promotion and with everything in my personal life that I hadn’t noticed Red Sonja making me as hot as I thought I had to pretend I was, but I was Arnold Schwarzenegger’s co-star: I was big news.
I felt much more confident flying back to America: I was going to leave all the trouble behind me and things were really going to move. So I checked in, carefully took out the piece of paper that Sylvester had given me and phoned his office (it seemed cooler than trying him at home). ‘This is Brigitte Nielsen,’ I said, using my new name and sounding as neutral as I could. ‘I just wanted to let Mr Stallone know that I’m in town and I can be reached at the Beverly Hills Hotel.’ It was all so contrived, and the funniest thing about it was that I really did feel rather good saying it – I did feel as if I had properly arrived. Sylvester came on the line and was very friendly. He wanted to know what I was doing and I told him a photoshoot – he didn’t need to know it was for Playboy.
‘Would you like to meet for dinner tonight?’
There was only so much cool I could play. ‘Yeah!’ I said enthusiastically. ‘I would really like to.’ I stayed in control that whole week. Every day I would slide into my limo to meet Sylvester, we’d go to a club, his brother might show up, and later Sylvester would try to persuade me into bed but I would gently steer him away from the subject. It was all very flirty and I loved it. We were just playing and although he was persistent, it was always with a sense of fun. Not only was he attractive and in fine physical shape but he was smart and talented too. So many things came across in just the right way: I understood why the world had fallen in love with him.
He showed off a great singing voice and could do unexpectedly funny impressions of famous friends. It was an informal side to him which wasn’t always quite so readily on show. I got to see his house and was shocked by how many staff he had – there was security, cooks, plus people working on administration. It was quite impressive and at the same time rather intimidating: it made me enjoy the charm of the Beverly Hills Hotel all the more, with its immaculate gardens and the sense of all the musicians and writers who have been equally captivated by it.
Playboy did the photoshoot in the hotel itself and their crew were as professional as I could have hoped. I had enough experience in front of the cameras for it not to be such a big deal that I was distracted from my main purpose in LA, but I was very proud of the shots I got in those sessions – still am. We even used one of my own outfits, a sort of riff on bondage, which I had found while out shopping with a friend. Chains hung from metal rings attached to little strips of leather and that was about all there was to it. It was great fun and left me with loads of time to spend with Sylvester.
I ran into Grace Jones one night. We’d just finished dinner and Sylvester wasn’t in a dancing mood. There was a dance floor as well as a restaurant in this place and needless to say, I was always up for a party. The reluctant Sylvester and I walked over to be greeted by Grace at her terrifying peak and she remembered me instantly from my modelling days.
‘Gitte!’ she yelled, but with her trademark snarl she made it sound more like a roar. Lots of teeth. Her hands clawed the air as she rushed me. I was wearing a thigh-length, white, cotton-stretch dress with a yellow plastic buckle. As Grace reached me she dropped to her knees and by way of greeting, jokingly buried her face in my crotch. Nice to see you too, Grace.
She stood up to leave a Turin shroud-style impression of herself in all her angular glory imprinted at the intimate heart of my beautiful dress. I could hear a shocked Sylvester by my side take a sharp breath, but I hadn’t spent years as a model without always being prepared for a wardrobe malfunction and simply folded and rolled up the long dress to make an unblemished mini-skirt. For his part, Sylvester seemed embarrassed, perhaps understandably. The dance floor had always been my turf but now it made me feel awkward too.
I had given the moment in the sunshine of Los Angeles my very best shot. The spell was broken at the end of my week when I turned back into an ordinary girl on her way home to Denmark. The limo went back, I handed over the key to my lovely room and returned to my parents’ house to wait for the next job.
CHAPTER 12
BEVERLY HILLS COP II
I was prepared for the routine of life in my parents’ house and I knew it didn’t matter that I had a career and a child of my own. My dad’s strict rules were still in force: dinner at 6pm exactly, no calls after 9pm. When the phone rang at 11pm my stomach gave a lurch and I ran out into the hallway, but I was too late. To my horror Dad had got there first. ‘Nielsen household. How can I help?’ he said unhelpfully.
He had switched to speaking English, which meant it must be for me. Dad was still talking sternly and I felt like a naughty teenager. ‘I don’t know if I can do that for you,’ he said. As an international engineer he spoke very good business English. ‘However, you can call back tomorrow at 6 o’clock our time. We’ll be happy to talk to you then.’ Phone down. I gasped, knowing I’d be in trouble now.
‘Dad!’ I shouted as I ran over to him. ‘I didn’t mean… who was it? Who was it?’
‘That,’ said my father, ‘was Mr Stallone calling for you.’
‘Oh, Dad! Please, it’s like 10 o’clock in the morning for him!’
‘I don’t care. He can call back again tomorrow.’
We got into a massive argument. He knew exactly who Sylvester was and that we’d spent time together, but there was no getting around his rules. He just wouldn’t fucking give any ground: ‘This is the Nielsen family and this is Denmark,’ he said.
But Sylvester did call back the next day at 6 o’clock, just as directed by Mr Nielsen, and asked permission to see me. My dad made him explain everything while I watched him on the phone in humiliation – I was to be invited to Sylvester’s beach house, I learned, as I crumpled with embarrassment. But maybe it was no bad thing that Dad was showing so much interest: there was something proper and formal about the old-fashioned
way I was being courted and I was so excited by the news that it was hard to stay irritated for long.
I was soon packed and got my hair done to look its best. Then, with just a couple of days to go, I developed a really bad case of tonsillitis, but decided that nothing was going to delay my departure. We took off in a snowstorm and were then diverted to Stockholm, where I had to wait three hours. I endured 12 hours to Los Angeles feeling feverish, downing tablets and watching my nose go a particularly unattractive red. My mascara was all over my face and I dreaded meeting Sylvester in this state. I kept popping into the toilet to try and fix myself.
I struggled through customs with my nose practically glowing and my eyes streaming, trying to spot Sylvester. After all that he wasn’t there – but I supposed I should have guessed: a superstar can hardly be seen to be hanging around the arrivals hall. I don’t know what I was thinking. I had imagined it would be like at home when half the family would come out to greet travelling friends with smiles and that funny little Danish flag-waving gesture thing I mentioned earlier. The bodyguard with my name on a sign looked very unlikely to jump up and down waving enthusiastically. This was Bruce, Sylvester’s man, and he was tasked with picking me up.
It was a bit of an anti-climax and I rather sheepishly thanked him while thinking that at least I had a bit of driving time to sort myself out. I guessed we would be going by limo and I had become quite used to them – but I had never seen the Mercedes-Benz beast that was waiting for us outside. It was gigantic. And even bigger when I realised with disappointment that Sylvester wasn’t behind the tinted windows: the inside of the car could have comfortably served as a family-sized living room. I asked Bruce where his boss was and he gave me a look as if to tell me that I was completely stupid even to think that he might have come to get me.
‘He’s waiting for you at the beach house,’ he said, and I had a beautiful ride along the Pacific Coast Highway to Broad Beach in Malibu. We were greeted by a butler and, at last, Sylvester. I forgot everything as soon as I saw him again and we fell into each other’s arms, me apologising all the while for being so sick. We spent a relaxed evening together and the next day I got to swim in the sea and at last I began to feel a little bit better.
That night we were together for the first time. We did it on a chair – a big, American chair. My main memory of it was that it had finally happened. You know, it was supposed to happen when we spent time together during that Playboy week. It was always going to happen. I guess it didn’t matter if it was in a bed or on a chair, but I do remember that it just didn’t feel right. It was just…weird.
The next morning, Sunday, we had brunch together and later that afternoon Sylvester very directly asked me where I was going. There was a brief silence.
‘Excuse me?’ I said. Only a few days had passed since he had that conversation with my dad on the phone. He knew I was only in LA to visit him; that was why I’d flown all the way from Europe!
‘Well, you know, I’ve got things to do. I just want to know what you’re up to so I can get my car to take you there.’ I tried to keep my composure enough to answer him. Then I needed to find somewhere to go. I had a couple of names of agents I knew well enough to ask for help and I was totally honest with them when I called from Sylvester’s.
‘I came to see him and now I’m here,’ I said. ‘Pick me up, please, do something…’ I felt stranded but by the Monday I was going around LA looking for apartments to rent. I had decided to stay anyway. I didn’t have a driver’s licence and relied on taxis and bicycles in a town where nobody cycles and nobody walks. I should be in the Guinness Book of Records for being the only person ever to cycle from Robertson Boulevard down Sunset Boulevard all the way to Pacific Palisades. It just wasn’t done and it was hard work, but I found a lovely little place that fitted my budget and was owned by the great character actor Armand Assante. That made me feel a bit Hollywood already and I called home in better spirits.
‘Dad, I’m not coming back. I’m going to give it a go here – I’ve got an agent and I’m going to see what happens.’
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘but you’ll let me know you’re all right.’ Then he asked me: ‘How are things going with Sylvester?’ I lied that everything was absolutely great and said truthfully that I’d paid three months in advance on my apartment. That was showing some faith on my part. I must have something of the Viking in me – I was really determined to make it work on my own terms. I didn’t tell my dad that I found it hard to be alone there, particularly at night.
Sylvester called and I was very cold as I said I’d found somewhere and I was doing okay. He sounded very unimpressed, but he phoned a lot and kept asking me down to his place. And again I went. I guess there was still something there between us. We started seeing one another and within just a few weeks he offered me a part in Rocky IV. I wanted to go through the usual audition but he took that as questioning his talent-spotting ability. ‘Well, if you’re really so sure…’ I said. ‘Yes, that would be great.’ But in some respects I don’t think I really had a choice. For Sylvester I think me being in his film was part of what it meant for me to be in a relationship with him.
Eventually he did say, ‘Can I apologise to you? I’m really sorry. I know you’ve waited two months but can you pack up your suitcases again and move in with me?’ He was very cute and extremely convincing and so I agreed. Apart from anything else it was a pain in the ass living where I was and having to cycle everywhere and he was, after all, not any less attractive than when I’d first turned up. Maybe something would happen. And it did – that was when the shit really hit the fan…
Sylvester’s villa was the biggest and most beautiful in the Pacific Palisades. One evening he produced a ring and asked me to marry him. I wasn’t yet even divorced from Kasper and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to think about it again. Being with Sylvester also meant facing hostility from his inner circle which talk of marriage would only intensify. There were powerful people around him who freaked out at how in love with me he was. He listened to me and they felt threatened by this crazy 21-year-old. They told him that I’d come to steal his money and ruin his life. And for my part, nobody in my family thought it was a good idea.
But the ring was physical proof that he wasn’t taking the warnings seriously and it overcame many of my doubts. He must really love me for myself, I thought. If it felt like things were going too fast that didn’t matter because we couldn’t do anything until I got divorced from Kasper. We got engaged – that was new for me as there’s no tradition of engagements in Denmark – and Sylvester’s lawyers moved quickly. Within a couple of months the divorce from Kasper was rushed through and Sylvester went down on one knee to propose. I was 22, he was 39. I felt it was too soon to put my career on hold.
But then Sylvester was pulling my hand towards him gently and pressing his head against it, with his mouth doing that famous downwards lip curl. He mumbled his love like a contented bulldog and he called me ‘Gitte’, which got to me. That was really me, he knew I wasn’t Brigitte. ‘I want to marry you and create a beautiful family,’ he told me.
I said, ‘Yes’ – I really did say, ‘Yes’. But in a way, the age gap and the doubters had brought us even closer.
That spring of 1985 we settled on 15 December as our date. His mother wasn’t invited – although my parents were – but I’m not allowed to talk about the reasons behind that decision here. I can say that was at least partly why I was so startled when Jackie Stallone turned up on Celebrity Big Brother to deliver her now infamous battle cry – ‘Yeah… Jackie!’
I settled into life by the ocean with Sylvester. Our neighbours included Steven Spielberg and Quincy Jones, who became a good friend of mine. I also got to know Michael Jackson after he came over for lunch. People always seem interested in the big names who lived nearby and it was true that we knew people who were famous all over the world – Aaron Spelling, Bill Cosby, Whoopi Goldberg, Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn. She was another I’d gossip with and
we hung out together. Sylvester and I enjoyed a busy social life and there were a lot of good times.
My parents came over before the wedding for three weeks and Sylvester treated them impeccably. He gave them a beach house and made sure everyone was quiet around them. In every respect he was the model Italian son-in-law. My parents were totally won over and saw the impending marriage in a completely different light.
Film producer Irwin Winkler held the wedding at his house, a complex so gigantic that you might mistake it for a small city. The Sylvester connection was that he and partner Robert Chartoff produced five of the Rocky movies, but they were also producers on Raging Bull and Goodfellas, and Irwin was later to get his own star in the Hollywood Hall of Fame. Even back in 1985 he was one of the most influential men in Hollywood.
The guest list ran to 300, of whom I knew personally a grand total of five – my parents, brother, my personal assistant Kelly and my good, gay friend and stylist Bruce. I recognised most of the other people only from the movies. Under a grand canopy I said, ‘Yes’ to Sylvester and then people started to come over – John Travolta, Donna Summer, country and western singer Lee Greenwood and countless others. Too many to list, even if I could remember them all.
And the strange thing is that I can’t.
When I came to write this book I realised that there were certain memories I always thought were stored away somewhere but the detail had actually gone. It was shocking to discover my marriage to Sylvester was one of those occasions. I can remember up to being in the limo wearing a red cotton dress and no make-up. I was dropped off at the venue and made my way to the dressing area, where Kelly and Bruce greeted me. They started to help me get ready and the next thing I can recall are flowers around Sylvester and I as we held hands and said our vows – and that’s it. It feels very strange knowing that much of that whole day has gone. I had to call my mother to ask her who was there and what happened. My doctor has a theory about it: he reckons that because things went so badly wrong with the marriage to Sylvester I ended up blocking out certain events from my mind.
You Only Get One Life Page 10