Read Online You Only Get One Life by Brigitte Nielsen - Free Book Online
Authors: Brigitte Nielsen
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day. This was the genuine big-time. And I was still only 17.
When you go fast in modelling, you go really fast. Everything was bigger, better… it was an effort to remember it all but I tried because here was my dream becoming reality and it was all happening at once. Mostly it was all good, it was really fun. I met some incredible people and I quickly got used to the VIP lifestyle. However, when things went wrong, I thought I was going to die.
That was 1981. Ever since then I have had problems with loud sounds. Even the noise of something so innocuous as the boiler going on can be terrifying and I can’t standfireworks on New Year’s Eve. The cause was what had seemed to be nothing more threatening than a prestigious campaign to promote Fila bikinis in the beautiful Seychelles islands in the Indian Ocean, off the east coast of Africa. I was really excited to have been chosen.
Along with four other models I flew from Milan direct to the island of Mahe. We were driven to an amazing resort on the far side. A delegation from Fila greeted us and the five of us bikini models were treated like rock stars. We had two days to relax, have cocktails and we were under instruction to be sure to sunbathe so that we had some colour on us. It was promising to be a very good gig.
One of the other models warned me and Nickie, an American girl who was, like me, very fair-skinned, to make sure that we didn’t get too much sun on us. Of course, what did I do? Cocktails… sunshine… gossiping about boys… having fun. I was a wide-eyed Danish girl with a great body in a five-star resort and I was soaking it all up. After the two days I was covered in sunburn. The photographer freaked out.
‘We’re supposed to be shooting, just go and get that seen to! Get some cream or something,’ he said. ‘We start tomorrow morning.’ I was too young to have got a Danish driving licence and Nickie said she’d drive me. The photographer told us to use the hotel jeep as the Seychelles didn’t have much infrastructure at that time. There were just three main resorts on the whole island and the nearest decent shops were on the other coast.
For me at that age even being driven in a jeep was an exciting adventure in itself. We weren’t likely to get lost as there was only one proper tarmac road and that took us pastthe airport again. As we got near it, we passed a truck full of locals. They were all screaming in French – the Seychelles having once been controlled by France. I’d picked up very little French during my unhappy sojourn in Paris and had absolutely no idea what they were telling us, but it was clear they were not happy. To me as an ignorant young thing in paradise their attitude struck me as unnecessary. ‘Imagine being so angry in such a beautiful place,’ I told Nickie. She was distracted by the petrol station inside the airport perimeter and decided to take what might be her only opportunity to fill up before we went on with our shopping.
As Nickie paid for the fuel two men approached us. They were both white, which was unusual enough on the island. More ominously, they were sweaty, clearly irritated and each carried a machine gun. A big machine gun each. Nickie and I looked at each other before trying a smile and a ‘Hi, how are you?’ while failing to disguise our terror. These guys weren’t even wearing uniforms and were clearly not police, much less regular army. We managed to get something out of them in English. There had been a coup. I later found out that the President of the Seychelles, France-Albert René, had instigated a Socialist government in a move that triggered the takeover.
‘You’ve got very little time,’ they said. ‘See that doorway?’ They pointed over to the tiny airport. We saw a small group of people about a hundred metres away, all running towards the entrance the men were pointing out. ‘Go,’ they said.
I don’t know if we left our bags, I can’t really remember much about the order
When you go fast in modelling, you go really fast. Everything was bigger, better… it was an effort to remember it all but I tried because here was my dream becoming reality and it was all happening at once. Mostly it was all good, it was really fun. I met some incredible people and I quickly got used to the VIP lifestyle. However, when things went wrong, I thought I was going to die.
That was 1981. Ever since then I have had problems with loud sounds. Even the noise of something so innocuous as the boiler going on can be terrifying and I can’t standfireworks on New Year’s Eve. The cause was what had seemed to be nothing more threatening than a prestigious campaign to promote Fila bikinis in the beautiful Seychelles islands in the Indian Ocean, off the east coast of Africa. I was really excited to have been chosen.
Along with four other models I flew from Milan direct to the island of Mahe. We were driven to an amazing resort on the far side. A delegation from Fila greeted us and the five of us bikini models were treated like rock stars. We had two days to relax, have cocktails and we were under instruction to be sure to sunbathe so that we had some colour on us. It was promising to be a very good gig.
One of the other models warned me and Nickie, an American girl who was, like me, very fair-skinned, to make sure that we didn’t get too much sun on us. Of course, what did I do? Cocktails… sunshine… gossiping about boys… having fun. I was a wide-eyed Danish girl with a great body in a five-star resort and I was soaking it all up. After the two days I was covered in sunburn. The photographer freaked out.
‘We’re supposed to be shooting, just go and get that seen to! Get some cream or something,’ he said. ‘We start tomorrow morning.’ I was too young to have got a Danish driving licence and Nickie said she’d drive me. The photographer told us to use the hotel jeep as the Seychelles didn’t have much infrastructure at that time. There were just three main resorts on the whole island and the nearest decent shops were on the other coast.
For me at that age even being driven in a jeep was an exciting adventure in itself. We weren’t likely to get lost as there was only one proper tarmac road and that took us pastthe airport again. As we got near it, we passed a truck full of locals. They were all screaming in French – the Seychelles having once been controlled by France. I’d picked up very little French during my unhappy sojourn in Paris and had absolutely no idea what they were telling us, but it was clear they were not happy. To me as an ignorant young thing in paradise their attitude struck me as unnecessary. ‘Imagine being so angry in such a beautiful place,’ I told Nickie. She was distracted by the petrol station inside the airport perimeter and decided to take what might be her only opportunity to fill up before we went on with our shopping.
As Nickie paid for the fuel two men approached us. They were both white, which was unusual enough on the island. More ominously, they were sweaty, clearly irritated and each carried a machine gun. A big machine gun each. Nickie and I looked at each other before trying a smile and a ‘Hi, how are you?’ while failing to disguise our terror. These guys weren’t even wearing uniforms and were clearly not police, much less regular army. We managed to get something out of them in English. There had been a coup. I later found out that the President of the Seychelles, France-Albert René, had instigated a Socialist government in a move that triggered the takeover.
‘You’ve got very little time,’ they said. ‘See that doorway?’ They pointed over to the tiny airport. We saw a small group of people about a hundred metres away, all running towards the entrance the men were pointing out. ‘Go,’ they said.
I don’t know if we left our bags, I can’t really remember much about the order
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