No Lifeguard on Duty: The Accidental Life of the World's First Supermodel (40 page)

And I thought about what my Beverly Hills shrink had told me: that I saw myself as my father had seen me, as hateful and worthless, and that as a result I looked for men who

N O L I F E G UA R D O N D U T Y 305

made me feel as hateful and worthless and awful as he’d made me feel—as awful as I thought I
deserved
to feel.

It was so complicated. Why was it so complicated? I just wanted to be wanted. Sure, maybe it had something to do with my father. He had never wanted me. But he was dead now. When would I get off the train?

The nanny was on her way over with Nathan. I was taking him to Chuck E. Cheese for lunch, and then we were going to the zoo, which he loved. He was the center of the universe, my little Nathan. It was Nathan who got me through the days and weeks and months.

Michael stepped out of the shower. “God, you look

good,” he said.

“Yeah, right, I know—I’m a sexy bitch.”

WITH MICHAEL

BIRNBAUM.

A GENTLEMAN

AND QUITE A STUD.

(((((((((((

306 J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N

Michael laughed. He started getting dressed. “You want me to go to the zoo with you guys?” he asked.

“No,” I said. He was a good guy, my Michael. Too good.

Too nice. What was I doing with him? I liked trouble.

A few nights later I went out for dinner with Bette Midler and her husband, Martin von Haselberg. They told me they wanted to set me up with a close friend of Martin’s, an abstract artist who taught at UCLA.
He
sounded like trouble. I went out with him and we ended up in bed, and I felt awful about it. Nothing to do with the artist, of course. It was this wanting-to-be-wanted bullshit again.

When I got back to my place, Michael was waiting outside with flowers.

“What’s the occasion?” I asked.

“I want you to come to Cannes with me,” he said. So we went.

He’d booked us on business class. I was disappointed. I wanted better. That’s what I told myself, but it wasn’t really about that at all. It was much simpler. I was fed up with Michael for being so goddamn nice. How was I going to replay ancient history with someone who insisted on being so good to me?

I felt the presence of that familiar, lurking demon. I’d been married and divorced twice. I’d been in and out of rehab twice. I’d had two abortions. I had a son, but his father and I couldn’t even be in the same room together without trying to claw each other’s eyes out. I was sitting on a plane next to a man who seemed to love me, but I couldn’t love him in return. I felt uncomfortable in my own skin.
Christ! What is this?
I wondered.
I’m too young for a
midlife crisis.

We checked into the Hotel du Cap, then went upstairs and showered and dressed for lunch. I kept looking at N O L I F E G UA R D O N D U T Y 307

Michael, this kind, wonderful, loving man, and I realized that he wasn’t the problem; I was. We passed through the lobby, en route to lunch, and when the elevator doors opened I thought I saw someone I knew near the front desk.

“Give me a minute,” I told Michael. “I have to say

hello.”

It was Sly Stallone, perched on a pair of cowboy boots with three-inch heels and blue jeans so tight it was a wonder he could breathe.

“Hello, Mr. Stallone,” I said. He turned to face me. His assistant, Kevin, looked like he was ready to intervene.

“Yo, Janice!” Sly said. He’s such a goofball in real life that it’s hard to believe he became what he became (well, for a little while, anyway). “What are you doing here?” He looked across the lobby and saw Michael, who half-waved from the distance. “Geez, you’re still with him?” Sly said.

“Get me the fuck out of here,” I said. “I’m going out of my mind.”

“Can it wait till tonight?” he asked.

“If it must,” I said.

“My plane leaves at ten. Kevin here will set everything up.” Then he gave me a kind of stage handshake, to show Michael that it was all on the up-and-up, and clacked across the lobby in his high heels.

I rejoined Michael. “Jesus,” he said. “The fucking guy is
short
.”

We went to an early lunch and back to the room and I made love to Michael. It was pretty hot. I felt like Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca.
Fuck me! Fuck me as if for the
last time!

Michael had business throughout the day, so I sat by the pool in my thong. I looked through some fashion maga308 J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N

zines. The girls looked so fucking
young,
and suddenly it occurred to me that they
were
young. Some of them hadn’t been born when I’d gotten my start. Spooky.

When Michael got back, I broke the bad news.

“Sylvester Stallone has agreed to let me take his picture, but I have to fly back with him tonight.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Michael said.

“What can I tell you? He’s going back to L.A. They’re shooting
Demolition Man
and he wants me on the set.”

Michael was crushed. “I can’t believe you’re doing

this,” he said.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Tell me I’m a cunt.”

He wouldn’t do it. I realized I really
wanted
him to do it.

Sly sent a car for me. The Warner Brothers plane was waiting on the tarmac, and Kevin took me inside. It was a fucking palace. I’d never been on a sleeper plane. This one had half a dozen actual bedrooms. It was filled with studio executives, the cream of the crop. Sly came over and gave me a big kiss. He was wearing a tuxedo with ruby studs and ruby cuff links. I think he and Liz Taylor had just cohosted some major AIDS fund-raiser. He put his arm around me. “Hey, everybody,” he announced in that thuggy voice. “This is Janice Dickinson. Isn’t she something?”

Everyone was very polite. We had drinks and caviar, and then the plane took off and we had more drinks and more caviar. But slowly people began to drift off to their rooms. And then it was just me and Sly.

“What are you doing with that Birnbaum character?” he asked.

“What do you know about Birnbaum? He’s smart. He’s

sexy. And he’s
nice.
”

“He’s no Sly.”

“No,” I said. “Thank God for that. Where am I sleeping?”

N O L I F E G UA R D O N D U T Y 309

“With me,” he said.

“Aren’t you being a little presumptuous?”

“All the rooms are taken, babe. It’s either me or this chair here, and I think I’m a better bet.”

I looked at him. “You have a good face. I wish you’d let me take your picture some time.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

“You’re pretty full of yourself, aren’t you?”

“I can’t help it. I look in the mirror in the morning and it’s me there and I can’t believe it. It’s like, ‘Holy fuck, I’m Sylvester Stallone. I’m fucking Sly Stallone.’ ”

“We all have our crosses to bear,” I said.

We went into his room. He began taking off his clothes.

“Nice cuff links,” I said.

“You want one?”

He meant it, too. “No thanks,” I said. Then I asked him for a T-shirt. He had one with
Demolition Man
scrawled across the front. I slid out of my clothes and slipped into it.

“Now what?” I said.

“Anything you want, babe.”

“How about sleep?”

“Sleep is good.”

He offered me a Halcion to help me sleep and took one for himself. He was being a perfect gentleman, and clearly he was serious about sleep. We got under the covers.

“You mind if I hold you?” he asked. He put his arms around me. They were massive—bigger than Christy

Turlington’s thighs. And there was something about the way he held me. I swear to God, it was
electric.
Maybe this was my fucking soulmate!

“Comfortable?” he asked.

I didn’t say a word. I was afraid if I said anything, it would lead to more. I just nodded. He held me tighter. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in Los Angeles. Sly 310 J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N

kissed me good-bye outside the terminal. Said he’d be in touch. His assistant, Kevin, drove me back to Nichols Canyon.

I tried not to think about how good I’d felt in Sly’s arms. I told myself it never happened.

BAM HAM SLAM

(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

Two days later, I got a call from Kevin. Sly wanted to see me. He was going downtown later that night, to the L.A.

Convention Center, to the set of
Demolition Man.
They were blowing up a building, and he thought I might enjoy taking pictures at the scene. So I hadn’t really lied to Michael after all. . . .

A few hours later, Kevin came by and drove me and my cameras to a house on Benedict Canyon. It was a rental; Sly was remodeling his new home. “He’s waiting for you upstairs,” Kevin said.

“Tell him to go fuck himself,” I said. “I thought I was going downtown to take pictures.”

“You are,” Kevin said. He went off and returned with a cranberry vodka. I chugged it and went upstairs, looking for Sly. I was pissed off.

“Yo, babe, in here,” he said. I found him in the master bedroom.

“What are we waiting for?” I asked.

“This,” he said.

He took me in his big arms and started kissing me.

Before I knew it, we were both naked on the bed. It didn’t last long, but I
think
I enjoyed it.

“Bam ham slam,” he said. He got up and we got dressed and I followed him downstairs. Kevin drove us downtown.

312 J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N

I wasn’t sure about what had just happened, or why I’d allowed it to happen. What was wrong with me? I was suddenly filled with self-loathing. In the space of a week, I had slept with three men: the abstract artist, the producer, and the superstar. What the hell was that all about? Who was driving this rig? Yeah, it’s nice to be wanted, but not like that. Most men are dogs. They’ll take anything that moves.

This crazy notion of mine—that a man wanting me actually meant something—was beginning to worry me.

“You’re awful quiet, girl,” Sly said. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” I said. But I had plenty on my mind. I was wondering how that lurking demon who’d followed me to the Sforza Castle, on the outskirts of Milan, had found his way to Los Angeles.

We arrived at the convention center, and Sly introduced me to his costars, Benjamin Bratt and Sandra Bullock. He told Joel Silver, the producer, to let me do what I had to do.

I crept around for much of the night, cameras in hand, taking pictures. Sly pretty much ignored me. They were still shooting at the crack of dawn, and the building was still standing, so I decided to go home. I waited for a break and told Sly I was leaving.

“You’ll be hearing from me,” he said. And he went back to work.

I got back to Nichols Canyon to find Nathan and the nanny having breakfast. Nathan looked worried. He told me he went to look for me in the middle of the night, and I was gone. He wanted to know where I was.

“I was working,” I told him.

I drove him to school. All of seven years old, and he sat in the back of the car like a brave little soldier. “I don’t want to have to worry about you, Mom,” he said. “Next time you’re going to work late, please tell me.”

N O L I F E G UA R D O N D U T Y 313

Birnbaum called later in the day and asked me to dinner.

He knew something was up. He took me to the St. James Club, on Sunset Boulevard. I told him I’d slept with Stallone. If nothing else, I was trying to be honest. For a few moments, he didn’t say anything. He seemed to be having trouble catching his breath. Then he signaled for the waiter and asked for the check.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“So am I,” he said.

He was hurt and angry. But he didn’t want to shout and he didn’t want to cry. He didn’t say a word as we left the restaurant. Didn’t say a word as we waited for the valet.

Didn’t say a word as he drove me home.

When we reached my place, he got out and got the door.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I asked him.

“What do you want me to say?” he said. “I’m in love with you, goddamn it. Why did you have to go and do this to us?”

But he didn’t want an answer. He got in his car and drove away. No good-bye. No I’m-here-for-you. No call-me-if-you-need-me. Nothing. Michael was gone. I’d made a mistake and it wasn’t the kind of mistake that I could undo with a simple apology. I thought I’d give him time. I gave him time. All the time in the world.

The phone never rang. Michael didn’t call. And
Sly
didn’t call. What the fuck had I done?

So I tried not to think about Michael. And I tried not to think about Sly. I concentrated on being a good mother, on being the Greatest Mom Ever. And I was getting pretty excited about my photography: The
Demolition Man
pictures looked terrific.

But goddamn it—I couldn’t not think about Sly. I had dumped Michael for the Demolition Man, and the Demolition Man wasn’t calling. Another week passed. Still no 314 J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N

call. And—bad news—no period. Three days later I went for a pregnancy test. It was positive. I drove home in shock. Who was the father? Who did I
want
it to be?