The first time I crossed paths with Sharon Stone was on the stairs at the Hotel du Cap in the South of France.

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She was radiant in a jewelled dress; her husband looked like a sexy pug from a downtown gym. We kissed and chatted and raised our eyebrows (this was in the days when one still could) as he seethed quietly beside her.

Many of the girls from the old school end up at some point with a bruiser. Initially they love the feeling of protection and exclusivity.

The intense power they have achieved at the studio has left them completely isolated, hard as nails and yet vulnerable as twigs, deliciously snappable.

The man in question is usually decent, simple and well hung. He feels ten feet tall. She feels cosy and petite. Sex is a constantly exploding volcano. But at a certain point the novelty wears off.

She feels trapped behind the fence. Her girlfriends are vetoed, she can't bat an eyelid at a passing waiter, yet she must flirt to keep her engine tuned.

I don't know whether Sharon and Phil's marriage was like that, but before too long it was all over.

Golden Globes

One night at the Golden Globes, she told me she was making the sequel to Basic Instinct and had suggested to David Cronenberg (the director then attached to the film) that I should play the male lead.

I went to meet him the next day, feeling pretty excited because he was a director I really admired.

We got along well and he left the lunch to call MGM, the studio making the picture, to inform them that he had found his actor. At this point all hell broke loose.

My agent was told that, to all intents and purposes, a homosexual was a pervert in the eyes of America and the world would never accept me in the role.

For about a week, there were lots of transatlantic phone calls. Then my agency started weighing up the pros and cons.

They had a business to think about and MGM versus Rupert was a no-brainer. By the following Monday morning, the whole saga had blown over without a trace.

Sharon, on the other hand, never gives up. "Honey," she said. "I can't believe what's happening. I'm with my pastor and we agree that we should stop the film and sue the studio. What do you think?"

I lay back on my bed, my head spinning. I searched for a cigarette, had a shot of vodka and a couple of painkillers. Suddenly, for the first time in my career, I felt totally overwhelmed and began to cry.

"Oh, honey, don't cry!" said Sharon. "I'm sorry," I sobbed. "I've been out all night and I'm just overtired."

"Well, you get some sleep. I'm going to talk about this some more with my pastor." (Who was this pastor, I remember thinking. Rasputin, hopefully.)

"And then you tell me what to do. We can close the movie down if that's what you want." All I wanted at that point was a tranquilliser.

After I put the phone down, I called my friend Albert on the other line and went over to his house and carried on partying, promptly forgetting the whole thing again.

Unhinged

We finally got to work together on a film called A Different Loyalty, based on the true story of the English spy, Kim Philby. I was playing Philby, Sharon was his American wife.

It was a great story and had the makings of a good film. Unfortunately, however, it was destined for a premiere on the shelf at Blockbuster video stores. The warning signs were there from the start.

For some reason, Sharon insisted on changing the names from the real characters to new, invented ones.

Equally problematic were the flat, overwritten dialogue, the ever-shrinking budget and the fact that — purely for tax reasons — we were filming in Montreal when the story took place in New York, London, Beirut and Moscow.

All of this, however, paled into insignificance when, at dinner with Sharon early in the rehearsal period, I realised something that had hitherto escaped me. She was utterly unhinged.

"Honey," she said in the middle of the first course. "Have you let your character in yet?" "What do you mean, Shaz?" I replied, slightly wearily.

I always find that when another actor wants to discuss character, it means that they want to discuss your character — and what you need to do so that they can play their character the way they want.

"How many dead people have you played?" "Tons. I only ever play dead people," I said, gloomily. "So you know. Have you let him in?". She spoke quietly and looked at me with a burning intensity.

She had never looked better, even if she insisted on cutting her own hair with her nail scissors. She was a great beauty and her eyes were hypnotic. I was swept in by their drama, even if I didn't know what the hell she was talking about.

"Sort of," I said, feeling my way. "Sure. I felt that," Sharon replied. "Man, she came into me last night. She's right there." Sharon banged her chest with her fist, then opened her fingers and grabbed one of her breasts, shaking it with passion. A man at the next table nearly fell off his chair.

"You mean Mrs Philby?". "Oh yeah! She is in such pain. I'm trying to live with her, but she's gonna take over. I can feel it. Once they take over…" She whistled and shook her head.

I cleared my throat to deliver my next line. "No, Philby hasn't come into me yet, thank God, and frankly I hope he doesn't. He was a ghastly old lush, wasn't he?".

Casino

She ignored me. "The first time was on the film Casino." Now she was speaking so softly that I could hardly hear and had to crane forward.

Always speak as quietly as possible. It draws the listener in and makes you look riveting as well as beautiful to the onlooking fans.

Because, make no mistake: Sharon's career was a 24/7 affair. She didn't have to be on a sound stage to be filming. The world was her camera and her alarm clock was the clapperboard.

It was legendary stuff and I adored it. "Marty left the mad scene for last," she continued. "You remember, when my character has that total meltdown?" "How could I forget? It was brilliant," I replied, thinking back to Martin Scorsese's mobster film.

"Well, she came inside me while I was in the trailer before the scene." I giggled awkwardly. Sharon gave me a withering glare. "I was, like, completely possessed. She was right there. I was her. Bobby could tell straightaway. He said to Marty, "How much film do you have?" And Marty said, "We got a full mag!"

"So just keep rolling," Bobby told him. "Trust me." He knew. Bobby knew. "And when Marty said "Action", I blacked out. I have no recollection. She took over. At the end of the scene I was on the ground. I couldn't move and Marty said: "Don't touch her. Leave her for a few minutes."

The thing was, if you watched Casino, Sharon's performance was possessed. It was on a level few actors achieve, so it was difficult to know what to think. Maybe she was invaded by the dead. Maybe Martin Scorsese and Robert De Niro believed it too.

"There was a pinkish mist over me" Sharon continued. "Everyone saw it. And it's happened again on this film. This could be the last time we speak, you and I." This girl was stark raving mad. I was scared of her.

A little way into filming, it was time for the two of us to shoot our big sex scene. Sharon marched onto the stage, late, offering no reason, her blue eyes dancing dangerously under arched brows.

"Gather round," she ordered. We obeyed. "Okay, anyone who doesn't need to be here, get out now." This was normally a line that the director said, but Sharon was taking control.

"Have you got a full mag?" she asked the camera operator. He shook his head. "Then get one. We want to shoot on just this one. Don't we, Marek?". "Yes, Sharon," said Marek Kanievska, the director, meekly.

Naked

Sharon stepped out of her white towelling dressing gown and stalked over to the bed, totally naked.

Her body was extraordinary. Beautiful hips, wide shoulders, a flat stomach, shapely breasts and gazelle legs, all wrapped in porcelain skin; powdered and highlighted, waxed and perfumed.

You could feel the surge of energy engulf the set. Several hours later, we were lying naked on a bed in a pool of light from a forest of lamps. I was on top of Sharon, lying between her legs.

We both smoked a cigarette, while Sharon's hairdresser rubbed ice cubes on her nipples and a make-up artist covered up a few spots on my bum.

Someone measured the distance between the camera and Sharon's crotch with a tape measure. The operator practised zooming in on it with his camera.

Sharon watched lazily, leaning back so that the camera could get right in. After icing her nipples, the hairdresser blow-dried them with his hairdryer.

The conversation turned to sex. "You know what I say when I'm f*** ing a guy?" said Sharon.

"I say, stop. Look at me." I looked at her. "Now. Talk to me." "Talk to you?" I asked, incredulous. "Communicate," she said. "What? While we're - ". "And now… go in and out real slow." "Oh my God, now I know why I'm gay."

"Okay, let's shoot this please," shouted the director. Our faces were very close, ready to embrace. Our eyes sparkled with manufactured love.

"I can turn a gay man straight in five minutes!" "Two bells!" shouted an assistant. Our lips were nearly touching. Our groins locked.

"How long does it take you to turn a straight man gay?" I whispered. "Silence on the set," shouted another assistant.

"About ten seconds in some cases," murmured Sharon. "And . . . action!" said the director. And in and out we went. Real slow.