No Lifeguard on Duty: The Accidental Life of the World's First Supermodel (41 page)

What difference did it make? Nobody was there for me.

I was alone. I could feel the abyss under my feet.

The phone was ringing as I came through the door.

“Hello,” I said.

“Yo,” Sly said. “I miss you.”

I fucking melted. I almost wept with relief. Anyone who’s been there knows the feeling.

I went over to his house that night. Kevin made dinner for us. We went to the bedroom afterward and made love for hours. He’d improved considerably since our brief debut.

“Bam ham slam,” he said afterward.

And I said, “I’m pregnant.”

That got his attention. “You’re what?”

“I’m pregnant,” I repeated.

Sly took a beat. “How do you know it’s not Birnbaum’s?” Well, I didn’t. It could have been the
artist’s
, for all I knew. But I didn’t think I needed to mention that. What good would that have done either of us?

“It might be Birnbaum’s,” I said. “But I don’t think it is.

I think it’s yours.” I did, too. In all honesty, deep down inside, I felt the child was his.

Sly was a real
mensch
about it. We started spending more time together. He took me golfing. Sailing. Horseback riding. He never mentioned Jennifer Flavin, and I never asked. He introduced me to his friends. One time, at a dinner party, a young producer came over and tried to talk him into doing one more
Rocky.
“I’m done with Rocky,” he said. “The only thing I’m fighting these days is arthritis.”

We were staying at his place in Malibu. The pregnancy N O L I F E G UA R D O N D U T Y 315

began to show. He didn’t like it. “When a kid goes into a pet store, what do you think he’s going to take home with him: the momma dog or the puppies?”

“You’re not a kid,” I said.

“Every man’s a kid on the inside. That’s the problem with men.”

“You got that right,” I said.

“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll give you a million bucks to get rid of the baby.”

“No,” I said. I didn’t know whether or not he was serious, but I didn’t even have to think about it. I’d already had two abortions.

“What if he’s not mine?”

“She,”
I said.

“It’s a girl?”

“That’s right. It’s a girl.”

“How do you know?” he asked.

“I just know. And I know she’s yours.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, Sly. I just feel it, okay? A woman

knows.”

“A million bucks is a lot of money,” he said.

“I don’t want your fucking money,” I said.

We flew to Miami on a private jet. He was shooting
The
Specialist
with Sharon Stone, but the
National Enquirer
was more interested in me. Somehow they got hold of the story:
The Superstar and the Supermodel—And One of
Them Looks Pregnant.
It was a huge fucking story. Even the reputable papers called with inquiries.

“You sure you want to have this kid?” Sly said.

“Yes,” I said.

We were on our way to lunch, at South Beach, and

found a small crowd gathered for some kind of shoot. Sly wanted to take a closer look, and of course I tagged along.

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

And wouldn’t you just know it: It was Helmut Newton, shooting girls in skimpy bathing suits.

“Hi, Helmut,” I said. He turned to look, and scowled the moment he saw me. Christ, what a child! Yes, he was Helmut Newton, and, yes, he was a great photographer. But years had passed since that incident in the south of France, and he was still angry. “I guess I missed my chance,” I said, and walked off.

Sly hurried to catch up. “What the hell was that all about?” he asked.

“Oh, just another man I pissed off,” I volunteered. “And I didn’t even sleep with him.”

By the time I got back to Los Angeles, my street was crawling with reporters. Some of them actually looked like reporters. Others wore disguises: telephone repairmen, electricians, cable guys. It was like a shoot for
This Old
House.

One of my friends came over. He was sweet. He let me WAITING FOR SAVVY TO DROP.

ªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªª

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

SLY HOLDING SAVVY.

cry on his shoulder. I

told him I was frightened, that I wanted to

be a good mother and

just hoping to make a

life with Sly. A week

later, much of what I’d

said showed up in the

National Enquirer.
He’d sold

me down the river. I told him I

never wanted to see him again, and I

never did.

On the big day, I called Sly at home. “Diva’s on her way,” I said.

“I’ll meet you at the hospital,” he said. “And Janice, please don’t call her ‘Diva.’You’ll live to regret it.”

I told him not to hurry. I had the nanny drive me to the hospital. Nathan was jumping up and down, thrilled at the prospect of a little sister. He kept telling me she could stay in his room for as long as she wanted—and that he’d take care of her.

She came fast.
Too
fast. Sly got to the hospital about five minutes after she popped out and was beside himself with joy. He held her in his big arms, with a stogie hanging out of his mouth, and rocked her and grinned and grinned.

He had two sons from a previous marriage, but this was his first little girl. I swear there were tears in his eyes.

“I hope she’s mine,” he said to me later.

“She is,” I assured him.

“We’re not calling her ‘Diva,’ ” he said.

“Okay,” I said. “How about Savannah?”

We took her back to my place in Nichols Canyon. The 318 J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N

paparazzi followed us all the way home. We got inside.

Nathan followed us around like a confused puppy:
So this
is what a baby sister looks like?
We put Savannah in her crib. Sly beamed like a proud father.

“We’re going to get you back in shape,” he said.

“Is that your big concern?” I asked. “Getting me in shape?”

“No,” he said. “I’m still wondering whether she’s mine.”

I thought that was a shitty thing to say. The phone rang.

Gianni Versace was calling to congratulate me. He also wanted to know whether I’d be ready to go back to work in six weeks; he was having his haute couture show in Paris, and I was the first girl on his list.

“Six weeks?” I said. I looked at Sly. “Sure. I’ll be in fighting shape in six weeks.”

Within days, Sly was popping me with his vitamin regimen. They’d worked for him and they seemed to be working fine for me. I exercised religiously, and took care of my kids, and thought of my new life with Sly. No, we weren’t living together, we weren’t man and wife, but it sure looked like it was in the cards. He went with me to visit the pediatrician when it was time for Savannah’s one-month checkup. But it wasn’t completely selfless: He wanted to make sure she was his, so he’d arranged for a DNA test. I wasn’t concerned in the least. I
knew
she was his.

The lab called a few days later. The results were murky, they said. One of the technicians had screwed up and they needed another sample. Somehow, I never got around to giving them their lousy sample. Meanwhile, Sly was concentrating on turning this momma dog into a puppy. He got me into the best shape of my life—him and his vitamins.

The day before I left for Paris, my doorbell rang. The man outside identified himself as a lab technician from some facility in Long Beach, just south of L.A. He said he

N O L I F E G UA R D O N D U T Y 319

was there to take samples of Savannah’s blood. It pissed me off—Sly hadn’t forgotten—but I couldn’t exactly send the man on his way. He took her blood, the goddamn vampire, and left with his little vials.

The next evening, I flew to Paris with Savannah and the nanny, for Gianni’s show. Nathan went to stay with his father. Sly had some dubbing to do; he couldn’t get away till the following day.

I ran into Versace in the hotel lobby. “Whoa!” he

exclaimed, his eyes bugging out of his head. “What happened to you?” I didn’t look like a model anymore. I was buff,
cut.
I looked like an East German swimmer.

Sly showed up in time for the show the next day. It was a huge hit. People kept coming up to tell me they couldn’t believe how good I looked. I had Savannah backstage, and everyone was cooing

over her. Some people

thought she looked like

me; others thought she

looked like Sly.

Sly left his seat

before the show was

over. I had no idea

where he’d gone. I

went down the runway for one last

turn and looked at

his empty seat and

WITH SLY AND

THE LATE GREAT

GIANNI VERSACE.

((((((((((

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

felt a little hurt. I hurried away before the applause died down and went back to the hotel. He was waiting for me in my room. He did not look happy.

“What’s up?” I asked. “Where’d you go?”

“She’s not mine.”

“Excuse me?”

“Savannah,” he said. “She’s not mine. I just heard from the lab in Long Beach.”

“How is that possible?”

“Send my regards to Mr. Birnbaum,” he said. He stood up.

“Sly—”

“We had a good run, Janice. Say nice things about me and I’ll say nice things about you.”

He walked out. I felt like I’d just been kicked in the solar plexus. The phone rang. I was hoping it was Sly, but it was Versace. He was ready to leave for the postshow party at the Louvre, and he was waiting for me out front.

GALOTTI, PAREE, AND ME. TEE HEE.

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N O L I F E G UA R D O N D U T Y 321

I made my way downstairs in a daze, as if I were under water. I was accosted by fans. I signed a few autographs. I even smiled for the paparazzi. I got outside and Versace was standing next to a big white limo. He waved me over, grinning. Some flashbulbs popped. I smiled my alligator smile and climbed into the limo. Versace slipped in next to me and closed the door and the driver pulled away.

“You were marvelous, darling,” he said. “You look marvelous.”

“I feel marvelous,” I said. I was compartmentalizing again. I was getting good at it.