You Have No Idea: A Famous Daughter, Her No-Nonsense Mother, and How They Survived Pageants, Hollywood, Love, Loss (3 page)

It didn’t matter—they were just a few rolls of film taken on a summer night on the top floor of an old building in Mount Kisco. Photos that no one would ever see.

Later that summer, I took a Metro-North train from Chappaqua to Grand Central Terminal. As I was making my way through the maze of commuters, a meek-looking man with wire-rimmed glasses approached me.

“Excuse me, I’m a photographer. Do you model?”

Not another one
, I thought. Here we go again.

But when Gregg Whitman pulled out his portfolio, his photography was not only edgy and strong but also feminine and romantic. He seemed to be a better photographer than Tom Chiapel.

“You’ve got a great exotic look that Europeans love,” he said, explaining that he did a lot of work for the foreign market. “I would love to do some testing with you.”

I took his information, thought about it, and gave him a call.

A few days later, Bruce (yes, we were back together) drove me to the photo shoot on Steinway Street in Astoria, Queens. I wasn’t familiar with this neck of the woods, even though I considered myself a seasoned New Yorker. Of course, Gregg’s “studio” was also his apartment.

(Ding! Ding! Ding! Escape, escape! But guess who stayed? And this time I couldn’t use booze as an excuse.)

Bruce was concerned and asked if I wanted him to come with me, but I assured him that I’d be fine and told him to pick me up later.

We started the shoot on a nearby street. I’d brought my wardrobe—a floral, black chiffon dress; Union Jack jogging shorts; boots; and scarves. Gregg took some typical New York City shots—I posed on top of a cab and on a front stoop. Then we headed back to his place.

That’s when he asked me to take a chance and go for more revealing setups. They’d be beautiful, provocative, and alluring, he said.

A classmate, Shelby, had given me a gorgeous burgundy scarf for my eighteenth birthday from Abels, the ritzy store in Mount Kisco, and I’d brought it along for the shoot. I undressed and wrapped my nineteen-year-old cellulite-free bottom in it. I turned my back to the camera, pretending to be a vixen instead of a teenager using a graduation gift as a prop in an adult-only photo.

Then Gregg showed me some S-and-M, Helmut Newton–style photos. The images were strong, but the lighting seemed to soften the kinky message a bit.

“Can we try for something like this?” he asked. “Trust me. It will be beautiful.”

He took out a leather contraption that looked part G-string, part
nippleless bikini bra top, complete with a studded collar around the neck. I held it in my hands and studied it. It was so not me. But I thought,
Okay, let me be daring and adventurous.
I went in the bathroom and put it on.

What am I doing? I started out on top of a cab and ended up in a dog collar! Have I lost my mind?

Mom, this is when I need you to rescue me!

As adventurous and strong as I’ve always been, there was also a part of me that failed to speak up when I needed to. I don’t know why this is—it’s just how I’ve always been for as long as I can remember.

But I headed into Gregg’s room, pretending that being dressed like this was no big deal. Gregg told me how to stand and he began to snap away.

The poses Gregg positioned me in didn’t feel artsy to me; they felt dirty—no matter how good the lighting was. I knew I shouldn’t be doing them. I’d never even seen an outfit like this.

I felt all the energy just drain from my body.

After shooting barely a roll of film in the bondage getup, Gregg asked me what was wrong. I told him I didn’t want to do this anymore. I got dressed and couldn’t wait to escape Queens.

Bruce was waiting out front in his car and I jumped in. We sped back to the safety of my home. I didn’t say a word about the shoot, but it was eating away at me. I tried to act as normal as possible, and Bruce bought my act.

A few days later I told Bruce about my bonehead decisions and that we had to go get those negatives.

But when we got to Gregg’s apartment, he wouldn’t give them back. He said they were “our child” and he didn’t want to “give up our child.”

(This is where the creepy music plays.)

But Bruce and I were a team and we wouldn’t leave. After a few
minutes of pestering, Gregg went back and returned with a pile of negatives.

Whew! Problem solved—or so I thought.

Thinking back on that ordeal as I sat in the hotel after my phone interview, it dawned on me that Gregg must have kept some of the photos and sold them to
Penthouse
. It couldn’t have been Tom—he was a friend!

I sat waiting for Dennis to call. How was I ever going to break the news to my parents? It had been an extraordinary year for them. They’d been so proud.

I prayed for guidance. I prayed that this was all a big mistake.

The phone finally rang. My heart pounded in my ears. It was Dennis.

“Sorry to tell you this, but it’s true. The September issue of
Penthouse
has you on the cover and photos of you with another woman.”

What? Tom? Impossible! I never signed a release. He promised me no one would ever see them.

Shit!

We had just walked into Vanessa’s hotel room, excited to see our daughter who had been away for so long. It was supposed to be a happy occasion in one of the best years of our lives. I wish every parent could experience the joy we experienced watching our daughter crowned Miss America. Parts of it were so exhilarating, so rewarding, so fun.

But when Vanessa opened the door she didn’t look happy to see us. She looked petrified. She couldn’t speak. Vanessa at a loss for words? It was my turn to be petrified. This was going to be really, really bad.

Vanessa choked back sobs and blurted it out. “There are these
nude photos of me coming out in
Penthouse
. I have no idea what they’re going to look like. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

She couldn’t stop apologizing. She couldn’t stop sobbing. I knew that telling us was the hardest thing she’d ever done.

Wait a minute. Nude pictures? When? How? Who? And
why
?

Her father and I were stunned. I was too stunned to speak—and that was a good thing because I don’t know what I would have said—or yelled.

Raising Vanessa had always been a challenge. I thought I was always ready for anything. But nudity? I wasn’t prepared for this.

Her father walked over to her and hugged her tight. I joined him, and the three of us just held on to one another for a long, long time. I knew the next few months were going to be tough. I knew the press would be merciless. I knew Vanessa needed us, even though part of me wanted to scream, “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?”

“It’s all right,” we said. “We’re always on your side. We love you and we’re always here for you.”

You could see this pressure being lifted off her after she told us. As tough as the next few months would be, the hardest part for Vanessa was telling us. Now that she had done that and had our support, she felt that she could handle the onslaught.

When the photos came out, I asked Milton, “Aren’t you going to look at them?” He shook his head. He could not speak about it. It was all too much for him. But me? Of course I had to see for myself what Vanessa had done. Milton knew I’d look, but he never asked me about them and I never brought it up. I closed the door to my bedroom, took a deep breath, and prepared myself for anything. I didn’t know how I’d feel—if I’d be furious or just plain sick.

When I saw the pictures I wasn’t angry, just very sad. I stared at them and tried to get into Vanessa’s head. I knew exactly what had happened. I understood how the photographer had been able to cajole her. He fed into Vanessa’s need to be daring.

While the world focused on her naked body, I looked into her eyes. They looked so confused, so sad. The look said to me, “Oh my God, what am I doing here?” As daring as Vanessa wanted to believe she was, she wasn’t really daring at all. I could see she was so uncomfortable, so out of place.

I could also see that she was thinking of me. She was hearing my voice telling her not to do the very thing she was doing.

I started out posing on top of a city cab and ended up inside with a studded collar around my neck.

CHAPTER

2

If you are going to do something questionable, ask yourself, “Is this something that would make my parents proud?” If the answer is no, don’t do it.

—HELEN WILLIAMS

V
anessa, naked photos? What were you thinking?”

I still get asked that question to this day! People will say, “You’re an intelligent woman; how could you think nude pictures wouldn’t come out if you became famous? Especially if you became Miss America?”

Well, guess what? I never imagined I’d be any type of beauty queen, that’s for sure—let alone Miss America! Even when I’d sprawl at the foot of my parents’ bed and watch the Miss America pageant with Mom, I didn’t stare at the brightly lit runway thinking one day I would be on that very stage. Instead, we critiqued the gowns, cracked on the stiff hair, laughed at some of the “unique” talents, and rooted for a winner. Miss America was an American tradition, the granddaddy of the pageant world.

And it was rare to see anyone who looked like me.

Growing up in Millwood, I never ever thought of myself as beautiful. My mother emphasized early on to focus on accomplishment rather than appearance. Even the women I considered gorgeous—Lena Horne, Diahann Carroll, Jayne Kennedy—had talents that transcended their looks. My mother would watch other women like them and say to me, “Talented, bright, rather pretty.” I realize now that she was subtly explaining to me that looks can only get you so far. When I graduated from Horace Greeley High School in Chappaqua, I wasn’t voted prom queen or Best Looking. I was voted Best Actress. And that meant the world to me.

Back in my day, preppy was the style, and the “beautiful” girls in school didn’t resemble me at all. They were wraithlike with straight blond hair. They wore Fair Isle sweaters and Izod shirts. They skied on winter break, played tennis at the clubs in the summer, and had names like Leigh, Paige, and Blythe. I was different because my hair wasn’t straight and blond and my butt was “athletic.” I even got asked once, “Do you have an afro down there?” Sometimes my mom would say, “Stop poking out your lips,” when I wasn’t even doing anything! I have full lips that I thank God for—especially now that most white women want them. Crazy how times have changed.

Being the only black kid in class, I knew I was different. When the kids would do their classroom matchmaking in grade school, they would always suggest I “go out” with Jacob, the Indian kid, because he was the other brown kid in the grade.

When those adolescent hormones invaded my body, I got pimples. I’d dot my face with Rezamid before I went to bed and pray the bumps would disappear by morning. I also had a cap over my chipped front tooth that didn’t quite match the rest of my grill—but it never stopped me from smiling.

My fellow Miss America contestants had been doing the pageant circuit since they were little girls. They dreamed of becoming Miss
America. I was not a seasoned pro who competed in the Little Miss America pageant at the Palisades Amusement Park on the other side of the Hudson River. But the other contestants
were
pageant pros and could recite one another’s statistics. They knew the correct poses when they strolled along the stage in their evening gowns. They knew the proper way to walk in their swimsuits down the runway, pause, and then turn. It was all very studied. It was all very processed. It was all very not me.

People will still come up to me and say, “Tell me your tricks from your pageant days.”

What tricks? I didn’t learn any secrets. There was no Vaseline on my upper teeth. I wasn’t taught a special walk or wave. I didn’t smear Preparation H under my eyes. I wasn’t one of those girls. Even as I would glide down the runway in high heels and a swimsuit, I would think:
How did I get here? Now, how do I justify this again? Oh yeah, scholarship money for my junior year! You’re an actress. Pretend this is another role. And smile!