You Only Get One Life

by Brigitte Nielsen

  My name had come up in a French court case. I hired a lawyer and discovered that a prostitute ring in France had been linked to major film stars and it was alleged that I was one of the girls. It was a bit like a European version of the Heidi Fleiss case in the States. Eventually the French authorities wrote to my representative apologising for having dragged me into it and said it had been a mistake. But what I thought was so unfair was that for some people I would always be linked to that case. It didn’t matter how much anyone said that it wasn’t true. There will always be people who look at my most highly-charged images and think – that must be Gitte.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE PERFECT FAMILY

  In the spring of 1992 I was asked to do a music show in Milan called Castro Cardo. This was quite a step up for me: they only asked people who really knew about music and could handle a major production. I was surprised and delighted to be asked and immediately agreed. Castro Cardo was a showcase for the best of the more old-fashioned singers and bands in Italy. It wasn’t unlike a very posh forerunner of X Factor, but for established acts who were called up by experts from the worlds of opera and classical music. Acts found it hard to get on, not least because it only went out once a year and an appearance meant they were destined for great things.

  My co-host was a real pro, able to deal with anything that happened on live television, and the show went really well. The critics were complimentary and I had universally good coverage in the press. Even those writers who had a reputation for shooting down presenters were nice. On the night I was on a real high and when we went off-air, I returned to my dressing room for a much-needed drink of water. The studio was next to a lake and it was really humid. I was exhausted when I opened the door to hear my phone ringing.

  ‘Ciao, it’s Roberto.’ A voice from my career as a model. It was Roberto Lansorti, who had an agency for catwalk models. He was about five foot tall and built like a bulldog, but a really nice guy. I had always got on well with him and felt that he was completely trustworthy but it had been something like 15 years since we’d last talked.

  ‘Roberto! How did you get me here?’

  ‘I’ve got my ways…’ he laughed. ‘Hey Gitte, amazing show!’

  ‘I know,’ I said. I felt it had gone brilliantly.

  ‘There’s a bunch of us about to get together, old friends…’ It all sounded really nice.

  ‘I would love to,’ I said. But I was completely drained and they were all the way over at Lake Como, where the rich and famous of Milan would, as Roberto did, have a holiday home, it wasn’t realistic. ‘Maybe another time.’ And then he started guilt-tripping me.

  ‘Well. You – you’re rich, you’ve just had one of your biggest evenings ever…’ – he knew I felt uncomfortable with all the trappings of success – ‘rich’ is a big word to me. ‘You don’t have time for me? Why don’t you just do what a star does? Pick up your phone, order a helicopter and you’ll be here in 30 minutes.’ Typical of Roberto. Whatever was going down, if there was an obstacle he would find a way around it. He meant it in a nice way but it really got to me. Though actually, why not? I’ve never liked to let things get in my way either. Go on, I thought, get out of your fucking dressing gown, get out of the studio and go to your old friends.

  Half an hour later I was in the helicopter. There was a couple of thousand dollars less in my purse but it was pretty exciting: for once, it was all about me. I wasn’t getting the ride for someone else, it was me going for myself. It was a good decision – the party at Roberto’s was fun, cosy and it was great to see people I hadn’t seen for years. Such great memories resurfaced.

  There weren’t that many people there and the one stranger stood out: a muscular but skinny guy from Switzerland. He was a friend of some influential designer in Milan, which was how he’d been invited. Coincidentally, I found out much later, he’d been flatmates with my first serious boyfriend Luca and his name was Raoul. He was sweet, he was definitely with the programme and he was kind of cute.

  Raoul didn’t talk about modelling or movies. He reminded me a bit of Eva in that he introduced me to a whole new scene when he started talking about motor racing. I’d seen Formula One on TV, but that was about the extent of my knowledge and it was so refreshing not to talk about my life and what was going on with me. As usual I was soon flirting with him and being Danish, got us to the pool where I stripped down to my underwear and dived in. ‘Are you gonna join me?’ I called. Pushy – very pushy. It was a bit stupid but it was fun. Raoul seemed rather shy and he stayed by the side of the pool while we talked. When the party ended I went to my room and reflected on how unexpectedly pleasant the evening had been.

  Roberto was an excellent host and laid on fabulous food for his guests. Brunch was waiting when I got up to find everyone relaxing and just doing their own thing. All the running around, the helicopter ride, the cocktails had got to me and I was feeling tired, but all my energy returned when I saw that Raoul hadn’t gone home either. Let’s see what he’s up to, I thought. He spotted me and came over.

  ‘Thank you for last night, that was really good,’ he said. ‘You look great this morning.’ That was the right thing to say and I wondered why he hadn’t gone home yet. But whatever might be in store, it was good that he was still there. Perhaps we might even end up leaving Roberto’s together. Raoul asked me what I was doing – I had a meeting with a popular Italian jazz and pop singer called Zucchero. After that I was working. Then I just said, ‘Why don’t you come with me.’ I’d arranged for a Mercedes Cabriolet to be sent to the villa for me and I was feeling completely over-the-top. Why, I thought, wouldn’t this Raoul want to come with me?

  But he did seem a little hesitant, though it was only because he’d brought along his new Harley-Davidson. ‘Can’t leave the bike here,’ he said apologetically. ‘It’s not gonna work.’

  ‘Man, come on! Find a way and join me,’ I said sharply, jolted out of the moment. I thought his answer ridiculous. ‘I’m gonna go get my bags. Here are the keys to the car. When I come back, if you’re in the car you’re coming with me, if you’re not… have a nice life!’

  There were many occasions over the next few years when I would come to wish that I hadn’t run downstairs with my bags to find the keys in the ignition and Raoul sitting there. But there he was. That was the beginning of something that over the next 14 years of my life would become uncontrollable. Unstoppable. But to begin with it was fun, outrageous and romantic.

  After my interview for TV we drove to Lake Garda, where we had time to take a boat ride, just the two of us, before we checked into a villa. A late refuge for Italian dictator Mussolini, it’s now one of the most exclusive hotels in the country. Villa Feltrinelli is not far from the shore, situated behind hundred-year-old trees and very pretty: you could see how the position of the place might have appealed to a dictator in trouble. Now it’s very chic and superstars appreciate being able to get to it only by boat. Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes stayed there for weeks and other guests have included David and Victoria Beckham.

  Despite the protective tree-line, the view from the suite was a stunning sweep of the lake. The history of the place was everywhere. It was packed with books and old pictures lined the walls. If you wanted you could learn all about Hitler’s relationship with Mussolini, their successes together and what led to their ultimate failure. And it was in that hotel that Raoul and I spent our first night together: we would go on to spend virtually every day in each other’s company for years.

  Raoul then lived in a very small apartment in Milan’s San Siro district. He shared his place with a girl – he didn’t say girlfriend – who was from Iceland and who he seemed to be arguing with. I didn’t get involved with his situation but I did continue to see him. Over a week he was good to me but at the end of it I had to go back to LA. That was where I was based and he was in Italy so we both knew the end was coming.

  The phone calls started as soon as I returned to LA. It drove me crazy and I thought
I’d been stupid to give him not only my number at home but my car phone too. He’d ring off and then ring again immediately – it was utterly infuriating. The whole thing was out of proportion to the few days we’d spent together. He’d introduced me to his sister before he left and when their mother said that she hadn’t heard of me he was none too pleased with her. She was just a little old lady and if nothing else, I should have wondered how he was going to behave towards me.

  It was the same on the phone. He was very macho and if he was on my mind a lot it was only because I didn’t have that much going on after work and I’d be at home thinking about Julian, about how I was going to keep up my place on my own, about my parents and I began to think maybe Raoul wasn’t so bad. I was mixed up about how I felt about him but I wanted to think the best. I painted a picture for myself in which everything looked optimistic when it would have been better to take a more objective view but I was still pretty close to never getting back to him. Then he made that one extra call which made the difference. On impulse I snatched the phone up. It changed everything.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was so nice to be with you,’ said Raoul. ‘I’ve been thinking about you a lot. You’re so far away and you love it so much in Italy – you’re a big star. Why don’t you come back? You could be safe and comfortable here, your parents would only be a couple of hours away; the kids would be able to see more of you. Think about it.’ He was really pushing all the buttons. And I thought, Yeah, well, he’s got a point. It wouldn’t hurt to give it a go. The endless commuting between jobs in the US, Italy and London was draining and it would be good to be closer to friends and family, if nothing else. And with that, a long and increasingly sad chapter of my life started.

  It opened with the discovery that the Icelandic girl was still in his apartment. That was a good start. What on earth was he doing inviting me to Milan when he still lived with someone? I checked into a hotel, Raoul came by whenever he could and I continued working between Italy and London. It was always refreshing to get back from a long stint in the UK to catch up together and it kept things between us exciting. He raced a lot and the doubts in my mind soon began to melt away. I was busy and enjoying how different this relationship felt.

  He took me for a ride on the Harley-Davidson and from my perch behind him, with the sound of the engine deep and powerful, Milan looked beautiful. I felt so comfortable. ‘I want to show you something,’ Raoul said. ‘I want to take you to where I come from.’ That was the day that decided the next 14 years.

  He took me over Lake Como and into Switzerland to Lake Lugano. I would get to know it very well but I don’t think it ever looked quite so stunning as it did that first day. I was totally overwhelmed by the romance and instead of surfacing to take a reality check, I let myself be carried along in the fantasy. Despite the success of my career what I really wanted was the stability represented by my parents’ relationship. I wanted Denmark, or rather the security and comfort I remembered, and it was a longing that I now know I could never fulfil – my childhood was very different and while I’m my parents’ daughter, I lived my own life. I could never be like them but I ached for that existence and so I determined that I wouldn’t give up on this new relationship whatever happened.

  ‘You know what? We should really have a house by the lake, Gitte.’ It sounded wonderful but – aha! – I should have been wise enough to leave some space for myself. I didn’t. ‘It’s so hectic in Milan,’ he continued, ‘and here you can walk the streets and nobody will know who you are and they won’t care anyway. Now isn’t that just perfect for you? And it’s so close.’ That was true – it was barely 45 minutes from the centre of Milan. I gazed out at the tranquil beauty of the lake and well, what was a poor girl to do? I was really torn. Should I settle down? What about my parents, my kids? The lake rippled gently and the sun shone and warmed me down to my toes – it was really too much like a movie. Raoul was so attentive to me – I thought it was amazing that he had taken the time to show me something so important to him and I thought about how Julian could come and stay from Denmark whenever he wanted. Killian would have a safe place to call home. I even started to think about having kids with Raoul – we could have a secure environment here and the schools were good. All those thoughts were running through my mind far too quickly. A balanced, normal life for a family. It would be a great place to rest between shooting movies and to see my parents.

  So, yes, we did find a house in the small fishing village of Morcote and shortly after I became pregnant with another boy – Douglas.

  CHAPTER 18

  BIG DREAMS

  Near Morcote was a large villa perfectly situated by the shore of Lugano and it was badly in need of some tender loving care. There were four walls and a roof, but it had been abandoned for years. We would have to renovate the whole thing and getting it perfect would become a real passion. By the time we were ready to move in I was only a few months away from giving birth to Douglas. I was overwhelmed by happiness.

  Work on the house had been expensive but now the child who was going to live in it was on his way. This was meant to be. I reaffirmed the solemn promise to myself: no running away this time. No matter what happens, I’m staying with this guy. I was serious – I couldn’t keep packing my bags when things got hard; this was something I could give to my kids. This was, by the way, a very big mistake on my part but that was how I was determined to live.

  My dream of family life was reality. In my eyes it was taking on the shape of the ideal relationship that my parents enjoyed, only in grander surroundings. It was a good time that made me feel unbelievably happy and I couldn’t wait to give Killian and Julian their sibling. I’d got to six and a half months and that was when my waters broke.

  It was an afternoon and we were moving the last of our things into the big house. I could never sit still, even when I was pregnant. Ever the busy bee, I was up and down and totally absorbed in what I was doing. Contractions started and I was rushed to the hospital, where my doctor and gynaecologist were standing by. They quickly decided that the only thing for it was to do an emergency caesarean section.

  Three months premature, Douglas was tiny and very weak and the medical staff didn’t pretend that he had a great chance of survival. The gynaecologist, who together with his wife ended up becoming friends of mine, later told me it was actually better to have a child that early than in the eighth month. Nearer the time of birth an important hormone in the lungs is off doing other work in the brain, I think, and with the bones.

  As it was, Douglas’s tiny lungs were just fine with the help of all the technological firepower they could bring to bear. His healthy cries were at first cause for celebration but we were cut short when he abruptly fell silent. The staff crowded around and pulled him off me for tests as he turned blue. I didn’t understand what was going on. All I knew was that I was lying there without my child or news of him for hours. What the staff didn’t even tell me then was that he had been clinically dead for a full two minutes, but it wasn’t hard to guess from the face of the doctor who eventually came to see me that the outlook was bleak.

  ‘It’s bad,’ he told me. ‘It’s really bad. We don’t have the equipment here to stimulate the lungs, heart and brain of an infant under one kilo. We have called the emergency helicopter to take him to a hospital at Bern [the Swiss capital].’

  The mountain weather was poor and we waited until 6 o’clock the following morning for the team to arrive. We spent the whole night praying and crying. I was still too weak to move and I had to stay in my bed while my helpless little baby was flown away.

  As I recovered over the next 10 days I watched the other new mothers in the ward cradle their healthy babies as I had done with my two previous boys, but there was nothing I could do except wait. I could hardly move anyway – during the birth the doctors had given me an injection in my leg so that I didn’t lactate and they had hit a nerve which had left it temporarily paralysed. As time passed slowly I learned Dougl
as’s chances of survival were much greater but any good news always seemed to be accompanied by a fresh blow. I was told there was an increased risk that he would be brain-damaged. His retinas might be detached and it was not uncommon for such premature babies to be blind.

  Raoul drove the 280 or so kilometres between my hospital and the capital, where Douglas was being treated alongside babies weighing as little as 500 grams. Three months went by before he was completely off oxygen and only then could they test him for defects. Time stretched into eternity; every day was a waking nightmare. I had to wait two months before I was able to hold him and care for him.

  Finally he was big and strong enough to come home, though he still needed to be an in-patient on a daily basis. At last I felt like I could be a proper mother. I drove him through the gate of our house and then along the long drive that swept down parallel to the lake and to the house. There, I got out of the car, unbuckled his car seat and reached over into the back seat to pick up his blanket and other things to take him inside. Unknown to me a paparazzi was waiting and snapped Douglas in his car seat while I was rooting around in the back of the car.

  They splashed the photo all over the Italian media: ‘BRIGITTE NIELSEN ABANDONS NEWBORN BABY’. I broke down. I had never taken anyone to court, but this was too much. How could the press do this to my children? The articles were just horrific and were accompanied by photographs that I thought extremely intrusive.