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

“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.”