The Girl: A Life in the Shadow of Roman Polanski

by Samantha Geimer

  I can be a sex kitten like the girls in Cosmo too.

  He shoots some more photos, and by the time we’re done in the kitchen, I’ve downed another glass of champagne. He pours again. My glass never gets empty. He’s a good host, too, I guess.

  “Let’s take some photos in the Jacuzzi,” Roman says.

  Whatever! That sounds fine to me. He suggests I call Mom first, and that’s fine with me, too. He says he doesn’t want her to worry.

  “Are you all right?” Mom says.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Terri ended up not coming with us,” I tell her.

  “Do you want me to come pick you up?”

  She sounds a little nervous or something. “No. It’s fine,” I say. I am feeling pretty fine at that point, enjoying the modeling more than the first time or earlier. Roman seems increasingly pleased with me. At least he isn’t scowling. And he wants more photos. Finally, I am getting it right.

  He gets on the phone with my mother and tells her we’re at Jack Nicholson’s house up in Mulholland Canyon, not very far. It’s already dark, but he’ll bring me home soon. Having reassured her, they hang up.

  There’s a little bathroom that has a door opening out to the side of the house where the Jacuzzi is, and I go in there to undress. I don’t have a bathing suit, so I figure I’ll go in with just my panties and once I’m in, I can get in deep enough so that I’m covered by the bubbles. I knot a towel around me.

  He comes up behind me and walks past me toward the door, then he stops at the sink. He’s holding this little box. It’s a small yellow rectangle that you can see through. He’s holding this pill broken into three parts. He asks me, “Is this a Quaalude?” and I say, “Yes.” I don’t know why he has asked me that. Maybe he wants to see how much I know. And I do know, because I’ve seen them in magazines. They say Rorer 714. People around the Valley wear T-shirts with “Captain Quaalude” on them. They are sedatives and muscle relaxers. They are also popular sex drugs, reputed to increase arousal.

  “Do you think I’ll be able to drive if I take one?”

  Why is he asking me? I wonder. I mean, I know what they are. But first of all, I don’t drive, so I have no idea what it takes to drive, and second of all, I really don’t know what Quaaludes do. What do they do?

  “Do you want part of one?” he asks. First I say no. Then he asks me if I’ve ever had one. I say I have. This is a lie. But I think, If I say I have, then I’m someone who knows what she’s saying no to. I’ve tried them, don’t like them—that’s cool, right?

  Then he asks again. And then . . . Oh, I don’t know. He wants me to. How can I say no?

  So then I say yes.

  I gulp a third of a pill with more champagne. Eh, this is fine. Not even half a pill.

  Though . . . shit. Champagne, pill. I really should have had something to eat today. Who was that girl in New Jersey? Karen Ann Quinby—no, Quinlan. Karen Ann Quinlan. She’s been in the papers recently. Went to a party, took some pills and liquor, ended up in a coma. Her parents took her off the respirator but she just lay there, not able to move but not able to die. That was horrible. I begin to get a little scared. I’m relaxed—too relaxed—and I just feel like lying down on the kitchen floor and resting, maybe permanently. My muscles are liquid but my heart is beating. What if I become Coma Girl?

  Okay, eat something—that’ll help.

  Nothing in the fridge besides booze and soda, but there are some crackers on a plate on the counter. I scarf those down. I can’t find anything else. Okay, I’m just overreacting. This will be fine. Fine.

  “Samantha.”

  I hear him calling from outside, by the Jacuzzi. It’s dark out but there are some small house lights and ground lights, and the Jacuzzi itself has a bright light in it. It looks so wild, with the bright lights making the foaming water a kind of incandescent white.

  He asks me to get in the Jacuzzi and I’m in just my panties and he says, “You should take your panties off.”

  Oh no. But, well, okay, fine. There must be a reason. The panties are dark, kind of rust-colored, maybe they’ll show through the water and mess up the shot. He knows what he’s doing.

  Wait, how did I get here again? Let me think back. Such excitement. Roman Polanski’s coming over and he wants to shoot me for a French magazine and Henri’s his friend and Kim told Mom and Mom told me, and Mom and Bob say it’s all so amazing and I’m like, Okay, I’ll go to my room now with my pet bird and think about it. I don’t know. But then again, I want to be Marilyn Monroe. What would she do? She’d be beautiful and free in the bubbles. So let’s climb that hill, and who cares about the dirt-biker guy, and you want my shirt? Here, and I had sex twice, hasn’t everybody, so yeah, champagne and ’lude, that’s how it’s done, take my panties, too.

  I don’t know. I get in. I’ve got nothing on.

  I’ve got my champagne glass, so I pose for the camera. The Jacuzzi is nice, but it’s pretty deep. After a few more shots, he gives up. “This is no good, there’s not enough light.” He puts his camera down and says he’s getting in.

  He’s getting in?

  I’m fine with taking off my top, I’m fine that he doesn’t care about anything I have to say, and the way he acts all indifferent to me, and I can even deal with spending all this time with him because everyone tells me he’s a great artist. But . . . this? No. He is a forty-three-year-old man with wet lips. He doesn’t even like me.

  He takes off his tan pants and sweater. Then he removes his briefs. I look away, and I don’t look back up until I am sure he is in the water. I really don’t want to see anything. If I don’t see, I won’t remember. He goes to the deep end of the Jacuzzi. I’m in the shallow end. “Come here,” he says.

  I want out. Now. How fucking stupid could I be? It’s a hard thought to hold on to. The water is hot, and steam is rising into the night, and there’s that Jacuzzi smell, sort of clean, sort of dirty. I’m a thousand miles from anywhere, and all in all, I don’t think the crackers helped much.

  “Come here, I want you to feel something,” he says.

  I knew this wasn’t right. But I don’t know what to do, so I tiptoe over, my head just above water. He pulls me a little closer by the waist and helps hold me up a little and moves me above one of the jets so I can feel the bubbles tickling up between my legs.

  “You see? Doesn’t that feel good?”

  There’s nothing good about it, but I know what he’s getting at.

  “Uh, yeah,” I say. Why don’t I say, “No”? Why don’t I say, “Don’t touch me”? I don’t have the wall behind me anymore. It’s just me and him in the water and the steam and the bubbles.

  Then everything hits at once: the steam, the heat, the alcohol, the pill, and the panic. Have you ever been touched in a way that made you want to jump right out of your skin? This man had a reputation as a great lover. The problem is, he was not my great lover. I could have been any girl—as long as I was female, and as long as I was young.

  My chest tightens. “I can’t breathe in here. I have asthma,” I say. Why did I say this? I didn’t even know anyone with asthma, but I just said it. I try backing away, but he holds me firmly.

  But seeing I am not happy, he suggests I jump in the pool, that it will cool me down. I don’t want to do this. I really, really don’t want to do this. I dip my toe in, and he says, “See? It’s not cold.” So I dive in and zoom to the other side. Then I jump out, grab a towel that is nearby, go to the bathroom, and put on my panties that are in there. He follows me. “How is your asthma?” he asks gently. His voice is soft, wheedling.

  “I need to go home and take my medicine,” I say. I’m really glad he doesn’t ask me what the medication is for asthma, because I have no clue what it is and then I’ll be in trouble. He says offhandedly, “Yeah, I’ll take you home soon.”

  Then he tells me to go into the other room and lie down. “No, I have to go home,” I say, but he takes me by the shoulders and walks me to the bedroom, and sits me on
a large red velvet couch. He asks if I’m okay. “No, I am not okay,” I say. “I better go home now.”

  He assures me I’ll get better.

  He holds my arms at my sides and kisses me, and I say, “No, come on,” but between the pill and the champagne it’s like my own voice is very far away. He’s kissing my face and feeling my breasts and he asks me again if I like it, does it feel good. I say nothing, but he’s a guy who makes movies, so I imagine he’s filling in the dialogue for himself. You’re making me do this and now you want me to tell you I like it, too? It’s not like you’re going to talk me into liking this.

  Then he goes down on me. I know what this is, of course, because I’ve read about it, but have never actually had someone do it to me. He asks if it feels good, which it does—and that, in itself, is awful. I don’t want this, my mind recoils, but my body is betraying me.

  And that’s when I check out. I go far, far away. There is a sense of complete and utter emptiness. Oh, just my body. I’m not really in here. Okay. I see.

  He keeps murmuring something, and he is trying to make it nice for me, I know, but it is not nice and everything is blurring and I feel dizzy and the room is so dark. But I don’t fight. Why fight? All he wants to do is have an orgasm, this little spasm that makes the world go ’round. I made the decision to just let him do it, how bad can it be, it’s just sex. He doesn’t want to hurt me. He just wants to do it. And that will be that. It’s not like I am a real person to him, or for that matter that he is real to me. We are both playing our parts.

  Intercourse is such a funny word for it, sometimes. Intercourse: “a communication between individuals.” But what about when there’s absolutely no communication at all? He’s this old guy. He keeps asking me if I like it. Then he has a thought.

  “Are you on the pill?” he asks me.

  “No.”

  “When was your last period?”

  I wish he’d shut up and just do it. I’m trying to pretend I’m not there, and he’s asking me questions. And how do you expect me to answer anything? It’s dark and I’m high, and I’m in a house I’ve never been in, alone in the blackness with this stranger. Would you please just stop talking?

  “I don’t know. A week or two, I can’t be sure.”

  “Come on! You have to remember this.” He is a little impatient, hoping I’ll remember fast. This isn’t about pleasing me anymore. At the time I have no idea why he is asking. It is only later I think, Oh, I guess he thought I was one of those girls who wanted to trap him.

  “I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “I just don’t know.”

  “I won’t come inside you then.”

  Then he says something totally confusing to me: “Would you want me to go through your back?”

  I say, “No,” but I don’t know what he is asking anyway. I just know that even though I’ve said no, I’ll do pretty much anything to get this over with. When it happened, I still wasn’t sure quite what to think. I was just like, Wait, was that my butt? Do people actually do that?

  And then: done. I think. But at that very moment, there is a knock on the bedroom door.

  “Roman, are you in there?” A woman’s voice. I don’t see her, but it’s not the same woman who let us in at first. Roman quickly covers himself and gets up to answer the door. A wave of relief washes over me. Okay, now I can leave.

  He cracks open the door. The woman sounds annoyed, I think, but I’m not sure. I get off the couch and grab my panties. He tells her we just got out of the Jacuzzi and we’re getting dressed, and we’ll be right out.

  But . . . not so fast. He puts his hands on my shoulders and steers me back to the couch. Wait, he’s not done? I’m confused. I think I feel . . . wetness back there. But maybe not. He gently removes my panties again. Now there’s someone in the house, so should I resist and head for the woman who knocked? But I’m high, and just want to get out of here. He is not rough, and I’m not even afraid anymore. I don’t even care what he’s doing at this point, because I’m squeezing my eyes shut and it’s pitch black and, well, since I was a little kid I’ve always been a little afraid of the dark. Home . . . I just want to get home.

  He gets up, and so do I. I leave the room, blinking, happy to be out of that blackness. How long had I been in there? Time seemed to be playing games with me. It felt like an hour. In reality it was more like ten minutes. I go to the bathroom to clean up and I put on my panties and start scrounging for my clothes once more. I comb my hair. I’m going home soon.

  He asks me to wait for him before going outside, but I don’t. I mean, yes, I have to wait. He’s my ride home. But I’m in a rush to get out of that house. What did he think we’d do—lie around? Talk?

  I had all my extra clothes in my arms so I headed for the front door to go to the car. I didn’t want to meet the woman. I wasn’t sure if I could act normal. I just wanted to flee and hoped she wouldn’t see me. But she did, and I heard a voice in the kitchen say, “Hello.” I mumbled “Hi” or “Bye” back as I walked by the kitchen to the front door and the outside. I glanced at her; she was gorgeous and sloe-eyed, with thick black hair and a face that was all planes and angles. Didn’t this woman think it was weird, her friend Roman coming here with a kid? Did this happen every day? I tucked my head down and slunk out; our eyes never met.

  Leaving the house, I had only a vague sense of what time it was. The buzz of traffic was still too strong for it to be anywhere close to midnight.

  I walked to the car and got into the front passenger seat. I was happy to know I was going to be home soon. But I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and, although I didn’t realize it, pretty loaded. I started to cry, with both relief and anger. I knew something bad had happened, and that I had done some dumb things, but I was going to be okay. After all, he was this famous man—and famously experienced lover—who hadn’t wanted to hurt me; he even wanted me to feel pleasure. Later I heard that older men seducing young girls was quite the thing where he came from—that in his mind, I should probably be grateful for his experience, his technique.

  But I wasn’t European. I was an American girl. And I wasn’t feeling grateful.

  Then, the self-recrimination began. God, why would I take that pill? What was I thinking? And why was I posing topless? What is wrong with me? And now look what that has led to.

  Roman’s voice came from outside the driver’s window.

  “Are you okay?” he said. He seemed surprised I was crying. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” I swallowed.

  “You’ll be all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine, don’t worry, I’m fine.”

  “I’ll be back in a minute.” He wanted to talk to the woman in the kitchen for a few minutes. For some reason I didn’t want him to know that he had scared me or that I was upset. I had played a part in front of the camera, and I could play a part now.

  It got quiet then. The car was roomy and smelled good, all leather and wood, and I was glad to be alone. I stopped crying. Several minutes went by. I wondered why he was taking so long. Was he talking to that woman? Who was she, anyway? Did she live there? I don’t know, but I doubt she asked about me. And I am certain he never told her my name. What was he saying when we were doing it? I don’t think he even told me I was pretty.

  I sat there for a while in the big fancy car, feeling worried and sad. Finally Roman returned, and we started back down the long road to the gate. As the road swung back down, it seemed terribly dark again. The Valley was ahead of us, but I didn’t realize until this moment how secluded we were, concealed from the rest of the world by bamboo and wild brush.

  The gravel crunched under the car, and Roman said nothing. I said nothing. What was I supposed to say? Thanks for the pictures? I stared out the window. The drive that afternoon from Woodland Hills had, for all his nervous-making questions, seemed kind of cheery. This wasn’t. Roman told me he had brought the photographs from the first shoot with him, the ones he had taken up on the hill by Flanco Road. He would s
how them to Mom and Bob, he said.

  “Is there anything you don’t want them to see?” he asked.

  Was he kidding me? He’d never have the nerve to show them the topless ones, would he? On the one hand, I thought, Well, professionals do what the photographer asks. On the other—this was my mother. I didn’t want her seeing those. But I was tired of lying. If this modeling job were to go any further, she’d have to find out sooner or later.

  It was still a modeling job. Right?

  “You can show them all,” I said.

  Maybe if he showed the topless pictures, I wouldn’t have to say anything—my mother would get a clue. She’d know something was wrong. Then again, they trusted this man. Maybe if he showed those photos it would just demonstrate that he had nothing to hide. I couldn’t figure it out.

  But what if he mentioned the asthma? Oh my God. The asthma.

  For some reason this is what I obsessed about. I would get caught by the lie I had used to try to get away from him. And then I’d have to explain why I lied about having asthma, and then I’d have to tell . . . the Story. Oh God. He was going to ask if I took my medicine, and Mom would say, “For what?”

  I felt guilty for lying, as though something I had said had made everything that followed possible. I should have known better.

  There was silence, and then, “Don’t tell your mother. This will just be our secret.”

  Roman’s voice startled me out of my reverie. His little eyes squinted into the darkness as we drove.

  Tell my mother? Is he insane? I’m sitting here inventing ways to keep my mother from finding out, and he’s thinking I would want to tell her.

  We turned down sloping Peonia Road, which delivered us almost straight into our driveway at Flanco Road. As we neared I could see the house lights on. Kim was probably there, and Bruce, soon to be my mother’s brother-in-law and my uncle. Everyone was probably waiting for me at home, hoping to hear how the camera loved me. This was the moment when a star was born.

  The car stopped, and I bolted. My mother opened the door, and I rushed up to her before he could catch up and hissed, “If he asks, tell him I have asthma. I told him that because I didn’t want to get in the Jacuzzi.” This must have made about as much sense to my mother as it did to me, but I didn’t care. I ran to my room, slammed the door, and kicked off my shoes; the avocado shag pile felt good under my feet. I put on my nightgown and sat on my bed in silence. I didn’t know what to do. Roman had followed me into the house to see my parents. What would happen? Would he show the topless photos? And if he did, what then? I heard Kim yelling at the dog, and then it sounded like Roman had left. I waited until I thought Roman was gone to call Steve.