Morgan had given me the script and asked for my opinion. After reading the opening dozen pages, I told him it was fantastic. After I finished reading it, I was unsettled by Steven's take on s.e.xuality and fidelity, but, as I told Steven at some of the dinners we had together, getting a strong reaction from me was a good thing.

I liked the freshness of his work, and I liked Steven even more. He was a brilliant nerd. He reminded me of a lot of artists I had met in the punk world--guys with talent, vision, a strong, unique voice, and a need to work in their own unconventional way.

Morgan was wrapped up in production when I went into the studio to make my next alb.u.m, Runaway Horses. Though a number of major producers inquired about working with me, I teamed up with Rick Nowels again. For a second time I was in the studio trying not to think about the pressure and high expectations. Yet the industry's reigning A&R guru John Kalodner laid it right out there by saying, "If Belinda gets this alb.u.m right, she's going to be the biggest star in the world." I tried not to think about it, but I knew the opportunity was there.

Rick, who immediately brought in some amazing songs, like "La Luna" and "Summer Rain," wanted to record part of the alb.u.m in the South of France, and after the label gave permission, we set up camp outside Aix-en-Provence in the ma.s.sive Chateau Miraval, the same thirty-five-bedroom estate Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie lived in twenty years later.

Although the chateau was beautiful and on first getting there I imagined myself a princess arriving at her castle, I found it to be a depressing place in the middle of nowhere. I got a boost when Charlotte and Jeannine arrived. At first, they thought they'd gone to rock-and-roll heaven. We went on long morning hikes across the countryside, ate rich lunches prepared by a private chef, recorded, took naps, and then ate dinner in the nearby village.

It was ideal--for a week. Then they were as bored as me and the three of us took off to watch a Formula One race.

For me, the highlight came during work on "Leave a Light On," another gorgeous Rick and Ellen Shipley song. Rick said we should try to get someone cool and with a distinctive style to play the lead guitar part. I thought for a moment and said, "What about George Harrison?" I had met George briefly a few years earlier in San Remo, Italy, and Morgan, through his work on s.e.x, Lies, and Videotape, knew someone who was close to the former Beatle and able to get word to him. George responded right away, saying he'd love to help out.

He had worked with very few artists, so I was honored. I absolutely loved the work he eventually did. After he pa.s.sed away, his widow, Olivia, told a mutual friend that she had found an old Runaway Horses ca.s.sette as she went through some of his stuff. She said, "Please tell Belinda that George really loved her voice."

Overall, we worked on the alb.u.m as if money didn't matter. We took a year and spent close to $1 million. That may have sounded great in the press, but now when I hear something like that I know, because it was the case with my alb.u.m, that it signals trouble. We second-guessed ourselves right and left and lost touch with the basics and ended up with an expensive alb.u.m, not the great one we had hoped to make.

In January I was with Morgan at the Sundance Film Festival in Utah when s.e.x, Lies, and Videotape debuted and captured the Audience Award. Four months later, we went with the film to the Cannes Film Festival. We stayed at the Hotel du Cap and partied on yachts, and I bought a pink Chanel suit for the premiere. The film was awarded the festival's top prize, the Palme d'Or. It was an unbelievable time.

Morgan was pegged as Hollywood's hottest, most imaginative young producer. There was no doubt he had a Midas touch. I stared at him admiringly as he chatted with stars on the red carpet and spoke with reporters after the awards. He handled the attention with graceful appreciation. I could not have been prouder.

But my smile was pretend. As I did press in preparation for my upcoming alb.u.m, I knew I wasn't telling the truth when reporters focused even more on my looks. Each time they asked about my transformation from the cute, chubby Go-Go to the glamorous pop siren with the chic, skinny body and long, red hair, I felt my skin crawl. I gave them the answer they wanted, but the truth was different.

Privately, my eating disorder had a stranglehold on me. I was either a good girl or a bad girl. I would go five days in a row where I was a "good girl," eating lettuce leaves with vinegar, a couple vegetables, and not allowing myself anything else. I was always on a severe diet. It was like holding a ball underwater, because I'm not built to be skinny. Then I would wake up starving, "allow" myself a bite of chocolate chip cookie, and immediately spiral into a depression.

As far as I was concerned, at that point my day was ruined. I used it as an excuse to go on a disgusting, all-day binge. All I could think about was food and putting something in my mouth. I would eat until I went to bed, obsessively counting the calories I consumed. Sometimes I got up to five or six thousand in one day.

If I didn't punish myself, I picked fights with Morgan. I wasn't any good at feeling happy. I attended Overeaters Anonymous meetings and called my sponsor every day to tell her what I planned to eat the next day. But those calls made me feel like my food obsession got worse, not better. All I thought about was what I was going to eat.

I found reasons OA wasn't for me. First I didn't like the people, and then I said I couldn't connect with my sponsor. Obviously I wasn't ready to make it work. As with any twelve-step program, you have to invest in the system and work the steps, and I didn't. I wasn't willing to acknowledge the first step: admitting I was powerless over my problem and my life was unmanageable.

I thought I was managing.

In September, "Leave a Light On" came out and was a hit everywhere in the world except the U.S., where it failed to crack the top 10, an indication that times and the music-buying public's taste had changed. When Runaway Horses. .h.i.t the stores a month later, it opened well overseas but struggled here at home, needing six months to creep its way to a very disappointing peak of 37.

Although I put on a positive face for the press, I was deeply hurt by the alb.u.m's failure to live up to expectations. In many ways, it was my favorite collection of songs. Morgan counseled me to work at the things I could influence and let go of everything else. I tried. Some days I managed. Other days I was filled with anxiety and struggled with all of my issues.

On the bright side, I crossed paths with Gina one day. After a fun catch-up, the two of us on a whim arranged for a reunion with the other Go-Go's. Without telling anyone, we met for dinner at an Italian restaurant in West Hollywood. It was the first time the five of us had been together since Jane left and our subsequent breakup. All of us were nervous. Jane held up her palms and said, "They're sweaty!"

We agreed to one ground rule: none of us would say anything that would p.i.s.s off someone else. Then we had a great time. We reminisced about the crazy times we'd had in the early days, offered apologies for things said in the latter days, worked through some hard feelings, and, as we told a local reporter who got wind of the reunion, we realized "even the bad times we've gone through didn't seem so bad."

I left dinner appreciating the special camaraderie the five of us shared--and that it had survived. But all was not rosy. As I later confessed to Morgan, I felt uncomfortable about having a successful solo career when some of the other girls were struggling in their endeavors. While Jane and Charlotte were both working on alb.u.ms, Gina's label had dropped her and Kathy didn't have a deal.

I realized everyone might benefit from a Go-Go's reunion. I mentioned it to my manager, Danny Goldberg, who had a lengthy background as a political activist. A former Village Voice journalist, he had coproduced and codirected the 1980 doc.u.mentary No Nukes and was involved with the ACLU, all in addition to managing Bonnie Raitt, Rickie Lee Jones, and other artists.

He loved the idea of a Go-Go's reunion. But it sat a few months until Danny found the right event, a fund-raiser Jane Fonda was spearheading for California's environmental ballot initiative. It sounded good to me. I called the girls. Everyone was game.

In January 1990, we announced our reunion show at a press conference with Jane Fonda. Two and a half months later, we got together for rehearsals at SIR, where I was also in rehearsals for my Runaway Horses tour. I felt self-conscious running back and forth between rehearsals and maybe some resentment from the other girls, who I sensed--and it could have been me being overly sensitive--looked at me as Miss High and Mighty with her rock band, getting ready for her world tour. At the end of the day, I was left feeling like I should apologize.

But I was able to set that aside and enjoy stepping back into the Go-Go's. It wasn't hard for me to switch gears. The band was part of my DNA. On March 27, we played a surprise warm-up show as the KLAMMS at the Whisky, a stage that was like a second home in our punk days. We still looked like an odd collection: Jane wore short-shorts, Kathy was in a polka-dot negligee, Charlotte radiated laid-back L.A. rock chic in a long, embroidered shirt, Gina had on her trademark jeans and T-shirt, and I was in a fancy black gown that a girlfriend of mine laughingly said made me look like I had dressed to go to Harry's Bar in London.

The fun we had carried over into the next night at the Universal Amphitheater when we performed a set of the band's. .h.i.ts to a crowd of L.A. politicos and celebrities that included Jodie Foster, Rob Lowe, John McEnroe and Tatum O'Neal, and Sandra Bernhard. Afterward, all of us were agreeable to doing more shows and maybe even a tour later in the year when IRS released a greatest-hits package.

There was one downside. Obviously I didn't tell anyone about my eating issues, but I felt a clutch of anxiety when I read the reviews of our one-off and saw that all of them talked about my weight. The Los Angeles Times, while noting my "untouchable supermodel look," said I had formerly been "the most roly-poly and tomboyish-looking member," and the Orange County Register called me "the Oprah Winfrey of pop," a reference to my up-and-down weight.

If I wasn't obsessing about my weight, others were.

I should've known I was going to get in trouble. Shortly after the May kickoff of my world tour in the UK, I was in my hotel reading through the latest press clippings. I came across a recent review that described me as looking like a singing secretary onstage. He had taken exception to the Chanel-inspired suits I'd had custom-made for the tour. I took offense, but in retrospect he was right.

I looked like s.h.i.t. I was way too skinny, wore too much makeup, my bobbed hair was wrong, and the suits--well, they were a different issue. They reflected the trouble I'd had at the outset deciding on a look for the tour. If you have to think too much about those things, it's a sign of confusion and uncertainty--and that was me.

One thing I wasn't confused about was my birth father. He had started writing me letters again before I left home and continued sending entreaties through my management after I started my tour. I had spoken to him a few times on the phone out of the guilt I still felt from having not seen him on my Heaven tour, but I had no intention of letting him back in my life at the level he wanted.

I also found something slightly creepy about the way he professed such strong affection for me in his letters. How can you love someone you don't know?

Finally, I came straight out and told him that I didn't want to have a relationship with him. Considering how much I had adored him as a little girl, I agonized about sending him that message. He responded by sending me letters saying that I was going to burn in h.e.l.l unless I found forgiveness in my heart. I ignored him, hoping and praying he would go away--and he did for a while.

Morgan was such a rock. So were my friends Jeannine and Jack and my makeup artist Pearlie Whirly, who kept me company on the tour. But I struggled to keep my emotions in check. Although still c.o.ke-free, I was drinking more. I also started keeping a secret stash of pills, including Valium, Halcion, and Rohypnol. I never thought I might be traveling back down the road to addiction. As long as I wasn't doing c.o.ke, I thought I was fine, no big deal.

And it wasn't, I suppose, until I had to perform a promotional show on the same bill as Beach Boys' genius Brian Wilson in Ibiza, an island off Spain. I had never been to this Mediterranean playground, but I knew of its reputation as a decadent, party-hearty getaway for the rich, something that was confirmed when I spotted director Roman Polanski with a pretty young girl at the baggage claim. I thought, Perfect, this is my kind of place.

On the way to the hotel, I got my friends Jeannine and Pearlie to promise we were going to be healthy, jog and hike, lay out in the sun, eat right, and get plenty of sleep. By night, though, I was whooping it up at the giant nightclub Amnesia and enjoying my first time doing ecstasy. It seemed like everyone was on it.

We hit all the big ecstasy clubs, including a party in the middle of nowhere--it seemed like a desert--where I watched columns of drag queens go-go dancing. It was a magnificent spectacle. I was both stunned and drawn straight into the unfolding circus. I had never experienced such a night. The whole place was like a Fellini movie. Suddenly, I was drinking tumblers of vodka, smoking cigarettes, dancing, not just listening to but absorbing the music, and having the time of my life. On E, I loved everyone I met.

At one of the clubs, someone offered me a hit of c.o.ke. I did it without thinking; my response was automatic. Right after, though, I knew I shouldn't have done it. I thought, Uh-oh.

I hadn't done c.o.ke in four years. But that one hit triggered a reaction straight out of the drug addict's textbook. I went on a binge and came out of the last club in the morning. Awash in hot sunlight, I said to myself, "I'm a disaster. This is f.u.c.ked."

I had yet to call home to check in with Morgan. I sat in the back of a cab and rehea.r.s.ed what I was going to say to Morgan. Hi, honey, it's me. How are you? I tried different inflections. I was panicked about how I was going to sound. At the hotel, I got out of the cab and walked straight into Brian Wilson and his twenty-four-hour therapist, Dr. Eugene Landy. I tried to act normal as I said h.e.l.lo, but I wasn't fooling anyone. My hair was twisted and gross, my lipstick was blue, and I was covered in filth. Dr. Landy knew what was going on. He also knew Morgan, which made me fear he might call him. I was f.u.c.ked.

I went up to my room and paced back and forth with my cigarette, trying to come down from the c.o.ke and rehearsing what I was going to say. Finally, I called Morgan and said I had woken up early and was going to the beach for a jog. He believed me.

On hanging up, though, I was. .h.i.t with a one-two of shame and guilt for lying to him and for what I had done. Ibiza wasn't good for me. The place was full of temptation. I wanted to get out of there. I performed that night and let some local friends take me out to a club. But this time I didn't drink or do anything, including enjoy myself. In the morning, I caught the first available plane out of there.

I felt like I would've died in Ibiza if I had stayed any longer. I didn't want to do c.o.ke ever again.

But soon it was like I had never stopped.

eighteen.

EMOTIONAL HIGHWAY.

SINCE THE TALES of drug abuse and acrimony had already been told at least in part in the press, the Go-Go's two-month reunion tour in November and December 1990 gave us a chance to focus on the thing that mattered most: the impressive collection of music we had put together before calling it quits six years earlier. With a new greatest-hits package that included a snappy remix of "Cool Jerk," plus a video featuring the five of us looking like a million bucks, everyone agreed we could make a point about our contributions to the eighties. If we also made a profit, no one would complain.

More important, having already come to terms on past disagreements, we felt like we could get along, and for the most part we did. We preceded a kickoff appearance on David Letterman's late-night talk show with a heavy-duty shopping spree in New York City that reminded me of the fun we used to have together. Onstage, I had a blast singing the old songs and looking to either side and seeing Gina and Kathy in sync and watching Jane and Charlotte trade riffs.

Occasionally the old jealousies reared their head. The girls didn't like it when we pulled up to one venue and the marquee read "Belinda Carlisle and the Go-Go's." Several hotels also gave me a larger room than the others even after we made sure to tell them everyone in the band was equal. I even forced a couple of the girls to see my room before they checked into theirs so they knew I wasn't creating the problem. After a few more times, though, I got fed up with the carping and complaining and had a Neely O'Hara-type moment when I snapped, "I can't help it if I'm a bigger star than you!"

Needless to say, my outburst didn't go over well. But everyone had moments when they cracked, and we got over them.

Barbs from the press directed at me were harder to ignore. I knew it was part of being the lead singer, that when you stand out front you put yourself in line for the most attention and criticism. But reviewers seemed to use me for target practice, like the Chicago Tribune's guy, who worked up an excuse to call me the group's only nonwriter and intimated that I had reunited with the band because my "hits finally dried up." Never mind that he had his facts wrong. What was the point of being hurtful?

Ironically, I kept myself on the road as much as possible. Without consciously realizing it, I was running from my life. In mid-December, though, the Go-Go's tour ended and I returned home, which meant either facing hard truths about my behavior or lying to Morgan.

I chose the latter. I didn't want him to know that drugs had crept back into my life--a life where the stakes had risen and I had much to lose. Morgan and I had a beautiful home, a glamorous social life, and a genuine friendship. Morgan also wanted to start a family. He looked forward to being a father. But having helped raise my brothers and sisters, I didn't share his enthusiasm about dealing with a baby. I'd been there and done that. I liked my freedom.

Our talks on the subject resulted in an agreement that we wouldn't purposely try to have a child but we wouldn't try to prevent it from happening either. I was grateful to reach a compromise. The last thing I wanted was to confess the real reason I wasn't as enthusiastic as Morgan about starting a family--that I was back on drugs. How could I take care of a baby when I wasn't able to take care of myself?

After New Year's, I began working with Rick again on my fourth solo alb.u.m, Live Your Life Be Free. Unlike with my earlier solo alb.u.ms, I wasn't able to focus. I was distracted by my secret c.o.ke binges.

As hard as I tried to keep Morgan from finding out, he eventually caught on. He busted me a couple times. Not in the act, but I was high. Angry and upset, he pleaded with me to stop. He wanted to know why I was back on c.o.ke. With all I had going for me, why? I didn't have an answer. Crying, I promised to stop. I swore "never again," and I meant it from the bottom of my heart. But deep down I knew I couldn't keep that promise. I wasn't ready to admit I was an addict, but I knew I was powerless.

After many tear-filled confrontations, I chose a different tack. I decided I wasn't going to keep it a secret from him. The lies were tearing me apart, and I feared it was having the same effect on us. So I told Morgan almost everything. If I was at the studio all day or night, I adopted a "don't ask, don't tell" policy. But if we went out and I had the opportunity or inclination to buy, I would tell him that I was getting half a gram. Sometimes he objected. Other times he looked the other way. And still other times he couldn't contain his disgust or fear.

He was frightened that I was getting back into the habit again. But I insisted that I had things under control.

"No, no, no," I said. "I'm fine."

After the problems with Runaway Horses, I went into the making of Live Your Life Be Free feeling like it wouldn't receive much support from the record company in the U.S. Rick was more optimistic. He was always more positive and forward-looking, a trait that infuses his songwriting. However, between changing times and tastes, the public's fascination with newer artists, record company politics, and my own personal issues, I sensed that my career was on the downslide.

Good songs failed to excite me. I felt like the songs "Live Your Life Be Free" and "Half the World" were as good as any I had put on a solo alb.u.m, but I didn't think they would be enough this time around. It brought up my fears of being an imposter and undeserving of my life. I was terrified the clock would strike midnight, my designer clothes would turn into rags, and I'd end up a bag lady on the streets.

Morgan's rea.s.surances helped. But periodically I found myself thinking about other career moves or saying to myself, "You can always go back to hairdressing or stenography."

The one option that didn't cross my mind was motherhood. I should have thought harder. In early September, while in London at a photo session for the Daily Mail, I found out that I was pregnant. Thinking there might be a reason I was waking up nauseous, I bought a home pregnancy test the night before the shoot and took the test in my hotel room. It came back positive. What was a joyous occasion for most women, learning they had a new life growing inside them, caused my world to come crashing down.

I had known for a while there was a possibility I could get pregnant. But the reality was different. Part of me was excited for what it would mean to Morgan, and part of me was horrified. I had a lot of mother issues that needed to be addressed. I feared that my life as I knew it, at almost thirty-three years old, was about to end. I also had a terrible concern, one that I knew I eventually had to tell my doctor.

After a long cry, I pulled myself together and called Morgan at home with the good news. He was ecstatic. I sounded like everything was wonderful, too. It was easy for me to put on a smiley face. I was genuinely happy for Morgan and thought I would grow to feel the same way. At the moment, though, all I felt was nauseous. I had a rough bout of morning sickness--which went on through my promotional tour of Europe and Scandinavia, as well as the next four months. I vomited every morning. I was either sick or hungry all day long. There were no in-betweens.

As soon as I got back home, I went to the doctor to address another, deeper concern. Prior to learning I was pregnant, I had binged on c.o.ke and done ecstasy. Unable to hold back the tears, I confessed everything to the doctor, explaining that I had drank and done drugs during the earliest weeks of my pregnancy and I was terribly frightened about possible damage I might have inflicted on the baby.

He told me not to worry because the placenta wasn't developed yet and the baby would be fine if I quit immediately. I told him that I already had. He gave me a stern, sober look.

"Tell me the truth. You aren't still using cocaine or other drugs, are you?" he asked.

"No."

"When did you stop?"

"I haven't done anything since right before I took the pregnancy test," I said.

As he got my file off the counter, he saw a pack of cigarettes in my purse.

"You're smoking cigarettes?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Stop."

I nodded. "I will."

And I did.

At the end of September, MCA released "Live Your Life Be Free" as the first single off my fourth alb.u.m of the same t.i.tle, which came out a month later. Both stiffed in the U.S., as I had antic.i.p.ated. I blamed a lack of support from my record company, conveniently ignoring my own contributions. Yet others noticed. The Boston Globe called the alb.u.m "emotionally vapid" and said that I merely "went through the motions," and a January 1992 Rolling Stone review said my "biggest shortcoming" was "my failure to impart any real feeling to the words" I sang.

Such criticism p.i.s.sed me off, but deep down I knew they had a point, and in fact, years later, when I was able to take an honest and uncompromising look back at my efforts, I not only agreed but understood why. I had numbed myself with drugs until I found out I was pregnant. But even then, I found ways to stay disconnected. It took me sixteen years to admit this, but I had a gla.s.s of wine every day throughout my pregnancy. I knew it was unhealthy, but that's the degree to which my addiction affected my judgment.

I was open about my drinking, too. But it didn't win me any fans. At a party, actress Marilu Henner, a well-known health fanatic who wrote several bestselling books on the subject, came up to me and rather bluntly let me know that I shouldn't have been drinking while I was pregnant. I knew she was right, but I didn't want to be told what I should and shouldn't do.

I needed my relief. I gave up my workouts, let my trainer go, and allowed myself freedom to eat and gain weight guilt-free. To satisfy my craving for sour things, I carried a bottle of vinegar with me and poured it over everything. I gained weight steadily, like twelve pounds every three weeks. And I continued to feel sick. The nausea I thought was morning sickness never pa.s.sed. I was due at the end of June, and I would stare at the calendar, counting the days.

On days when I wasn't bemoaning the imminent change to my life, I indulged my curiosity about the miracle occurring inside me, what sort of person fate would have me create. If the baby was a boy, Morgan and I decided to name him James Duke, after his father and my stepdad, Walt, whose nickname was Duke. We couldn't settle on a girl's name, but given a choice I saw myself with a daughter. I wouldn't have wanted an independent troublemaker like me, but I saw myself being able to relate better to a girl. I could take her shopping and dress her up.

I was thrilled when my doctor read my latest ultrasound and informed me that I was having a girl. I had a thematically appropriate baby shower at Morton's restaurant, at which Morgan's mother, Pamela, and his sister, Portland, represented old Hollywood, and Roseanne Barr made sure everyone knew the new, brash show-business crowd was also present. A smartly dressed black guy crashed the party, but he pa.s.sed himself off as a friend with such charm and aplomb that Pamela and Porty began inviting him to their own parties at the big house on Pamela Drive.

They were shocked when we informed them that he wasn't a friend. All of us had a good laugh. We had an even bigger laugh a few weeks later when another ultrasound showed that the baby was actually a boy, not the girl for whom I now had a stockpile of pink baby clothes.

But my smile was short-lived. Soon after the shower, my mom expressed concern at the way I looked. I was about six and a half months along, and she had come to visit. I'll never forget the expression on her face as she stared at me. It was as if she was looking at something no one else could see.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

"I don't think you have a good doctor," she said.

"What?"

It was such an odd thing to say out of the blue. I didn't understand. She stepped closer and put the back of her hand against my skin.

"Something about you doesn't look right," she said. "Have you been to see your doctor?"

"Yes," I said. "I go regularly."

"Then I think you need a new doctor," she said. "You look like you're sick."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

She took hold of my hands and looked at them as if she was a palm reader. Like the rest of me, my fingers were fat. I hadn't noticed anything unusual up to that point. But now that I looked along with her, they did have an abnormal, sausage-like tumescence. My face was the same way: large, but without definition. As she said, I didn't look right.

I saw my OB, who confirmed my mom's intuition. I was diagnosed with severe toxemia, a serious disorder that my doctor referred to as preeclampsia, a condition defined by high blood pressure and elevated levels of protein in the urine. I also suffered from other symptoms, including headaches, abdominal pains, and nausea. He sent me to bed with strict orders to stay there.

I stayed in bed, ordered in Italian food, and watched The People's Court and Sally Jessy Raphael. I never had a day when I felt pretty or like I glowed, as some women do when they're pregnant. I had a big pumpkin face and looked distorted and grotesque.