You Only Get One Life

by Brigitte Nielsen

  I didn’t have a lawyer or an agent and I was basically on the streets. None of my friends would talk to me. For my parents what was hardest to deal with was the coverage of the split when I was on the cover of every newspaper and every magazine.

  The public in Denmark had never fallen for Sylvester in the first place. There had been outspoken criticism when we visited that time he saw my parents’ house. We flew in by private jet, which normally ensured a smooth and discreet arrival in an airport, but this time there was an anti-Stallone demonstration and someone even managed to break in and spray-paint the entire plane. That’s fucking Denmark, you know? I remember thinking. I was furious – you might not agree with the man and his views but you don’t do that. And I got really angry and defended my husband-to-be in the press. Security was on high alert the whole time we were there.

  Now it seemed there was once more no other story. It was widely alleged that I had become a lesbian and that was why we were splitting up. That story was reported everywhere, particularly in the UK, but even in Denmark my father had to endure looks from colleagues who were watching his personal life unfold in their daily paper. The asides and snide questions followed him everywhere and that seemed totally unfair to me. I might have been running with the Hollywood set but my parents really had nothing to do with it. They were bewildered by what was happening to them and the family were angry with me. They had said not to marry him and now it was all a mess; it was all very sad and very ugly. Yet my parents knew that there was no truth in the stories and despite all the shit he was going through my father said to me that if I needed to move back home they would still be there to look after me.

  Kelly’s family was also hit. I had stayed good friends with her and I knew her family was small but sociable and very religious. They were stunned by the allegations that their daughter and I were lovers and ended up having to move towns. And so it was that two families sustained direct hits in the endless rounds of media attacks. They were split down the middle, with some speaking out in defence and others angry about being caught up in such a personal campaign. I found out that a major PR company had been hired to take us down in a very deliberate way but I never got anything to say who was behind it.

  Fox magazine ran a cover story suggesting that I had walked away with $100 million. Other sources put it at just $50 million. Either way I was accused of taking everything from Sylvester and there was nothing I could say. Or rather nobody listened. It was like being run over by a tank. I watched helplessly as my family fell apart and the pain was unbearable, but there was no point in fighting something that was so completely untrue and I realised how little truth there is in most celebrity stories. Even some of my allies came to believe that there was no such thing as smoke without fire, but I can tell you that I’ve never been a lesbian. Take a look at my track record! I’m not denying that someone can marry and still go on to be lesbian or gay and that’s fine, but I’m saying that it wasn’t the case for me. I told journalists, ‘Just stop it! I’m Danish. The first legalised gay marriage took place in Denmark in 1973. If I was a lesbian, I would say so.’ They just ignored me.

  Kelly had been my rock throughout the marriage. Because we spent almost every day together there were plenty of photos of the two of us that could be used in evidence against me. I have no idea how these got into the press but it was Kelly I felt particularly sorry for. For almost three years all she had done was be very loyal and she knew everything that went on between Sylvester and me. She would refer to the set-up we had as ‘Sylvester’s crazy house’.

  She and I would take off and drive around Hollywood sometimes, just to escape the place and the bodyguards. My car was fitted with a police siren system – which wasn’t, strictly speaking, legal but was one of the perks of being who I was. It could do fire sirens as well and just to give you an idea of how stupid our humour was, I had a tape of someone having a particularly liquid attack of diarrhoea, which we played at full volume down Rodeo Drive, cracking up with laughter the whole way. The genteel ladies of Beverly Hills were treated to thunderclaps of flatulence and we thought it was the coolest thing ever; that tells you how mature we were.

  Kelly worked in the shop at Gold Gym, which was where we got talking. Born in New Orleans, she had moved to LA like so many others in search of the American Dream. I was a regular at the gym and I soon got to trust her and asked her if she would be my personal assistant. She needed to be talked around as she’d never done anything like that but she went on to become the best PA I ever had. When I met her she was stuck in a hopeless relationship with a real loser and I think working for me helped her to develop her confidence and move on from him. She organised everything for me and was always there on the movie set and booking tickets for me; she was my shadow in everything I did and she was good at getting things done. There was a tough side to her and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. But one thing she wasn’t was lesbian; not even a bit bisexual. She has always been passionately, loyally, stupidly in love with men – just as I am.

  I had never been after money. My feeling about relationships is that when they’re over you’ve got to get on with your life. I didn’t want to get into a protracted battle in the courts which would spin out the divorce; also I wanted to show Sylvester that I was a big girl and I could take care of myself. Everything went really quickly. I took only clothes, a car and jewellery.

  A year later I got a cheque for $500,000. Even that was really only symbolic. I’d been told by friends who thought I was crazy to walk away that I could get millions through the lawyers, even after the pre-nuptial agreement, but I found it impossible to imagine fighting a man I was in the middle of leaving. Despite everyone’s well-intentioned advice I was determined to start over again.

  On 13 July 1987 my new life began as the papers came through without contest. I was only 24 and I had already been through two divorces, I had a child and I had known some of the richest and most successful people in the world – although now I was myself poor.

  CHAPTER 14

  ITALIAN SUPERSTAR

  Offers of work were not exactly plentiful for the lesbian ex-wife of Sylvester Stallone who took him for $100 million. No more movie parts, no more anything; it all dried up. My agent refused to work with me and I never heard from any of those producers and directors who had previously been so keen to work with me. Later, I was told that the word had been passed around that I was not to be hired: I had been blacklisted and at the time I didn’t even know.

  I became homesick and felt I was being called back to the Old World. It was an exciting time for Europe: the Berlin Wall hadn’t yet come down, but young activist Mathias Rust staged his audacious flight over Moscow’s Red Square in a little civilian Cessna plane. Music was interesting too. Michael Jackson released Bad with the fabulous single ‘Man In The Mirror’. If there was one song in the world that I wish I had written, that would be it. He sings about wanting to change the way things are – and if you want to make the world different you have to look deep into your own soul first; you have to face your reflection. That was me – I was ready to change. It was like a message sent to me personally and the words of Michael Jackson gave me strength when I felt very alone.

  I was knocked out by the force of the storm. Friends turned their backs on me and I had to reassess a lot of things in my life. A lot of promises turned out to have meant nothing, but I was still healthy. I had my sense of humour, I still had a family – even if they were a long way off – and Kelly was by my side. Most of all I had my beautiful son. I had the important people and they backed me a hundred per cent. When $500,000 landed in my bank account from Sylvester I was even able to buy myself a little house.

  Kelly kept me positive. I had got stuck remembering all the good things Sylvester and I had shared and it was her who got me clubbing again in Los Angeles. And although I felt like shit, I still looked great – I was quite awesome at that time. The paparazzi still loved to follow me as I tried to forget Sylvester but at least
there was no internet yet, so no YouTube. I was able to retain some kind of a private life.

  Hollywood’s hottest clubs included a very cool converted fire station hangout of De Niro and Joe Pesci, which we stormed. We partied with Jack Nicholson and George Michael – I have to say, I had the best dance with George Michael and I knew he was gay and it was just so sad! In a quiet corner was shy Michael Jackson and he didn’t go out dancing despite that onstage persona, but he wasn’t withdrawn – you could have a long conversation with him and he was often very funny.

  At last an offer of work came and it was from outside the States. An Italian company gave me my first million-dollar contract to co-host a prime-time TV show in Italy. Their viewing figures regularly went above 15 million and could hit 30 million at Christmas. At that point I could speak a little bit of Italian from my days modelling and shooting Red Sonja, but I wasn’t able to carry a conversation. Even so, there was a great deal of interest in me as the ex-wife of Sylvester Stallone and money was in plentiful supply – it was the height of the ‘80s. I was ecstatic. Great! I thought. I’m going to show Sylvester I don’t need to sue him to get money, I can make my own. People want me and I can do things I really want to do.

  When my plane touched down in Italy it was surreal. It was more like the Beatles or Tina Turner had arrived. I thought I was going to die in the middle of the crowds who had turned out to greet me. That freaked me out because I had hoped that I would have more freedom now I was on my own. The Italians were very physical in their affection and it was a very different kind of attention to what I would get in Germany or the US, but I plunged straight into work and everywhere I went, I was escorted by the police like a politician.

  The TV show ran for seven months during which Kelly commuted with me between LA and Rome. I made so much money and I could have had any man I chose: I was at that level of success where nobody cared what I looked like or what sort of person I really was. It was all about fame and that made me feel quite lonely. I was withdrawn outside of the job: most days I would work my butt off and then just go home, turn on the computer, play a game and crash out. Kelly started getting really worried about me. I began to get paranoid about other people. Did anyone want me for who I was? Would they still like me if I was ordinary Gitte or did they want to spend an evening with Brigitte Nielsen?

  Kelly told me my fears were just bullshit. ‘Get over it – have some fun,’ she said and offered an antidote to my solitary life. ‘Why don’t you go out and get laid?’ But I didn’t think it was such a good idea and so things went on: I lived my life in the studio and went home to sleep…until I saw an article in a magazine that had been left on set. I flipped through the pages glancing at the Italian until I saw a feature on an American footballer. A huge picture of him dominated the article and it made me remember Kelly’s suggestion. I’d never heard of this Mark Gastineau but I said to Kelly, ‘Okay, you get in touch with this guy. I want to meet him!’

  ‘But he’s back in the States,’ she protested. ‘You should be looking here.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘This is the guy I want to meet. Get it organised.’ According to the article Mark was not only really nice but he grew up in a conventional religious family on a ranch in the wide-open spaces of Arizona. He had been around horses all his life and he wasn’t a movie star, he was a sportsman. It was something different that attracted me to him. ‘If I can have anyone,’ I said, ‘then he’s the one I want.’ And Kelly and I laughed about it – here was the guy who had grown up in a Western saddle on a farm, he had taken part in rodeos when he was 12 and he started playing American football when he was in high school in 1979. Then the New York Jets signed him on a major contract. I got carried away with the story and latched on to elements from my own upbringing in Denmark, which seemed to be reflected in Mark’s early years outdoors. I also saw a powerful man who played sports.

  Within a couple of weeks Kelly had arranged for me to meet Mark at the Beverly Hills Hotel when he came to LA to do PR for his team. Oh my God! was my first thought on meeting him in my room – he looked like a tank. He was large in both directions, weighing about 130 kilos and measuring almost two metres. I had never seen such a massive individual in my life. Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester were like little boys next to the colossus that was Mark Gastineau. But the thing about Mark which you wouldn’t know from looking at him was that he was also fast as a cat, seemingly untroubled by his bulk.

  After a couple of drinks and a chat I began to think that maybe I’d made a mistake: there was no fire, no excitement. I didn’t feel what I thought I would feel having read that article but that didn’t mean we couldn’t part on good terms – except that he wouldn’t leave. He kept insisting on staying, although it was getting late; he was pushy and it was kind of embarrassing. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but you have to sleep on the couch.’ It was an uneasy moment – he was famous enough to be insulted by that and anyway, I didn’t know him – he could easily overpower me if that’s what he wanted, but he respected me and I thought then that was pretty cool of him, though of course, it wasn’t at all cool to have refused to leave in the first place.

  We kept in contact after that first night for whatever strange reason: I was over from Italy often enough to catch up with him on a friendly basis. I don’t know what it was, but I didn’t cut him off completely. Part of me was fascinated by him and intrigued by that astonishing body. I was open to his telephone invitation. ‘Come to visit me in Arizona,’ he said. ‘I’d like to show you where I come from.’ Rather wide-eyed, I agreed without thinking about it. It was a plane ride from Los Angeles to Scottsdale and I almost immediately regretted my decision when I arrived at the smallest airport I’d ever seen. It was a little bit spooky.

  The place was deserted, the walls were cold and I realised how little I really knew about Mark as I looked around, clutching my small suitcase in one hand. It all felt very strange and where was he? I waited and waited as the few people on the same flight disembarked and then I really was completely alone. The airport was poorly lit and it began to feel like a scary movie: airports feel weird when they’re empty.

  Angrily I thought to myself, What the fuck were you doing? You arrive alone, you don’t have his number – you’re a complete idiot! Still clutching my suitcase I wandered around the gloomy terminal building looking for a phone. I had a few coins and I thought I would call someone. Anyone. My plan was interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream. Long and loud, it sounded like nothing human. It was a maddened bear about to attack. It was… Mark. Of course – why not? That fucking guy! It was inevitably my Mark – he had decided to freak me out by jumping out at me from some shadowy corner.

  I readied myself for a fight and saw a big grin break out over his face.

  ‘Aha!’ he said, laughing. ‘I’ve been here all the time – watching you!’ Not quite the reassuring words I might have hoped to have heard. He continued, ‘But you look great!’ He sang out ‘great’ like a delighted child, making the word two syllables. I thought he was nuts. Then he grabbed me – he picked me up bodily.

  ‘Welcome to Arizona!’ he roared. ‘Beautiful Arizona!’ It was like he was delivering the pay-off to some tourist commercial. And with that he started swinging me around. Now, I hadn’t even been with a guy who could lift me out of bed – let’s face it, I’m a giant woman – and here I was seeing terminal lights blur around me as I was whirled about as if I were a doll, accompanied by Mark’s deafening roar. I joined in the racket, screaming for him to put me down. When he did, he took one look at me, one look at my suitcase, took it in one hand and my hand in his other and we walked out of the airport.

  I’m not sure what I was expecting by the time we got to the car park but I guess under the normal circumstances, which these certainly weren’t, it would be a big old American pick-up truck or maybe a footballer’s limo. In front of us was a dented wreck, filthy outside and inside too, and the smell emanating from it was overpowering. I wasn’t so bothered about what kind of
car it was, but I did think he might have gone, ‘Okay, she’s coming to visit me…’ and have washed it at least. My father had an old Volkswagen, so I wasn’t being picky, but at least Dad’s was clean inside. Mark was a superstar – it was all just so weird that his car should be like this. Everything about this trip was weird. Maybe Mark was simply a cowboy, a down-to-earth guy. That was what had attracted me in the first place. But now I didn’t know any more. I had no idea what the fuck I’d been thinking or how I’d gotten myself into this.

  We made our way out of the grimy airport and hit a series of small roads heading deeper into Arizona. Outside Scottsdale and away from Phoenix the tarmac gave way to dirt tracks and we bumped to who knew where. It was pitch-black and I sat nervously by this big bear of a man in his smelly lair in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t really know him, did I? And what could I do if the plan was for me to end up in a hole somewhere out in the desert or worse? By now, I was really paranoid and panicky. Forget houses – this guy was as big as a hotel.

  I turned in on myself. You’re young, naive, spoiled and dumb, I realised. Terror gripped me and it took a while to notice that we had come into an area that even in the darkness I could just about make out wasn’t too unlike Palm Springs in California. Mark swung off the road and up a long drive then parked in front of a big, beautiful villa. In daylight it would look like Wisteria Lane from Desperate Housewives. All right, Gitte, I thought, this might not be so bad. Mark seemed to have heard my thoughts. ‘Aha!’ he said, again that teasing laugh. ‘We’re here, honey! And don’t worry because I’ve got no furniture in the house at all.’ Oh, and I had just started to relax. The lights were on in the house… had he recently robbed it or something? But he got out of the car and took out a key for the enormous double wooden doors that reached up to the roof.