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

But Roman was in a rush. He said, “Let’s go. All the light is going to go down. Hurry up. Get your clothes.” So I did, with him helping me select them. Jeans, a white blouse, a rugby shirt, a plain blue dress. We all headed out, and as we walked to his car, Terri asked how long the shoot would be, because she needed to be home by a certain hour, and Polanski warned her that it might take a while, so maybe she shouldn’t come. She shrugged and headed home on her bike. I wanted her to come with us, mostly because I was uncomfortable with this adult and thought it would be more fun to have a friend, not because I was scared or anxious. My mother thought the three of us had gone together.

Roman negotiated the rolling bends on Mulholland Drive in a steel-gray rented Mercedes, on our way to… someone’s house. I didn’t know where, but it didn’t matter. I sat beside him in the front passenger seat, glimpses of the canyon rushing by. It was a lovely day for my big break.

First, we stopped at the home of a brunette Englishwoman with feline features and perfect full lips—Jacqueline Bisset, I was told. I didn’t know who she was, but she was very nice and offered me a glass of wine. I said no. Later, she said she was appalled she had offered liquor to a minor—that she hadn’t known my real age. If you look at the photos from the time that seems implausible, but then again, maybe she just assumed Roman wouldn’t be palling around with a thirteen-year-old. Even I thought it was a little odd that someone who didn’t know me offered me wine, but at that time adults were so eager to be seen as “cool” to kids that they often treated them as small adults. I’d been offered beer or wine at my parents’ friends’ houses before. He took a few photos of me at Jacqueline’s house—pretty, feminine, maybe just the tiniest bit risqué—and continued to worry about losing the light, so he said we would go to his friend Jack Nicholson’s place. Back in the car, we talked a little.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked.

I looked out the window. “Yes,” I said.

That was a lie. I had had a boyfriend, sort of. He had just broken up with me. Steve was my first serious boyfriend; we had dated for a few months. He didn’t smoke or drink because he was really into karate, and wanted to be disciplined. He drove a Camaro, which impressed everyone at my school. I was crazy about him, but he dumped me because I was thirteen and he was seventeen, and he didn’t think he should be fooling around with someone that young. We did fool around, though.

“Have you ever had sex?”

That was an odd question. I replied yes. It was true, and I did not want him to think of me as a child.

“How many times?”

“Twice,” I said. That too was a lie. There had been one time. It hadn’t been particularly memorable; for me, at thirteen, it had been more like—well, one of those things you check off your to-do list. But I didn’t want to appear naïve. If you tell someone you’ve had sex only once, you sound prudish and ridiculous. Twice was so much better.

Roman stopped asking questions.

The conversation turned to other things, and I relaxed and forgot all about it. We continued through Mulholland Canyon, discussing photographs. I told him about a Playboy cover I’d seen. My ex-boyfriend Steve had showed it to me. It was a girl in a high-cut wetsuit, unzipped very low, coming out of the surf in front of a beautiful sunset. See, if he knew I had seen Playboy before, he’d understand that I was quite mature. I’m not bothered by these things. I’m practically French!

The road we were on seemed familiar. I’d taken some acting classes up here, and for fun, Mom and I liked to drive around here on a Sunday. So pretty above the Valley: you get glimpses of the mountains, the houses where the stars live. Mom liked to point out the stars’ houses on our drives: Hey, Loni Anderson lives there! Marlon Brando’s over there! This was my first time actually going into the house of a movie star, though. Not that I cared much about Jack Nicholson. Yeah, he was a good actor (I’d seen him in Chinatown ), but I wished we were going to the house of Dom DeLuise, say, or Roddy McDowall. The house of The Planet of the Apes guy! Now that would be cool.

But this was good, too.

The house wasn’t huge or fancy, but it had this big redwood deck with a pool in the back, and a view of the mountains. An olive-skinned woman met us at the door with two dogs, and she and Roman chatted for a bit. Her name was Helen, and she was the housekeeper. Jack Nicholson wasn’t around, which I thought wasn’t a big deal. I glanced around the living room. There was lots of wood—a guy definitely lived here—and the shelves were crowded with photos and mementos.

Roman and Helen kept chatting while I walked around, trying to pretend I was interested in the house. Finally Roman turned to me. “Are you thirsty?” he asked, as we all walk into the kitchen.

He opens Nicholson’s fridge, and it’s jammed with juices and sodas and wines. He pulls out a champagne bottle and asks me, “Should I open it?”

“I don’t care,” I say.

“Is it all right?” he asks the housekeeper, and she pulls out three glasses.

They have a few sips and chat a little more as Roman begins to fiddle with his camera. Helen says she’s going out. I’m glad Roman finally wants to get started. He says he wants to catch the last of the light, so we go outside. The sun is just setting over the Hollywood Hills, and I am trying my best to follow his directions. But he looks irritated. Is it me? Is it the light? Well, part of it must be the light, because he doesn’t just give up altogether. We go back into the living room.

Roman hands me a glass of champagne as I stand by this antique brass lamp, willing myself to be beautiful. The champagne tastes nice. He suggests I take my blouse off. Ummm, okay. I don’t need to take off my bra, because I am not wearing one. The truth is, I don’t need one. I really wish I had boobs, so I have kept buying myself training bras, hoping the bras will train them to grow. But no such luck yet. Oh well, better not to think of that now. I take another sip of champagne. Roman seems more pleased. Hey, look at me! I’m really modeling now. I’ve seen so many off-the-shoulder shots in magazines where the girl seems to be naked, but you don’t see anything. That’s what he’s doing, I bet. I must have good shoulders.

“Should I drink the champagne or just pretend?”

“Yes, drink it. Hold the glass to your lips. Now lower it. Sip. Look at me. Look over there. Sip a little.”

I drink. He refills my glass. I drink more. He keeps refilling, but I try to pace myself. I also try to follow his directions and do a good job. And then we are done with the photos at that spot and he tells me to change my clothes.

I put on the long blue dress with the long sleeves. He walks away to put in a new roll of film, I think. It’s not comfortable being in front of a doctor half naked, never mind a photographer, so when he doesn’t stay to watch me change, I can’t help but feel better. Still, I try not to think anything of it. This is my job, I remind myself. I am a professional, and this is what professionals do.

Next we go into the kitchen. He refills my glass. I’m perched on the kitchen counter, licking an ice cube, my tongue sticking out, and he’s clicking away. I’m aware I have a little buzz going. If I don’t think about it too hard, it’s kind of fun, this playacting.

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.