Samantha Geimer - The Girl - A Life in the Shadow of Roman Polanski

Anyway, there were these extraordinary images of an international beauty. And then there was me, a thirteen-year-old kid in jeans and sneakers, barely developed, wearing a bird.

I was by all accounts, including my own, a very pleasant but unexceptional-looking girl. My eyes suggested no particular mystery—they were bright, but that was all. I had a roundish face, a slightly pug nose, lips that were cherry red without the benefit of Bonne Bell Lip Smackers. My hair was short, and I wasn’t quite pulling off the feathered Valley Girl cut. My voice was surprisingly husky—not Cathy Moriarty sexy, just husky. No one could ever say I slinked into a room. I sort of galumphed.

Looking back on it, I still marvel that he didn’t turn on his heel and walk out the door. Was he really looking for prepubescent girls for a photo shoot, or was the photo shoot a good excuse? After all, Roman Polanski didn’t have to work hard to get beautiful women. But maybe beauty wasn’t always the point. Maybe for a man who had lived through what no one should ever have to live through, and survived, maybe extreme youth was some sort of life force. And maybe he felt he needed it.

Of course, at that moment, I was thinking nothing like this. Mostly I was thinking: Ew, there’s this guy who’s like my size and sort of looks like a ferret. But he’s super-powerful and he wants to photograph me. Me! And look how happy Mom and Bob look. They were sitting upright, leaning in to him a little, listening happily.

As he showed these photos of jaw-dropping beauties in Vogue —girls on beaches, in fields, dressed in backless evening gowns—and explained his American teenager versus French teenager storyline, I don’t know how I stopped myself from laughing out loud. I really didn’t have any sense that he was checking me out, either, although certainly he must have been making some sort of calculation. This was boring. I wanted out. I introduced Roman to my cockatiel, which failed to charm, and then exited to my room, my record player, and the over-the-top theatricality of Aerosmith:

A few days later Polanski returned, clutching a small black camera. My mom gently suggested she should come along on the shoot. There was a long pause. No, Roman said, her presence might make me uncomfortable and unable to relax in front of the camera. She didn’t fight him; there were already stories about Brooke Shields’s crazy controlling stage mother, and she certainly didn’t want to be that.

Roman and I drove in silence to the top of our one-block street, Flanco Road, then walked up the hill where on many evenings locals would walk their dogs, bike, or lie on the patchy grass. At night, you could check out the lights in the Valley, Topanga Canyon, and Mulholland Drive; look up and you could search for the Milky Way through the San Fernando haze.

It was late afternoon, a couple of hours after school let out. Warm, not too breezy, with a couple of hours of light ahead of us. This was the test shoot. From this he could determine if I was the right girl for the French magazine.

We stopped at a spot on the hill not fully hidden by the tall grass and he started taking my picture. I had brought two tops with me, and after one roll of film, he asked me to change into my other shirt. I turned my back to change, and was surprised that I still heard the click of the shutter. Why was he still taking pictures? Wasn’t it obvious I wasn’t ready? As I was changing he asked me to turn toward him, and he began giving me directions, quietly. Smile, don’t smile, look at me, bite your lip, look up, turn to your left, look back at me. He was utterly focused, not on me but on getting the shot right. There was no chitchat. No playfulness. But that was okay.

“This is not working,” he said. “I’m just not seeing it.”

I tried again. I was used to hearing nothing but praise from photographers—either because I was just so awesome (my thirteen-year-old brain said) or because the photographers were being paid to take head shots and wanted to make me happy. Although he wasn’t exactly mad at me, I knew I wasn’t quite nailing it. I could tell he was a little exasperated when I tried to look sexy, biting my lip. The more “off” I was, the more I tried. I thought I could read him: Give me what I want, or someone else will.

We walked up to the top of the hill. When he asked me to take my top off altogether, I felt I had to rise to the challenge. Sure, my breasts were so small I could still wear undershirts, and sure my mother would disapprove, but this was my break. If I eventually got into the magazine—well, I’d have clothes on. Besides, I was a professional. Sure, no problem. I’ll take off my top.

“Just like that,” he said. “Turn.” He snapped away. Then I got my blouse back on as quickly as I could. I didn’t think much about it. It was all a waste of time. These pictures weren’t going to be used. Vogue didn’t have naked girls in it, like Playboy . Of course, this was for France. Maybe it’s different in France.

The next thing I knew, I was topless again. “Put your hands on your hips now,” he said. He looked a little happier. I was getting cold. A dirt biker zipped by, and Roman looked from the biker to me. “Is that bothering you?” he asked. “No,” I said. I was a professional. Besides, breasts are beautiful; that’s what The Joy of Sex said, and I thought so. It’s just that I didn’t have them, not really. But haven’t other girls my age posed like this? Brooke Shields, or maybe Jodie Foster, she was in that Taxi Driver movie and, oh, I don’t know, plenty of others.

Finally we were done, and headed back to the house, the sun setting behind us. The pollution above the Valley streaked the sky in sherbet orange and pink. It was cold, and I wished I’d brought a sweater. Had this gone well? I tried to convince myself it had. That’s what I’d tell my mom. It was fine. Totally fine.

And it must have gone well enough, because although he didn’t say anything to me, Roman called my mom and arranged for a second session. I was going to get my shot. Whatever I did up on that hill, it might put me on the map. My family would be stoked.

I t just happened . Have you ever heard yourself say that? How often is it true? When we do something shameful, is it more often intent or opportunity? I’ve asked myself that question over the years about Roman Polanski. Was I something that “just happened”?

On March 10, my ticket to stardom showed up again. He was dressed casually but neatly in tan slacks and a crisp pinstriped shirt with the wide collars that were the fashion of the times. He wore ankle boots with heels, and they gave his walk a certain swagger. Or maybe that’s just how he walked. He was neither brusque nor ingratiating; just somewhat thoughtful and abstracted. His cologne was a little too strong. He wanted to shoot me for the magazine! Sure, the last time was super-uncomfortable, but that was the price of fame. I may have been thirteen, but I wasn’t a moron. Didn’t I realize that everyone had to make some sacrifices for their art? And if my sacrifice was that I took off my shirt, well, how hard was that?

Everyone was excited for me, but even though I’d said nothing about the last photo shoot, my mother sensed my discomfort. I suggested to my mom that my friend Terri go with me. Terri, who was hanging out at my house that day, was my closest friend at the time, a sweet girl from a religiously strict Catholic family, so different from mine. She seemed like a good companion for this.