I accepted bullying when I was at school and even though I thought I had left it behind, I was still letting it happen when I was with Mark. It would take another crisis, much worse, before I was finally able to change things for real.
In the immediate aftermath of the split I patched myself up as well as I could. I licked my wounds as you do and I put it all behind me – the desert life, the trips between London and Arizona, the B-movies, C-movies and the parties. The only thing I was sure of now was Killian, my beautiful son.
Killian didn’t get to see his father until he was 20. There had never been a birthday card or letter until then – Mark didn’t see him grow up and he didn’t know that as he became a handsome young man in his own right he kept his father’s name (his middle name is Marcus) and that he carried a picture of Mark around in his wallet wherever he went. Like his father, Killian was afflicted with psoriasis – a skin disorder – all over his body. It was tough for Killian but I always tried to speak well of Mark in front of him – it was the least I could do for my son when he was young. His dream was to meet his father one day and I wanted to keep that alive for him. It was only at Christmas last year that I made that happen. And Killian’s better for it.
Mark’s own life continued to be marked by conflict and violence: he’s now in jail for trying to burn a girlfriend. He was still well known in the US as a sporting legend – his record 22 sacks, or tackles, in a single season stood for 17 years and he even tried to make a comeback as a footballer. He’s now a born-again Christian. I ended up meeting his ex-wife, Lisa, when she got a reality show called The Gastineau Girls and Brittny, the daughter she had with Mark, was also on the programme. I remembered how I sometimes used to look after her when I lived with Mark and saw how she has since grown into a beautiful girl.
I seemed to live most of my life on a plane after leaving Mark, flitting between London, Los Angeles, Italy and Denmark but I really wanted to settle down and to be closer to my son and the rest of my family. I toured Europe to support my second album I’m the One… Nobody Else. This was another WEA album recorded in Los Angeles which did about as well as my debut; not a huge success, but it wasn’t a disaster.
I developed a great working relationship with the Austrian rapper Falco, who had a big hit in the UK with ‘Rock Me Amadeus’. We performed a duet called ‘Body Next to Body’, produced by the legendary Giorgio Moroder. The single did brilliantly, hitting No. 1 in Japan, but I still wasn’t doing enough about music to make a real success of it.
I still had fun touring though I was always aware that I wasn’t developing as a singer, but I got to do shows with both La Toya Jackson and Cher – and I have even recorded a few singles since then. One standout was my 2000 hit, ‘No More Turning Back’, which I recorded under the pseudonym ‘Gitta’. And I also performed a duet with RuPaul, ‘You’re No Lady’. I was never the best of singers or musicians, but I did enjoy that time.
I began to make the most of my time as a single person and I started seeing Tony Scott, a true Englishman. Brother of fellow director Ridley, he was quite a bit shorter than me, balding and 15 years older. We had made a connection during the making of Beverly Hills Cop II and there was an undeniable chemistry despite his physical appearance being so removed from my ideal. We just clicked and we enjoyed one another’s company. The romance was right but the timing wasn’t. When we first met we were both married but I’d often find that over the years I’d have him on my mind and would think, What if…? What if we ended up married…? But it was never quite the right moment and we ended up with something just as valuable – if not more so – as we found ourselves becoming soul mates. Wherever either of us was in the world and whatever we were doing didn’t matter: we were always there for each other.
And I’ll never quite know why I ended up choosing the wild Mark Gastineau in the desert instead of a sweet, stable, honest man in the shape of Tony Scott. I always say that I never really regret things because I believe that you always learn something but when it comes to getting together with Tony, I do make an exception.
Another of my great soul mates came in the rather unlikely form of a small, dark-haired, blue-blooded Hungarian countess. Eva sat next to me at a girls’ lunch hosted by model-and-actress-turned-promotions director Vivian Ventura. Eva was reserved and everything about her was buttoned-up and just so – the little Chanel dress, the jacket, the neat gloves and the small but stylish bag. It was all a little too perfect for my taste. After a while it was all too annoying and I just couldn’t keep quiet any longer. ‘Hey sister, why don’t you undo your jacket and breathe a little?’ I told her rudely. ‘Let out that wild animal inside you!’ That refined prissiness had just got to me.
She looked at me and in elegant English tinged by a careful East European accent she said, ‘You know what, darling? That’s exactly what I am going to do.’ At last! She actually spoke – and what was more, she agreed with me. It was just hilarious and I was delighted, and from that moment on we were the best of friends. Like a Hungarian Marlene Dietrich, she would always call me ‘darling’. She became one of the few people in the world who got to know all my secrets. Some of them haven’t even made it into this book – and she’s the only person who knows which ones I’ve kept to myself.
The French film-maker Patrice Leconte once said that true friendship is not something that you can express in words – it’s to be demonstrated. And that’s how it was with Eva. I’m tall and blonde, she’s small and dark but we feel as if we’re twins. To look at us you’d think we have nothing in common but we’ve often laughed until we cried about things we share. Ours was a friendship which opened up another new world for me, one I’d only seen on television shows like Dallas. She was a countess from an old Hungarian family who used to own vast tracts of Transylvania until a hundred years or so ago. They lost everything by the end of World War II, but her family tree was full of barons, princes and counts. She was the real aristocratic deal and when I first met her she had recently married an English lord who lived in London’s exclusive Eaton Place. I often preferred to sleep at her place rather than in a hotel when I was in town. She had a couch that was just a two-seater so my long legs would drape over it, but she always made it up with pillows and blankets for me; it was so cosy.
Through her I got to know Prince Michael of Kent, cousin of the Queen, when we both attended the same function. At that time I was completely enraptured by Russian literary giant Alexander Pushkin; I had devoured his biography and, heart beating, had learned of his death as a result of a dual over his wife. I was very sad at the time and I had fallen hopelessly in love with a romantic poet who died more than 150 years earlier. It was completely impossible, but it felt as real as if he were living now. Prince Michael might not have been quite so passionate about Pushkin the man, but he was also a huge fan of his work. For him I guess it was all to do with the influence that Pushkin exerted as one of the last Russians to be accepted in England.
I was invited to private parties where I would meet Ministers of State, key figures in the business world responsible for billions and royalty. American limos looked cheap and over-the-top next to the guests’ elegant English Rolls-Royces driven by chauffeurs immaculate down to the tips of their white gloves. And it was thanks to Eva that I got to travel in that world.
I wouldn’t have otherwise been permitted inside a very exclusive, private London casino founded in 1828 by William Crockford and the Duke of Wellington. Crockfords is in an unremarkable-looking town house like many others from the Victorian era but when you step inside and on the thick, red carpet you’re immediately back in that era at its most opulent. I’d guess that a year’s membership would be the equivalent to a good salary for many. Everything is tastefully done, down to the delicious restaurant and the punters were well-dressed, smoking cigars and sipping Cognac. Games included poker and blackjack played on a handful of tables around which even the spectators radiated power and importance. Crockfords’ discreet charm was unexpected if yo
u only knew casinos from the plastic emptiness of Las Vegas.
The minimum bets were colossal and Eva and I were content to watch the game of the charming man who had invited us that night, but he wanted the two of us to join in with him on the roulette table and passed us a thick bundle of money. I put my stake on 15 – for my birthday of 15 July – and it came up. They gave me a teetering stack of chips – I mean, it was just insane. I hadn’t looked closely at what we’d put down but it was probably something like £1,500. The winnings were quite intimidating and I squealed uncontrollably, flapping about. Then we got to see the real money, and I was thinking My God! You could buy a house with this! Once I calmed down my polite Danish upbringing took over and I handed our host the cash.
‘Oh please,’ he said with an air of finality. ‘You won that.’ And that was typical of the circle I was moving in. Unlike so many people I’d come across who were rich but in another way so cheap, wealth didn’t matter to them. They didn’t make me feel the weight of things, there was nothing I had to give in return. So Eva and I, we split the riches between us. Yet I couldn’t quite shake off the feeling that something was about to happen. Perhaps I would be made to feel I had to go to bed with him – you know, some kind of subtle demand – but it never happened.
Eva also had connections with the world of horses. We got invited to Ascot, to polo matches and to one of England’s biggest stud farms owned by Eva’s friend and her husband. It was really over-the-top. My bedroom overlooked the fields where there must have been 400 horses placidly enjoying the day. The house was just as impressive: the guest room I was given was the size of a large hotel suite, situated on the first floor with an uninterrupted view over the beautiful rolling fields. I was flabbergasted but like the rest of Eva’s crowd, the owners made me feel completely at home. It was a much-appreciated opportunity to recharge my batteries. What a contrast from my gaudy life in Hollywood and all the lovelier for being so unexpected. Their kindnesses won my heart and I felt protected although I always knew that it wasn’t a life in which I could be more than a tourist.
I saw a completely different type of Englishman when I played at a club in Manchester. Simply Red singer Mick Hucknall was out for the night with his friends and we hung out after my set, talking about music and wandering the streets of his Manchester together. It was the opposite of the gentrified country life with all these freaked-out hippies smoking joints and I thought, this is so me. Wow! I couldn’t believe how I was fitting into these different social situations. After my time with the aristocracy, Mick was refreshing. We ended up going back to his place in Manchester and it was very much the laidback musician’s pad – all warm colours, joints going around and candles. As soon as he had suggested going back, his friends agreed. They were all really nice – there was no edge to anyone and we just chatted and relaxed.
The night reminded me of a grander version of how I had lived with my first husband Kasper. Very comfortable, very freestyle – nobody was judged on how they looked or who they were. It got to about 3am and people started to drift away while others curled up where they were on sofas to sleep. There was no way I was going to leave for London at that time and Mick said, ‘I’m going to have a bath – do you want to join me?’
‘I’d love to!’ I said, thinking, This is weird… but at least it was a variation on being asked to go to bed. He lit up yet more candles in his purple bathroom, cranked up some music, and then we were in the water together. Now Mick Hucknall is many things but one thing he’s not is a very good-looking guy, however what he does have is this expression of someone who knows he’s totally outrageous and yet very friendly, really cool. So I was just winging it and there we were, taking a bath together. We talked about ourselves and nothing happened. To be honest, even if you’d paid me I couldn’t have gone to bed with the guy. He was more than that – we became friends and I did stay in contact and we met up years later – but we did have a great hot bath together. I thought, I’m really back on track! It’s possible just to be with someone and sit in a purple room having a bath and just get to know someone who’s brilliant and makes wonderful music. It was such a good moment, just hugging, talking and music.
This was, in general, a time when my life was unpressured, happy and low-key. I always had Eva by my side. In the spring of 1989, she came to the Cannes International Film Festival. I had been hired by New Line Studios to promote a project inspired, like Red Sonja, by Marvel Comics: She Hulk. They still needed something like $5 million to get the film off the ground and we were going to raise awareness among investors. As usual, I’d left everything to the last moment. I didn’t want to go and alone so I called Eva: ‘Countess, will you come to Cannes?’
‘But of course, darling,’ she said.
‘You have to be ready in, like, three hours,’ I told her. Poor girl! She always had to pick out her Chanel finery and it would take her forever to get her luggage together – I was always calling her with minutes to spare. One way or another, she made it and it was great to see her. We kissed and hugged each other and gossiped about boys and vowed to kick up a storm at Cannes.
The next morning I had a photocall at 11 o’clock and I was in She Hulk green make-up. Like Superman, my character was to have an alter ego: an ordinary girl in glasses who becomes Hulk when she gets freaked out, which wasn’t so far from what I was feeling for real. Where 20 photographers were expected, it looked like a couple of hundred had turned up: it was a vintage scene of Cannes chaos. Someone had the bright idea of putting me on a boat so that everyone could get a picture from the shore – can you imagine a more ridiculous sight? So I was floating out there, waving greenly like an idiot to all those paparazzi who were jostling for position on the bank and swarming onto a pier to get a better picture. They were shouting, climbing over each other and, inevitably, the pier gave way and collapsed into the water, taking with it the camera gear of photography’s finest. It was beyond absurd and actually pathetic. What were they doing all that for? I thought to myself, I’m not worth that. All that waste, all that equipment – to what end? I really didn’t get a kick out of being the centre of that kind of attention: I didn’t belong at all. It was a fucking nightmare.
In the end the production company didn’t get their $5 million and we never made the movie – that’s the bullshit of the movie industry. But at least the Countess and I had a week together. And in the evenings we went to parties which were full of stars, famous producers and eminent directors. We would first go to a restaurant and discuss where we were going to hang out later. You might on any night, as we did, find the next table being taken by Sean Penn and Charles Bronson. It was incredible to see such legends for real, but I only had eyes for Sean. He didn’t have classic good looks but there was just something about him. He had the air of someone who was hiding something and I thought, ‘He does look hot!’ Eva and I giggled together, trying to catch their eyes whenever we could.
Eva started talking with Charles but I wasn’t talking so much with Sean and dinner was soon over. They went and the two of us were left feeling rather flat, having hyped ourselves up for something to happen. Maybe we thought we’d got them. ‘What are we going to do now?’ I asked. ‘Shall we head back to the hotel or maybe hit a club?’ We decided to go dancing. The night was buzzing, there were cocktail parties everywhere and I had on a tight dress made out of silver threads, stilettos (also silver) and diamond jewellery. My hair was simple and my make-up was beautiful. It was one of those nights when I knew that I looked as good as I felt: I was totally ready to take over Cannes! We picked our club almost at random but when we sat down we looked up to see… Sean Penn and Charles Bronson. It was crazy and in my pushy way somehow I ended up sitting next to them. The Countess disappeared and I’m not really sure what happened with her that night. All I knew was I was alone with Sean that night in the club, sitting at an old wooden table into which he carved messages with a knife. Then it was my turn. I answered whatever it was he’d asked and we had a conversation a
t that table.
I was completely sold on him – completely. And the point was very clear: am I going to go with the guy or not? It was purely sexual. It was very hot. I would have done anything for him. Then the club was closed and we were in a car. And I thought, Go for it… Why not? You adore him, you’ll probably never see him again, but that’s fine. That’s Cannes. That’s it. And that’s what I did.
We spent an outrageous night together in Sean’s hotel room. Without going into details, it was just what I wanted. Awesome. We woke up to someone knocking loudly on the door in the morning. I couldn’t see who it was when Sean answered but I certainly heard them yell at him. It was a female voice and afterwards I would sometimes wonder if it had been Madonna, but I really don’t know. Sean slammed the door shut, turned and simply asked, ‘Would you like breakfast?’
‘I would love some breakfast,’ I told him. So we ate together and that was it. He was to leave the next day and I knew I would probably never see him again, but it had been such a great time. That was okay. I didn’t feel guilty and I knew then that whatever anyone says, women are just as capable as men of having a good time without getting involved. That said, I’ve not had many one-night stands. Basically, I’m more suited to long-term relationships despite that night with Sean and the way the media paint me as wildly promiscuous.
It was once alleged that I had been offered a million dollars by a man who wanted me to sleep with him – a journalist had seen Robert Redford and Demi Moore in Indecent Proposal too many times, I’d say. Though, to be honest, if someone was to give me that much money, I’d probably go for it. Hey – one night, you’d get over it. But there were always those kind of stories. It was even said that I was a prostitute. Years later, when I was married and living in Switzerland, I received a phone call from the Swiss police who told me the Italian authorities needed to talk to me about a criminal case. I was terrified. At the time I was pregnant with Raoulino, my fourth and final child.
You Only Get One Life Page 14