I woke up late Sunday morning, disoriented as usual in the unfamiliar
bedroom. With consciousness came a thump of all my insides, that shock wave
you feel when you wake up and realize that you aren't dreaming. I was in
London, in John Lennon's house! Double thump! I had made love to Paul!!
Sort of. Or had sex. Or sort of. He was going to call me and we would spend
the day together. Tonight we would do it again. Or sort of do it. Or
whatever. Thump, thump, thumpety thump!
Downstairs, Julian was building a fortress under the dining room table with
his building blocks and Cyn and Mrs. Powell were in the sunroom reading the
paper, waiting for John to wake up and want breakfast. “How did the
interview with Paul go?” Cyn asked as I joined them.
Interview? Was that just yesterday? “Great! I'll be able to finish up the
rest of the articles in a few days.”
“And Paul?”
She had to ask? The sensation of Paul's hands on me was so fresh, I thought
his fingerprints must be all over me, glowing fluorescently. I felt like I
was sending out a message to the world in glaring neon:
“Paul is ... incredible.”
Cyn started laughing. “Mum says he was here with you last night and you two
looked cozy. You have resolved your differences, I take it.”
“You could say that,” I said, grinning at her. “He hasn't called has he?”
He hadn't and I went to the kitchen for tea and then joined Julian under
the table. John showed up and began his morning ritual of reading the paper
front to back while Cyn fixed breakfast. I left Julian in his cave and
joined John in the sunroom, picking up newspaper sections as he finished
them, knowing I would need ammo for the argument if we were going to get
through morning exercises. When the phone rang and Cyn called from the
kitchen to say “It's for you, Tess,” I raced to answer it.
“Martha and I are going for a drive in the country today. Can I talk you
into coming along?”
“You could talk me into about anything.”
He chuckled. “I don't recall having to persuade you. Saved a lot of time
trying to figure out how to get you into bed.”
“Save more time and come and get me right away. I haven't seen you for ten
hours.”
“Is that all it's been? Feels like days. I'll be there in forty-five
minutes.”
“Breakfast is nearly ready,” Cyn said as I hung up. “How soon will Paul be
here? Maybe we should wait for him.”
John was just coming into the kitchen and heard her question. “Paul is
coming out?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said to him and to Cyn I answered, “He said forty-five minutes.”
John laughed. “Let's eat,” he said as he took his place at the table. “If
he said forty-five it will be ninety. Macca is only on time when it means
missing a plane. Or when he wants something.”
Cyn grinned at me and checked her watch. “We'll see,” she said.
We finished breakfast and moved to the sunroom for the exercises and I
found myself, unbelievably, defending the accuracy of the North Vietnamese
death counts published by the Pentagon. It was indefensible. The kill ratio
was always something like twenty to one, and it was impossible to believe
that a country the size of North Vietnam could have that many men left
after twenty years of war, first with the French, then the Americans. I
could not concentrate anyway, knowing Paul would be here any time, so I
resorted to some insanity about the breeding capabilities of Orientals (as
proven by the Chinese population problem) allowing them to keep up a supply
of soldiers. John started laughing and said, “Tess, you can do better than
that.”
“OK. They all look alike in their little black pajamas, so we sometimes
mistakenly count them twice!”
He was roaring with laughter when Cyn walked into the room with Paul who
was carrying a giggling Julian upside down under one arm. Martha was
enthusiastically giving Julian's face slurpy licks as he squirmed and
laughed.
It was kind of odd, but I realized just then that John didn't play with
Julian. It wasn't just that he hadn't been able to rough house with him
because of his shoulder. He simply didn't play with Julian. He talked to
him, smiled at the silly games Julian and I played, kissed him goodnight
and all that, but he didn't play with him. Didn't seem to know quite what
to do with him. It wasn't just not knowing how to play with him. If Julian
acted up, John told Cyn to “do something” with him. He just didn't seem to
know how to interact with him.
Paul spun Julian right side up and put him down. He looked at John, still
laughing at me.
“What's he on about?” he asked.
“News. They fight over the papers every morning,” Cyn explained to Paul.
“She's losing again this morning though,” John said, laughing at me again.
“My mind is elsewhere,” I said looking at Paul, as always, physically moved
and trying to ignore that the tugging feeling in my heart was stronger than
ever.
Paul reached out to me. I took his hand, moved into his arms and tilted my
face up to him. He kissed me gently and in the background, I could hear
John say, “Whoa! What's this?”
“This is why Paul was here in forty-two minutes,” Cyn clarified for him.
Paul and I ignored them and as we kissed again we could hear John putting
on a plummy British voice. “I say! Well, and well again! Tut, tut and all!
” he said. It was classic, meaningless, British old geezer commentary.
The kiss ended, and while Paul nuzzled my neck, I said, “John, you can do
better than that.”
“So can I,” Paul murmured, and proved it even though one hand was devoted
to keeping Martha down.
As I was drowning in the kiss, sinking into that warm, endless space where
only Paul and I existed, I heard John switch from upper crust to
Liverpudlian. “Cor, 'e's goin' for it. Right here in me livin' room. Finger
pie for breakfast, I'd say. She's lovin' it. Got 'er tongue down 'is throat
and givin' him everything she's got. She'll be going for his privates
next.”
That got Paul laughing, putting an end to what was, relatively speaking, a
very innocent kiss.
“That must have been some interview yesterday,” Cyn observed.
“In-depth,” John said. “Probing, driving, hard—”
“Shut yer gob, John,” Paul said with a grin. “Can I have a cuppa, Cyn?”
Paul hadn't had breakfast, so we adjourned to the kitchen where Mrs. Powell
was cleaning up the breakfast things. The cats, sunning themselves on the
floor in front of the window, took one look at Martha and were on their
feet, fur on end, bodies spring-loaded. Martha wiggled and wagged her way
happily over to greet them and they evaporated leaving only a yowl and a
hiss hanging in the air. Paul grabbed Martha to prevent a hot pursuit and
managed to convince her to stay put with a bit of sausage.
Cyn and her mother fixed Paul breakfast while Julian clamored for Paul's
attention and, in deference to the presence of Mrs. Powell, John made only
oblique comments about how Paul needed his nourishment. Had to keep up his
strength. I blushed, Cyn gave him wifely nudges, and Paul gave him naughty
schoolboy grins that only encouraged him. When Mrs. Powell left the room,
John took off the kid gloves.
“So how was she, mate? Was it good? Tess, you didn't wear that blue robe
with the little ribbons, did you? You look about five years old in that
getup!”
By this point I had my hands over my face, Paul was laughing, and Cyn was
giggling.
“Come, on, Paulie. Do tell. I know I enjoyed slee—“
”John!” I protested cutting him off. “We did not ... well, we did—but we
didn't!”
“You did what?” Paul asked, confused.
“Sleep together.”
His eyes widened.
“No! I mean sleep! At the hotel. He could hardly move and I knew he would
need pain pills and I didn't think I would be able to hear him, I was so
tired, and it was just easier to sleep in his room and... " I ran out of
steam.
“And she wore that damnable blue robe all night. Drove me nuts wondering
what was under it. If she hadn't drugged me, I wouldn't have slept a wink.
So, having been tortured night after night, I have a right to know. Is she
a screamer? I had her pegged for a screamer. It's always the quiet ones. Or
maybe a scratcher. Show us your back, Paul!”
Paul was laughing at John—we all were, you couldn't help it—but obviously,
he had no intention of answering.
“John, stop!” Cyn scolded but she was laughing too as she said it.
Paul finally put an end to it. “I don't kiss and tell, mate. Are you ready
to go, Tess? You'd best bring a mac.”
“You can take mine,” Cyn offered, apparently knowing I didn't have one.
That was more than I knew because I was trying to figure out what a “mack”
was. I followed Cyn out to the closet in the front hallway and found out a
mac was a raincoat. I ran upstairs to grab my camera and when I came down,
John and Paul were standing out on the terrace talking. Paul whistled for
Martha and when they came back in, Paul had an amused look on his face. We
went out to his car. Martha jumped in, filling up the whole backseat with
fur and anticipation. As we drove away, Paul was still chuckling over
whatever he and John had talked about.
“What incredible witticism did John have left to share with you? If it is
disgusting, I don't want to hear it,” I said.
Paul reached over to take my hand and said, bemused, “I'm not sure, but I
think what he was trying to say was that if I hurt you, he would see to
me.”
The soft spot I had in my heart for John Lennon doubled in size.
It was a beautiful day. The rain that had threatened that morning moved on
and the sun came out, warm and bright. We found an open field and let
Martha out to run while we sat in the shade of a grove of trees. “Good Day
Sunshine” ran over and over through my mind. “I'm in love and it's a sunny
day.” I shoved aside any doubts about the wisdom of what I was doing and
just went with the sunshine and Paul's smile.
We sent hours just driving
and talking and stopping often to get out wander down an interesting lane
or explore a field.
“I wouldn't walk through there,” he warned me as I spotted some wildflowers
tumbling down a hillside and started up across a weedy patch toward them.
“Nettles. Itch like blazes, too. You have to wear long pants and tuck them
in your socks to walk through this stuff.”
I stopped dead in my tracks, a little too far into the weeds to retreat
with anything but the utmost care. I turned around gingerly, thinking it
quite ironic that this city boy was standing down there safely amid the
grass and clover at the edge of the road while I, country girl, was up in
the nettle patch.
“Boy Scout?” I asked him with amusement.
His answer surprised me in more ways than one. “Michael and I were only
half juvenile delinquent city boys,” he said as he stepped to the edge of
the nettle patch and reached out a steadying hand. I took it and was
looking down, watching where I put my too vulnerable bare leg and
sandal-clad foot so I couldn't see his face as he said, “The other half was
barefoot wood sprite.”
I stopped, surprised at the idea of a Liverpool boy considering himself a
wood sprite and even more surprised that he had remembered our conversation
that day on the airplane. There was something in his voice, a seriousness,
a thoughtfulness that seemed to say more than “I remember.” He reached out
then and used both hands to pick me up and set me down safely on the grass.
I looked up at him, saw that same seriousness on his face for just a moment
and then it was gone with a flash of that impish grin.
“All that dozey guff about growing up on the tough streets of a port city,
that's great for the Beatle legend. We always lived out on the edge of
town. Turn one way out the door and catch a city bus, turn the other and go
wading for frogs in the creek,” he said and went on tell me about days
spent wandering the countryside with his little brother.
Later, we sat on a stone wall at the edge of a field and watched a father
and son work on the training of a border collie. Paul hung tightly to
Martha's collar as she whined and lunged, eager to go chase the sheep too.
He sat there with her, explaining the purpose of the exercise to her,
pointing out each move of the dog as if Martha understood every word.
“Listen! One whistle and you move them to the right. Watch his hand
signals. Over to the far corner. See, girl. You could do that!” Martha
rewarded his faith in her with an excited leap into his lap and lots of
slurpy kisses. She was careful to make sure she was the only one doing that
though. She was tireless in interrupting anything that went beyond
hand-holding. A jealous woman.
As we drove back that evening, it was a foregone conclusion that we would
end up in bed together. We didn't discuss it, but we couldn't keep our
hands off each other. Martha had finally grown tired of trying to play
chaperone and had fallen asleep in the back seat. Paul warned me there
would be a big group of gatebirds waiting, and they would wait to see
when—or if—I left. I hadn’t thought of that. Being outside of London, John
had fewer gatebirds hanging around. They were often there in the afternoons
and weekends were the busiest, but they couldn't stay late. The last bus
into London was at 5:00 p.m. Paul's girls had late night buses since he was
in the city.
“They'll be there 'til midnight, and unless I take you home at the crack of
dawn, they'll be there in the morning,” he said.
“So where can we go?” I asked, wanting to be alone with him someplace a
little larger than an Austin Mini with a jealous sheepdog in the back seat.
“John's,” Paul said. “We'll wait until Cyn's Mom goes to bed, then sneak up
to your room.”
“She isn't going to be there. She was going back to her place tonight.” I
told him.
He grinned. “Good. Then I needn't climb down the drainpipe in the morning!”
Back at John and Cyn's, I felt a little funny about what we were planning.
So I got Cyn into the kitchen and, blushing, explained that I didn't want
the whole world knowing that Paul and I were “ah ... um... "
“Involved?”
“Yeah! He's got gatebirds watching his house all the time, so would it be
all right if he ... ah ... spent the night here. With me. In my room?”
She looked at me, startled. “I thought you needed to wait another week or
so!”
Now I was really blushing. “We are! I mean ... sort of.”
“I hope you are being careful, Tess,” she said, genuinely concerned.
“We are. Paul knows I have to wait so we aren't doing it. I don't trust
condoms, so we just ... sort of... "
That made her laugh. “You can let him ‘sort of' here if you want. Just keep
Martha with you. I don't want to wake up in the night with her chasing the
cats through the house.”
I promised we would and we started back out to the other room where John
and Paul were watching TV. “Do you think John will mind?” I asked without
really thinking first.
Cyn looked at me, so astonished at the question it took her a moment to
start laughing again. We both were in the middle of a bad case of the
giggles over the idea of John objecting to anyone else's morals as we
walked into the den. John and Paul looked up.
“What are you two on about?” John asked.
“Just girl talk,” Cyn answered.
“Sex,” John interpreted for Paul.
Paul raised an eyebrow at me and I simply reached for his hand and said,
“Come on,” and called Martha too. Paul looked a little puzzled until I
started up the steps. He beat me up the stairs.
Once in my room, I shut the door behind me as Paul reached for me. He
pressed me up against the door and started with soft kisses. After the
experience of one bedroom encounter, I was relaxed, and after a day of
being with him, touching him, kissing him, only to be stopped by Martha, I
was eager. I led him to the bed and let him undress me. He did it gently
but without stopping for more than a kiss or two until I was standing naked
in his arms. Martha, recognizing an escalation of the activities she had
tried so valiantly to prevent all day, resumed her duties and tried to push
between us.
“We could put her in the bathroom,” I suggested, envisioning her joining us
on the bed. Martha, not yet a year old, was trained when it came to “sit”
and “stay” but only for short periods, and only when she could restrain her
enthusiasm. Joining her beloved Paul for what looked like a fun romp on the
bed would be as irresistible to her as it was to me.
“No need,” Paul said. “She knows to stay off the bed.”
I doubted it. Her training obviously had not included staying off the
furniture, since she made herself at home on any chair or sofa. Paul pulled
back the covers and I slid between the cool sheets. He sat down and pulled
off his shoes and Martha, with a little doggy sigh, trotted over and
flopped down in front of the window, resigned. She might not be the
best-trained dog around, but he had seen to it that she knew to leave him
alone when he had a girl in bed! I pushed that reminder of his social life
out of my mind. That was not hard to do with the distraction of watching
him undress, but as he unzipped his jeans, something else occurred to me
and it was distracting too.
“Ah, Paul. Can I ask you something?” I asked him.
He froze, halfway out of his pants. Goodness knows what question he was
expecting!
“Sure,” he said, not sounding sure at all. "What is it?”
“It is kind of embarrassing.”
“Is it about sex?”
“Yeah—”
“Luv, there is nothing to be embarrassed about,” he said sounding relieved.
“Everyone does it. What is the question?” He was out of his jeans and
getting into bed with me, putting warm arms around me and bare chest
against mine, sliding one long leg between my knees and already hard. The
question was fading fast but I needed to know before it was too late.
“Will this stain the sheets?” I blurted out. “Dot does the laundry and... "
He pulled back to look at me in surprise. “I thought we were waiting until
you are on the pill.”
“We are!”
“There might be a little spot the first time, but not now.”
“Oh, geez.” I pulled the sheet up over my face, too embarrassed to look at
him. “I didn't mean me. I mean you wiped us off with the sheet last night.
If that leaves a stain, Dot will notice when she folds the clean laundry or
when she puts that sheet on the bed again.”
Having said it, I was able to lower the sheet to look at him. He was trying
hard not to laugh. Again! I seemed to have a knack for amusing him in
bed—in the usual sense of the word “amuse,” not in the way novelists mean
it when they write “He found her bedroom behavior amused him
satisfactorily.”
“No, Luv. Nothing to tell the world I was here with you.”
“She wouldn't know it was you,” I blurted out. “She might think it was
John!”
He collapsed on top of me, laughing out loud.
Paul left late. When I asked sleepily why he was leaving, he said,
“Gatebirds don't talk as much as the help does. If I fall asleep, I might
not get out of here before Dot arrives.”
On Monday, Paul had meetings and I finished up the second article for Tony
and worked on the interview one, suddenly in a hurry to get them behind me.
Les drove me into London where I had an appointment with someone from the
fan magazine to go over the first one. Liz quickly typed up the second
while I went to meet the fan mag editor. We spent only a half-hour
together. She had some suggestions for revisions but overall was very
satisfied with it and I was relieved and rather proud of my work.
Paul called after his meeting and said the rain was keeping the gatebirds
away and suggested that I come into London for the evening. I didn't want
to impose by asking if Les could drive me again, but when I said I was
taking a taxi into London, John laughed at me. “I have a chauffeur sitting
on his arse hour after hour collecting pay, Luv. He ought to be kept busy!
He'll take you!”
Tuesday Paul and I spent the day at Stonehenge with George and Pattie. It
was a hot day, at least by English standards. Not the hundred degree high
humidity days we sometimes
got in Minnesota, but it was an exceptionally hot week in London. John was
aggravated. “The only decent weather we've seen all summer and I can't even
get in the pool!” Paul and I sneaked back out later for a little skinny
dipping just to make sure the pool got well used.
Wednesday we went shopping in the trendy London shops—if you could call
moving that fast shopping! In the late afternoon, we sneaked into a movie
theater after the show started. It was a lousy, completely forgettable
“art” film as far as I was concerned, though Paul found a few things of
interest in it, but going to a movie with Paul was an unforgettable event.
There was something of a James Bond feel to it, waiting with Paul slouched
down in the car, hurrying in, trying to find seats near the back. I was
intensely aware of the people around us and waited for a scream of
recognition, but the matinee crowd at an art film showing is pretty sparse.
Several people did a double-take, showing they recognized Paul and you
could see them telling the people around them, but no one disturbed us
(unless you consider being watched as much as they watched the movie
disturbing). We bolted out the second the movie ended.
Every day that first week ended in Paul's arms. Spending the day with him
was wonderful, but I was so caught up in the excitement of sex, that seemed
to be the whole point of being with him. Everything about him made me want
to touch him, hold him. Talking about Martha's habit of chewing up shoes,
watching him sign autographs, laughing as he belly-flopped into the pool,
it all got to me. By the time we got back to John's, it was hard not to go
straight to bed. Paul would catch my eye, raise an eyebrow questioningly
and grin at me, and we would slip away.
If I was surprised at my behavior, I was astounded at how I felt about what
I was doing. I was a wanton woman and loved it! No shame, no guilt, just
absolute joy in what we did to each other. Maybe it was more a matter of
simply refusing to consider the morality of what I was doing than actually
having changed ideas on morality, but I just didn't have guilty thoughts,
not even after Monday night when I learned about things somehow more
intimate than the one thing we could not do.
Monday was the night it rained and I went to his place. Things were not as
desperate as the first couple of nights. We took our time, slowly moving
toward the end, enjoying the trip as much as the destination and I was
finding it all the more intense for that reason. When we got close, it was
so hard to not do it. After just two nights of incredible discovery, I was
ready. All I wanted was to do it. I wanted to know what it felt like, I
wanted to give myself to him all the way, I wanted to take him all the way.
As we reached the point of no return, I wouldn't have stopped him. He knew
it because I was moving under him, not stopping even when he was right
there, right on the verge of penetration. I lifted up again, beginning the
movement that would make me his and in the same instant let me possess him,
however briefly. He pulled away.
“No, Luv. We can't,” he said in a whispered gasp that said his control was
only marginally better than mine. He rolled off of me.
I lay there, trying to get back into control of myself, aching with wanting
him, moved by the fact that he cared enough to keep his word even when I
lost control. When I could breathe and think again, I sat up and opened the
drawer of the bedside table. Silently I handed him the little packet. He
took it from me and pulled me down beside him. Lying there in the circle of
his arm, I waited, unsure of how to proceed. I knew how the thing was used,
I just didn't know the etiquette.
He was facing me, up on one elbow, looking down at the packet in his hand
for what seemed an eternity, then he said, “No, Tess.”
I stared at him in bewildered amazement as he reached across me to toss it
back in the drawer. “Not yet. You'll wake up in the morning terrified it
might have failed. Besides, when I make love to you, I don't want that
thing between us. I want to be in you, feel you. I want your first time to
be ... real.”
“Real.” That was the one thing I couldn't let this be. Thinking of this as
a dream, a fairy tale, was what was allowing me to enjoy it free of
self-moralizing, free of thoughts about what I was doing, free of thoughts
about what I was feeling about Paul, but here he was, wanting it to be
real. I couldn't say anything because if I did, the words that would come
out would be “I love you,” words I couldn't say after promising him all I
wanted was a couple of weeks of being with him, no commitments, no deep
involvement. So I kissed him. When I let him go, he smiled at me.
“Now then, Luv. We can't do that, but we could try something else.”
Oh boy. Other Things again. I had exhausted my scant knowledge of other
things with the handjob. Whatever he had in mind, I wasn't sure I could do
it. As far as I knew, the options were oral sex or anal. Anal sounded
painful and embarrassing and unsanitary. Oral sounded ... oh geez! From my
experiences of the last few nights, it didn't sound as far out as I had
once thought, but still ... oh geez! All I knew about it was gleaned from a
few broad hints in dirty jokes—and from some memorable graffiti scratched
on a wall in a bathroom stall of a bar. “Barb sucks 8-4639” was etched for
all the world to see. I never could figure out what interest that bit of
information might have for the patrons of the ladies room, but it told me
that fellatio (Of course I knew the technical terms. Couldn't pronounce
them because I had never heard them spoken, but knew them!) was not a
passive activity on behalf of the female. The response added by another
vandal was much more informative to those of us seeking sex education on
the streets: “Yes, but does she swallow?” That was the real eye-opener.
Sucking was only part of the process and not as valued as the other part.
Separating the amateur from the pro, so to speak.
“Like what?” I asked, that bathroom wall clearly in my mind. My voice was
shaky.
“This,” he said and began kissing me, kisses that moved down to my breasts,
my stomach, and kept on going. It took a few minutes for the shock to wear
off and the incongruity of finding pleasure in being kissed there to slip
away. When he had taken me up to the clouds and turned me loose in a
soaring free fall, I wanted to do the same for him. “You don't have to do
that, Luv,” he said as I moved down, kissing my way across his stomach.
“I know,” I said. “and I don't know if I really can.” But I was going to
try. I believed him when he said I didn't have to. I didn't fear that he
would stop spending time with me. All I was thinking was that I wanted to
please him. Whatever it took, I wanted to make him feel as good as he did
me. I moved on.
“It's all right, baby,” he started to say. “Just—ooohh! Just do that!” I
decided right then that this was not going to be difficult. All I had done
was tentatively kiss the shaft and he was pleased. Very pleased judging
from the reaction a few more lingering kisses got. Awkwardly I am sure, but
more than willingly, I gave him back the pleasure he had given me. When it
became obvious that it was nearing the moment when I would have to decide
how far I could go, Paul stopped me.
“You don't want to do that anymore, Luv,” he gasped and took matters in his
own hands. Literally. I slid back up next to him and did it for him.
So those first few days went by in a rush of growing sexual confidence but
equally increasing emotional confusion. It was five days of what seemed
like non-stop sex. The hours we weren't in bed, we were engaged in
foreplay. Holding hands was erotic, a hug was nearly impossible to break
away from, and every touch wanted to wander to forbidden places. When Paul
was busy, I simply waited, drifting in a sea of sexual anticipation. I was
like a kid with a new toy and the new toy wasn't just his body, it was
mine, too. Paul told me I was beautiful and made me believe it as he
touched me. Other boys had complimented me, awkward teenage type
compliments, but Paul's softly whispered words were so sweet. I knew this
was just another example of how experienced he was, but I wanted to believe
he meant the things he said. My breasts were “perfect,” my ass was
“fantastic.” That kind of thing I could almost dismiss as another line, but
there were other things: “You are so soft but so strong,” he said seemingly
amazed at the combination. “The way you move, you drive me crazy. You lift
up against me, move with me and I can feel how strong you are, but at the
same time you are so soft, you just melt in my arms.”
Another night, he turned on the bedside light. “I just want to look at you
again. I keep thinking of how you looked that first afternoon in the
sunlight, and I have to see you again.”
Something in the way he said those things made me believe he meant it.
Besides, there was no need for sweet talk and flattery. I was willing, even
a little demanding—much to his amusement.
I might have been a little aggressive physically, but verbally I was a
non-player. I just didn't know what to say. I didn't know if men liked to
be told they were beautiful and that was the one thing I wanted to say when
I looked at him. “Handsome” just wasn't right. That was for a certain type
of face or a well-made suit, not for a naked male body. As for talk about
sex itself, I was tongue-tied when it came to discussing his, err,
equipment. I wasn't about to say “penis” and I just couldn't say the other
words. I suppose if Paul had said those words, I would have found it easier
to, but he wasn't discussing male anatomy. Talking was too dangerous
anyway. If I said the things I wanted to say, the things I was feeling, I
was afraid I wouldn't stop with how good he felt, how good he made me feel
and all that. No, I was better off not getting started.
In those five days, I learned the sensations, the variations, the moods of
sex. Paul obviously enjoyed teaching me. I learned how a man felt, what he
liked, what I could do to drive him to the edge, and learned the same about
my own body. Just as he had told me, it was never the same twice; Naked and
sweaty and wild. Laughing and teasing. Tender and achingly sweet. Sex
without intercourse. I never imagined it could be like that. Of course, I
never imagined anything but good old garden variety screwing. Through it
all, I loved him for the gentle way he showed me, never rushing me, never
forcing me, and loved him for waiting.
I moved through those first few days in a rush of sexual clarity and
emotional confusion. I didn't know what I was feeling. Was this love? It
sure felt like it to me. Was I seeing things clearly? A phrase from an old
song kept coming back to me; “Falling in love with love.” Maybe that's what
I was doing, falling in love with the idea of being in love. Was this just
one of those sudden storms of infatuation that you wake up from after a few
weeks and wonder what possessed you? That happened easily enough with mere
mortals and Paul was ... Paul was Paul McCartney. Infatuation plus fan
adoration? Infatuation with the idea of the heartthrob Paul and not the
real man? Or maybe I was making the oldest mistake in the book, mistaking
sex for love. I loved the sex. Paul recognized that right away and teased
me every night about being such a dedicated student. That embarrassed me,
and he somehow seemed to like that as much as my enthusiasm.
I thought about staying in England. I could dump school, ignore Mom and
Dad's warnings, threats, pleadings, and take a chance that this might be
love, but I didn't know if Paul was thinking or feeling anything along
those lines. It seemed like it at times. The odd look he gave me once when
I said I wished school wasn't starting in just a few weeks could have been
“Me too” but it could just as easily have been “Oh, I hope she isn't
getting ideas!” It was replaced so quickly with a smile and change of
subject, I couldn't be sure.
We may have left behind the notion of “just sex” but it wasn't far behind.
I had made a promise to him not to demand more and I didn't, but there were
quiet moments when I would catch him looking at me, times when I thought,
“Maybe... " Then he was back to being funny and casual. I told myself to
just give it time, but time was slipping away. I had already written to my
parents, extending my stay another week, the longest I could stay and still
get back in time for the start of school. I would be leaving in less than
three weeks.
Paul was seriously considering accepting the offer to write a movie score,
so he had meetings every day that week with either the movie people or with
record company executives and lawyers as they tried to untangle the legal
red tape that could prevent him from working for anyone else. I spent some
time with a couple of the nursing students I had met, still keeping my real
reason for being in England secret. With my involvement with Paul, I was
less inclined than ever to want to talk about the Beatles.
Thursday Paul was tied up with the lawyers and EMI people all day, and the
movie company, wanting to wine and dine him, wanted him for the evening. He
came out to John's late in the afternoon saying he couldn't stay long.
“Let's go upstairs,” he said softly in my ear while Julian clamored for his
attention.
I shook my head. In spite of all the intimacy of the last five days, I was
still embarrassed about telling him my period had started. I had never
discussed that with a guy before. I was happy. In a few days, we would
finally be able to go ahead, but that was also several nights without doing
anything, five of the seventeen days I had left with him.
“We can't do that,” I said, trying to think how to tell him.
He grinned. “Yes, I suppose that would be a bit much, sneaking off in the
middle of the day. I suppose we should try to be sociable for a bit.”
We joined John and Cyn on the patio and, after what seemed a reasonable
interval, I suggested to Paul that we take a walk around the garden. I
needed a few minutes alone with him.
“Not upstairs?” he asked as we walked down the steps from the terrace.
“No. Not now.” I didn't know how to say it. I took his hand and we walked
across the lawn.
“How are the meetings going?” I asked him.
“They have made up their minds they want me to do it. Had from the start.
Now I have to give them an answer.”
“What's the problem? Money? Your contract with EMI?”
“No, that's all settled.”
“John and the others? Are you worried about what they'll think about you
doing it?”
That got a big smile. “No. No problem there. John says to go for it. ‘Take
the money and run, mate!' he says.”
“Are you worried you can't do it?”
“No. Not really. That sounds awful, doesn't it? Big-headed! But I do think
I could do a movie score.”
“So why the indecision?”
There was a ghost of that “unsure if I should be saying this to you” look
but then he answered. “What if I am wrong? What if I come up dry? I know I
can throw together a song to fill out an album, but that is just off the
top. You don't have to fit it to anything.” He sighed and said, “I don't
know if you write movie scores the same way, don't know for certain that I
can give them what they want, what a movie needs.”
I shook my head and smiled at him. “What I know about writing music is
zilch, but I've heard a piece or two of your work and I suspect you could
do it with one hand tied behind your back!”
He laughed but then said seriously, “Well, if I can't, I can't. That would
be fine if I were doing it on my own. I wouldn't be all that embarrassed to
have tried and come up short if it were just me out there putting my name
on it but to promise someone else something I am not sure I can deliver.
That's different.”
“Close your eyes,” I said on a sudden hunch.
“What?”
“Close your eyes and listen.”
He complied and stood there beside me, eyes closed. I took a moment to
think about what I was going to say—a moment too long for him. He said,
“Well, what then?”
“Quiet, I'm thinking!”
“I have to close me eyes so you can think?”
The near truth of that made me laugh. “Yes! Shhh!” His grin was so
distracting, but finally, I was ready. I described a scene we had used for
a school exercise on relaxation. “You are looking down a view of a beach, a
long stretch of sand warmed by the sun and cooled by the breeze. Waves roll
in, slide up onto the shore and stretch out there, melting into the sand.
Over and over." I spent a minute describing the scene and then added a man
and woman walking hand in hand up the beach. “Now just stay there and watch
for a minute,” I told him. He did as he was told, eyes closed. “OK,” I said
after a bit, “What do you hear?”
His eyes popped open and he looked at me with surprise. “Hear?”
“Yes. Listen again.”
Obediently, he closed his eyes, listened and answered slowly as if from
that far away beach. “The waves ... wind ... birds." and then he hummed a
little melody.
“What song is that?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. It's just a little melody rolling around in my head,
not a real song.”
I just smiled at him and watched the understanding of what I was asking
wash over him.
“See?” I said. “I think you can do it.”
He burst out laughing. “How did you know that would happen? Do you hear
music like that?”
“No. Never,” I said truthfully, “but I had a feeling you did.”
Head tipped to the side, he was giving me a bemused look. “Now you close
your eyes,” he said after a moment. I did as told and was rewarded with the
feel of his mouth on mine in a soft kiss.
When he stopped, I opened my eyes and asked, “What are your plans for next
week? About Tuesday?”
I wasn't the only one who could read thoughts. He looked at me closely
before he answered. “I'll make love to you then. All the way,” he said
softly. “Can we go away for a few days? Someplace where we can be alone.
I'll take you to Scotland to see the heather and moors.”
We made plans to disappear for four days. No one would know we were
together except John, Cyn, and Mal, who, as always, made arrangements. Paul
had to be in Liverpool for a charity thing on Friday evening, so he let
people think he was going to Liverpool for the whole week. We would leave
for Scotland on Tuesday morning, spend the week there, and on Friday
morning he would go on to Liverpool for the weekend and I would return to
London. I probably would not need a cover story, but if anyone noted that I
was not around, they would be told I had gone off on a sightseeing trip for
a few days.
I was able to spend some time with Paul in the next few days, but it was
sandwiched around more meetings on Friday and Monday and a big party thrown
by the movie company on Sunday. I had plenty of time to finish the last
article and met with the fan mag editor on Monday to review it. She was
very pleased and although she wanted to run it by Tony, it looked like my
days as girl reporter were done.
Meanwhile, Paul and I couldn't spend as much time together, and when we
did, we couldn't go to bed. We didn't, even though Paul mentioned, “You
couldn't get pregnant now, you know.” He grinned at the appalled look on my
face, and I had no idea if he was kidding. I certainly never thought anyone
did it then and my new sexual freedom didn't stretch that far.
I was already missing having sex but another sticking point in my
supposedly open-minded sexual attitude left me embarrassed by how I felt.
It was supposed to be guys who couldn't go without sex but Paul was
handling this hiatus better than I was!
The worst part of not ending every day in his arms was that it gave me time
to think. When the end of the day meant sex, the entire day was foreplay.
Now, I was only too aware that there was more to what I was feeling. I
wanted to be with him, sex or not. I wanted to talk for hours.
I wanted to tell him everything about me, boring as it was. I wanted to
know everything about him but I couldn't ask. I was afraid he would think I
was digging for info, playing reporter again. So I just listened, and
slowly he opened up. It was everything that those first few hours at the
hotel and on the plane had promised. We talked about everything. Nothing
intellectual like John and his Kant, Kafka, and Kerouac (which I, fellow
American, hadn't even read), politics and religion. Just simple things.
Movies, music, families, growing up, do you believe in ghosts? Comparing
his school days of headmasters and corporal punishment to my parochial life
among the nuns.
It's funny, but I can't remember all that well the things we did talk about
or specific conversations Paul and I had, but I certainly recall
discussions with John, probably because talking with John was a roller
coaster ride of thoughtful musings and strongly held viewpoints, sarcasm,
and startling sweetness. But talking with Paul was like breathing;
essential, natural, and effortless. Being with him was the same.
Effortless. There was none of the usual game-playing of the early stages of
most relationships. Paul had absolutely no reason to try to impress me. If
he had wanted to, the best way would have been to simply show me that he
was just an ordinary guy, not a sophisticated, hip, with-it trendsetter.
That is what he did with his blue jeans and T-shirts, near-total ignorance
of American geography, a decided preference for “jam butties” and milk
rather than caviar and champagne, a tendency to bite his nails, and
self-confessed ignorance of a car's mechanical working. As for my trying to
impress him, fat chance. I figured I had gotten this far just being myself
and there was no point trying to pretend I was sophisticated or anything
else. So being with him was just plain easy.
I had already taken a lot of pictures of tourist things, but I don't need
photos to bring back those days between that first time with Paul and the
trip to Scotland. I just close my eyes and the pictures are there, pictures
of Paul and me in John's pool, holding Julian between us while he kicked
and thought he was swimming. Watching Paul with him, thinking how good he
would be someday with a little one of his own, and later that night, just
the two of us in the pool. “Cozzies off!” Paul said. So, no swimsuits, just
cold air above, warm water and the heat of his body below. The sudden sound
of the patio door opening sent me down into the water up to my chin and
John yelled out at us, “Not in the pool, you animals!”
Pictures of Martha in the back seat of Paul's Austin-Martin Mini. We took
her with us on trips out into the country. We would drive until we got lost
and then stop for something to eat. I think Paul always hoped that if he
got thoroughly lost he would find a part of England that had never heard of
the Beatles. That never happened, but at least little country inns were
quiet and we generally ate in peace. Martha liked to get out and run around
in circles, and she especially liked to find a creek or pond to jump in. We
drove back to London with Neil's “sopping wet monster of a dog” a couple of
times. He forgot to add “reeking.”
Pictures of a shopping trip in London. Park out front, dash into a shop, a
quick look at clothes, and when he saw something he liked he bought it. He
bought clothes for me the same way. At first, I protested, saying I didn't
want him to buy me stuff, and if I did buy anything, I had to try things
on. He just laughed. “I am buying it, and we can't stay here long enough
for try-ons. What size?” I told him and we were back in the car in minutes
and when I tried them on, I loved them. He had great taste in clothes. Not
so flashy that they would end up in the back of the closet, out of style,
in a few months, but still very stylish. He bought me two dresses that day,
one a Mary Quant. It was a princess-seamed skimmer of a deep cobalt blue
calico-type print with tiny red and white flowers on the blue. The sleeves
were long and slightly puffed at the shoulders and ended in crisp white
French cuffs that matched the white collar. The other was a dressy black
crepe with a little stand-up collar. It was a simple straight chemise with
sheer sleeves, perfect for a special night out.
Pictures both in my head and on film of our day-trip to Stonehenge with
Pattie and George. George wanted us to ride with him so Paul and I wedged
ourselves into the passenger seat of his Jaguar and Pattie rode with Mal
and the other security man who followed us. Or tried to. I found out George
was the car buff of the Fab Four. Not just any car, though. Fast cars. High
speeds. Race car turns. Behind us, Mal tried to keep up. By the time we
stopped for a late breakfast, I was just about paralyzed with fear and
contorted from trying to sit on Paul's lap in the tiny car. We went into a
small country inn to eat. Halfway through the meal, a tour bus of teenage
girls in girls camp uniforms pulled in and thirty girls came in the front
door. Mal rushed us all out the back door, went back in and paid the bill,
and then he and the other guy brought the cars around the back to pick up
their passengers who were hiding amid the rubbish bins!
Once at Stonehenge, they put on disguises so they could join the tour
group. They had decided to dress as old age pensioners and their
interpretation of that was dirty old men. They carried on, asking
outrageous questions of the guide about sexual rituals among the Druids,
and they got more stares than if they had been recognized as the Beatles. I
don't remember much of what the guide said about the history behind
Stonehenge, but I certainly remember being pulled behind one of the huge
monoliths and being kissed and groped by an old geezer with a scraggly
beard, scruffy coat, and awful pipe.
Not all the memories were quite so happy. There were times when I was
jolted back to reality. When it was just the two of us, he seemed so down
to earth, so normal it was easy to forget the kind of life he lived, but
other times I felt so out of place in his world. We stopped at the office
one afternoon and I listened to him talk to Brian casually about record
contracts, personal appearances, press releases, and money, money so big I
couldn't imagine being responsible for it. “I'm the taxman and you're
working for no one but me.” He didn't even need money to spend it. He just
walked into a shop and signed for things.
Paul’s interest in artsy movies, far-out experimental music, and other
“happening” things was an interest I didn’t share. I could see the point of
them when he explained them, but even understanding what the artist was
going for didn’t begin to make them something I enjoyed. I was definitely a
square. Although I liked some of the paintings he liked, that was about it.
I appreciated the free thinking that went into the avant-garde aspect of
things, but I just couldn’t say I liked them.
Then there was the drug stuff. I was worried about John, but when I told
Paul about the night Mal brought John home and stayed the night, he had
laughed. “He was tripping, Luv. Mal was there to keep an eye on him.” He
had laughed even harder at the horrified look on my face when I realized
that John had been taking LSD that night.
On the evening after going to Stonehenge, George and Pattie stayed at
John's for a while that evening. After we cooled off in the pool, funny
cigarettes were being passed around. Paul casually offered me a drag. I
felt so uncomfortable, so out of it, so inexperienced, so young. He didn't
pressure me, and Cyn never used anything either. It was nice to have a
companion in abstinence, but even that had a downside. Cyn told me that
John was forever trying to convince her to join him, but she had tried pot
and got nothing out of it and her one LSD trip scared the hell out of her.
It was another gap between them, a big one. Even though Paul was cautious
about trying other things, he made no pretenses about liking marijuana and
using it regularly, and I couldn't help but think of that as one more way I
was out of place with him.
He made me feel young and inexperienced in other ways too. He wasn't
conceited (well, maybe a little when it came to music, but how could he not
be?) but he was self-confident. He was investing his money, making contacts
in the business and art world as well as in music, doing grown-up stuff the
guys I had dated had no ideas about. He was only four years older than me,
but his experiences and the opportunities open to him combined with his
natural talents, ambition and drive left them—and me—in the dust.
My innocence amused him, in bed and out. Once that innocence was gone and
the prize of my virginity with it, would he still be interested? I knew my
virgin status probably meant a lot more to me than it did to him and I also
knew he had been interested in me before I had told him I was a virgin, but
still, I worried. He seemed to enjoy introducing me to sex, found my
ignorance funny and my moments of embarrassment endearing. What would
happen when the newness wore off? Lots of newlyweds hit rough times when
the honeymoon was over and I didn't even have the safety net of legal
entanglement to hold us together and give us time to adjust to a new stage
of being together.
Did I have anything to offer that would hold him? I wouldn't have even
thought to question that with a guy back home, but here, hobnobbing with
the rich and famous made my self-esteem a little shaky. Alone with Paul, I
was fine. In his arms, I felt beautiful, sexy, but out of them, I was an
average looking girl. With him, I was funny, interesting. Without him, I
reverted to being a backward kid from down on the farm. I just couldn't
believe that I stood a chance there in his world. “I said, ‘Even though you
know what you know, I know that I'm ready to leave ‘cause you're
making me feel like I've never been born.’” No, I didn’t belong in his
world.
In spite of those uncomfortable thoughts, I walked through those days on a
cloud. No matter what happened, I had this time with Paul and intended to
make the most of it.
Meanwhile, I watched John and Cyn falling apart. John didn't come home one
night and still wasn't home by late afternoon. Cyn was miserable but didn't
say much.
“Shouldn't you call the police?” I finally asked.
She just smiled sadly. “He's alright. Les is with him and Mal or Neil know
where he is. Besides, if he were in trouble, or hurt or anything, I would
be notified.”
Having a husband with a famous face had its advantages, I guess. He would
never be a John Doe at a hospital.
“He's probably drunk and it is just as well. He gets ... difficult when he
drinks.” Knowing how cutting and difficult he could be when irritated, I
could imagine that a drunken John Lennon would be really unpleasant.
When he did show up, nothing was said, as if he had gone for a newspaper
and been back in fifteen minutes. Cyn never really said anything about John
and other women and I began to get the impression that she thought he was
simply off smoking pot and tripping out with friends. I wondered.
When he was home he was quiet, spending hours watching TV, reading,
listening to music, or just staring out the window. He was smoking more and
many of the ciggies were joints, so there was a lot of “Turn off your mind,
relax and float downstream” going on. He went out a couple of nights later
with Pete Shotton and when he came home at dawn the next morning he was
roaring drunk. I woke up to the sound of him swearing at Cyn as she helped
him upstairs. Relieved that he was legally drunk rather than illegally
high, I wondered whether I should get up and see if she needed help, or
pretend to have slept through it, but the bedroom door slammed and all was
quiet.
Other than that one incident, he was not nasty to Cyn. That was the only
time and he seemed to regret it after. Paul and I were gone off to shop on
Carnaby Street before he got up the next day, but when we came back late
that afternoon, he was quiet and still looked like the morning after, but
he was being very attentive to Cyn, hugging her, even kissing her,
something I had seen little of since the first day or two. He seemed to be
trying to make up to her. It certainly worked. She was looking at him
adoringly.
Most of the time though, he just ignored Cyn. Maybe ignore is too strong a
word. It implies he intentionally shut her out and it wasn't quite like
that. He just seemed detached, off in his thoughts. When Cyn tried to coax
him out of his mood, he cut her off. “Just leave it alone, Cyn,” he said
and walked away, leaving her with such a hurt look I felt tears in my eyes
for her. As he grew more withdrawn, I wondered why I ever had thought he
was so wonderful. If I had come into his life at this point, I don't know
that I could have even liked him. There were still flashes of the warm,
outrageous guy I was so crazy about, but he just seemed to be miserable,
unsure of what he wanted to do, could do.
When I said something to Paul about all of it, he brushed it off with “He
gets this way sometimes. He'll settle down when we get back to work.”
“I hope so!,” I said with a mixture of sympathetic concern for John and
outrage on Cyn's behalf. “It isn't much of a marriage. Poor Cyn." I
stopped, not wanting to betray Cyn's confidences.
That got Paul's attention. He looked worried. “He's not—” He stopped
abruptly and rephrased the question in a more unconcerned tone. “Are they
fighting that much, then?” I wondered what he had started to say and had
the distinct feeling I was suddenly an outsider, a reporter again,
something I hadn't felt for a while.
“No.” I tried to explain how miserable John seemed and Paul just snorted in
disgust.
“What?” I asked, not sure what that implied.
He sighed. “Look, Tess. Cyn is the sweetest woman any man could find. If
John can't see that... " He still looked reluctant to discuss it.
“I know, and so does John. That's the problem. He is unhappy and takes it
out on her. Then he feels like crap for treating her bad. He is being a
real bastard and knows it, but he is so miserable. I almost feel worse for
him than for Cyn. They would both be happier if they just got a divorce.”
He shook his head in grim disagreement. “I don't believe in that kind of
thing.”
“Divorce?”
“Sometimes divorce is better, but a couple needs to at least try first.
John isn't trying. He is bored and wants to blame it on Cyn. He should be
glad to have someone like Cyn. Maybe Cyn needs to lighten up a little. She
doesn't need to keep a low profile anymore. She could go out and have some
fun with him.”
“Drugs?”
He shrugged. “Hell, I don't know. It just seems like they aren't trying,
but they have a child and they ought to at least try to work it out for
Julian's sake.”
He changed the subject, plainly uncomfortable discussing it with me, and we
didn't discuss it again. I never brought the subject up with Cyn again
either and John got up and walked out on me the one time I crossed the
invisible line separating being a friend and interfering. One afternoon as
I was doing his exercises. I said something to him about Cyn being worried
when he was gone so long. He looked at me, and for a moment I thought I was
going to be on the receiving end of one of his famous cutting remarks but
he simply got up and walked away. The disgusted, angry look he gave me was
enough though. I decided the Lennon marriage was none of my business.
Besides, I had my own problems to worry about.
By this time I was so in love with Paul that it hurt, physically hurt, to
think about leaving. I had no doubts about my feelings anymore. All my
attempts to partition these few weeks of my life off into some never-never
land were dismal failures. All my notions about doing this without getting
emotionally in over my head were long gone. It wasn't just physical appeal.
I had fallen, plummeted, nose-dived, cascaded, plunged into love.
Impossible, improbable, fairy tale love. It was wonderful. It was awful.
Paul and I never really talked about my leaving. I made a point of
mentioning it regularly because I was constantly aware of the bargain that
we had made and I wanted him to know I was keeping that bargain. He had let
me into his life because I had told him there were no strings attached.
Just a couple of weeks of fun together and then I would disappear from his
life. No interviews, no stories, and no guilt, demands, tears. No wanting
more. I got my dream vacation, he got a worry-free, round trip ticket to
bed.
When someone else mentioned it or asked how much longer I was staying, I
repeated that I needed to get back in time for school. Paul never commented
when I mentioned leaving. He listened intently, and I wasn't sure what I
was seeing on his face. I wanted to believe that there was a flash of
regret there, but all I could do is guess and my best guess was that he was
a little surprised. I doubted he had ever encountered a girl who was so
obviously crazy about him but didn't want something more.
Did I want more? Hell yes. I wanted it all. I wanted him to say he loved
me, to beg me to stay with him, ask me to marry him, have his children. It
was crazy to be thinking that way. I had only known him for a couple of
weeks. I knew that, knew it was crazy to think that way about anyone after
such a short time, much less someone I had been a little irrational about
for years before meeting. However, I also knew that I had never had that
kind of futuristic thoughts about anyone else. I had never thought about
what kind of husband or father they might be, just whether they would be a
good date for the dance. I wanted this one for keeps, not for the prom.
“Got To Get You Into My Life” and “Here, There, And Everywhere” competed
for air time in my mind. When we were alone and he was holding me and
saying sweet things, oh such sweet things, anything seemed possible. Then
it was back to the real world with teenage girls screaming at him, sobbing
and throwing themselves on his car at the gate. Women threw themselves at
him with less hysteria but a lot more blatant sexuality. He certainly
didn't discourage them. He was an appreciative observer of every good
looking woman who came in sight. Not so blatantly that it was insulting to
me, just a glance, a little smile in an unguarded moment. He was slightly
flirtatious with some but politely friendly to all even though they came on
strong at times. Although we didn't go to clubs or fancy restaurants, we
still managed to run into women who knew him, once at a little pub out near
John's and once while we were shopping. By the way they looked at him,
touched him as they leaned close for a kiss, I got the feeling they knew
him in the biblical sense. Afterward, he said nothing, offered no
explanation or excuses. All that was part of his life, had been before I
showed up and would be after I was gone.
In the meantime, there were no signs of the pink robe or makeup the one
night we went back to his place, but I didn't have the guts to open a
closet door to be sure. I pushed all that into a mental closet of my own
and refused to open that door because hidden at the back of that closet was
something else. I had called him late Friday afternoon and a female voice,
not Mrs. Grady's, told me he was out. I never said anything to him, never
asked if he was seeing someone else. That was not part of the deal. I was
getting everything I had bargained for. Besides, none of that was a
surprise to me. He was a man of the world with a reputation for being a
womanizer and I was just the femme du jour. How would he react if I told
him how I really felt? As much as I wanted to read love into his words and
his touch, I had to admit I didn't have any real evidence that he was
feeling
the same way I did. He certainly seemed to enjoy being with me even when we
weren't having sex, and I would have said he liked me a lot, but that
didn't necessarily translate into love. If I told him I loved him and he
didn't feel the same, the deal would be off and he would be gone. I wasn't
willing to risk that. I wanted every day I could have with him regardless
of how he felt about me.
That wasn't the only thing holding me back. What if I blurted out “I love
you!” and he didn't say it back? A very simple, very real fear. Besides,
sixties girl that I was, I had learned that guys ask girls out, guys make
the first move for the first kiss, and guys were supposed to say those
words first. Stupid? Of course, but that was just how I thought it was
supposed to be.
So, I went through the days waiting for him to say something, show me what
he was feeling. I had originally planned to leave England on Friday,
September 2. That would give me a week and a half at home before school
started. After the day I had interviewed Paul and ended up in his bed, I
had written to Mom and Dad and told them that I would probably stay a
little longer. As expected, I got a transatlantic phone call from them as
soon as they received it. I told them I was having such a great time,
talked of all the sights I had seen, the nursing students I had met, and
said that I had a chance to join a tour group going to Scotland if I stayed
another week. I presented it as something I had already arranged and paid
for because it was just an opportunity I couldn't pass up while I was here.
(Not a lie! It was a trip to Scotland and it was an opportunity I was not
about to pass up!) They were not thrilled but reassured that I was all
right and not being brainwashed, drugged, or held against my will, they
agreed that I could stay. So, I had my extra week, an extra week to take
the final step, an extra week to make sure it would really, really hurt
when I left.
The days went by and the idea of leaving him, of saying goodbye and getting
on a plane grew impossible to think about. The only thing that made it
bearable was my growing belief that Paul wasn't in love with me. The words
I wanted so much to hear never came. I knew that some guys have a hard time
saying those words, but Paul had no problem with words. He told me I was
beautiful, that my eyes were in his dreams, that I fit in his arms like no
one ever had before, that he enjoyed every minute we were together. He
talked about how he wanted to make love to me, to make me his completely,
but he never said, “I love you.” And I never told him. I was glad we
couldn't have sex right now. I was having trouble holding back the words as
it was. If he had taken me to bed, sent me off to that physical and
emotional high with his hands and his touch, I would have blurted it out.
Now I kissed him one more time as we said goodnight instead of whispering
the words.
I tried to lighten up when I was with him and simply enjoy the moment. It
worked pretty well, right up until I slipped into my bed at night, alone
with nothing but cool sheets and cold reality. Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen
days left. Mom had once told me there was no point in worrying at night.
The situation always looked worse in the dark. You couldn't change anything
then, and besides, things would look better in the morning. So, with Mom's
advice and Scarlet O'Hara's “I can't think about this now, I'll think about
it tomorrow” attitude, I would fall asleep.
Saturday night at Ringo's, things changed and neither Mom nor Scarlet could
help me. Ringo had a game room, actually a separate building, that had its
own tavern, with pool table, darts, TV, a movie theater, and a music room.
It was one place they could go and not be bothered so they gathered there
regularly. Just like any normal bunch of young couples, it usually ended up
with the guys playing pool and the girls in another room talking, and the
kids running back and forth pestering everyone. Zak was eleven months, and
of course, adorable with big, drooly baby grins, that look of surprised
delight that babies always have. Ringo showed him off, beaming with pride.
Zak was just learning to walk and frequently had to grab the nearest pair
of legs for support. John, although he hadn't been around much when Julian
was learning to walk, was experienced enough to just automatically
stabilize his teetering and send him off again without paying a lot of
attention. George, blessed with an ample supply of nephews and nieces,
still looked apprehensive, but who could resist that drooling grin? Paul
just grinned back at Zak, picked him up, held him up in the air and sent
him into giggles with an “airplane ride—the kind Tess loves!” Ringo
informed Paul that if he kept that up, he would be wearing Zak's dinner.
Maureen not being close at hand, Paul turned to me. “Nappy change,” he
instructed and handed me a dizzy baby with a wet diaper.
At one point, Maureen asked how much longer I would be staying. I told her,
and there was a funny silence in the room. Everyone looked sideways at Paul
who went on racking up the balls on the pool table nonchalantly. John
looked across the room at me and I looked at him, knowing right away that
even though he had been acting indifferent, off in a world of his own, he
was well aware of how I felt about Paul. He rescued the awkward moment.
“Can't expect her to waste her life hanging about here. Everyone knows the
Beatles are a flash in the pan. Won't last more than a year.” We all
laughed at the old joke, and that soft spot I had in my heart for John took
over the entire left ventricle. A moment later, my whole heart went into
meltdown.
I was sitting on a barstool near the pool table. As Paul stepped back to
let Ringo take his shot, he looked at me. The look on his face was anything
but nonchalant. He held my eyes for a long moment, then he smiled a sad
little smile and reached out and touched my cheek. Ringo made his shot and
Paul turned back to watch. Just like that, the moment was over. The moment
I had waited for, longed for, hardly dared to hope for. He didn't want me
to go. Maybe it wasn't a declaration of love, but he didn't want me to go.
My heart soared.
We stayed late at Ringo's and when Paul drove me back to John's, he was
very quiet. He parked the car and turned to me, touching my face again,
that same look on his face. “We have to talk,” he said.
Heart pounding, I nodded.
“We only have fourteen more days together,” he said.
I had been counting the days but didn't realize he had. I couldn't say
anything, I just nodded again.
“Look, I've been thinking,” he said, sounding uncomfortable. “Why don't you
take some time out from school? Stay here with me.” He blurted it out as if
he was afraid to ask.
I couldn't breathe. The world stood still and I felt the first crack in my
heart. It might not break when I leave. It might not last that long.
Finally, I managed to say, “The classes are only offered once a year. I
have to stay in sequence.” I couldn't look at him as I spoke. “If I stay
out this fall semester, I can't go back until next fall and there is no
guarantee I would be accepted back in.”
He was quiet for a minute, absorbing that. Then he said, again with an
uncharacteristic lack of self-confidence, “I know how important being a
nurse is to you. I know you have to finish school, but you could finish
here and we could be together.”
I didn't have to think about it. I had thought about it already and even
done a little checking on admission requirements in conversations with the
English nursing students. They thought that although I might have to pass
some type of placement tests or retake a few classes, I would be accepted,
but usually, the admission process began a year in advance, and most
schools had a waiting list for admission. Even if I found a school that had
an opening this year, there was no way all the paperwork of applications,
transcripts, and God knows what international legal red tape could be done
in the few weeks left before classes began.
There were tears in my eyes as I explained all that and I could see
something change in Paul's expression as he saw the tears. He put his arms
around me. “But if it could be done, you would do it?” There was hope and
excitement in his voice.
I realized suddenly that he didn't know how badly I wanted to stay. All I
had ever told him was that I wanted to be with him but I was leaving when
school started. Worse, every time I had found myself on the brink of just
giving in and saying “Paul, I love you,” I had reinforced my shaky resolve
by bringing up some crap about how I was looking forward to getting back to
school. I had been trying so hard to tell myself that this was just a
summer fling, to keep my cool, and somehow he took what I said more
seriously than my heart ever did. No wonder he was having trouble asking me
to stay!
I pulled back so I could look into his eyes. The look of wanting I saw
there was more than the sexual desire I had seen before. I could barely
talk to answer him.
“It can't be done, and my parents would never... ” I stumbled, held back
tears choking off the words. No matter what I could arrange, my parents
would never allow it anyway, but at that moment nothing else mattered
except the fact that he wanted me to stay and the look in his eyes was
tearing me apart. “But, yes. Oh, yes!” I said.
“Then I'll have Brian look into it,” he said as he pulled me into his arms.
I remembered Brian saying he would do the best money could buy. I would be
twenty-one in a couple of months and then I wouldn't need permission.
Maybe, just maybe.
Monday seemed an impossibly long way away as he kissed me, kissed me with
what I would have sworn was a new level of desire, affection, and feeling,
kissed me until I had to beg him to stop because we couldn't take this any
further. We sat in the car for a while longer just holding each other,
kissing gently, and talking a little about my staying. Paul seemed
optimistic, confident that it could be arranged. I was rather quiet, not
believing it would happen.
Paul sensed my feelings and stopped talking and we listened in silence to
the rain drumming on the roof of the car.
“I should go in,” I said.
He nodded but instead of moving to get out, he lifted me away from him then
turned to face me, holding both my hands in his. “I want you here with me,”
he said simply.
“And I want to stay here with you!”
“You don't think that is going to be possible, do you?”
“No,” I admitted softly, reluctantly.
He looked at me and what I thought I saw on his face made me catch my
breath. I thought, “Now. Now he is going to say it!”
But he didn't. He just looked at me, then pulled me back against him and
buried his face in my hair. When he pulled away, the look was gone and that
familiar cheerful expression was back.
“Come 'ead. It's getting late. Let's take Martha out to the country again
tomorrow, shall we?”
I lay awake for hours that night. Questions about school and my parents
tumbled through my whirling thoughts but they took a backseat to another
issue. Did he love me? Why didn't he say it? I had been so sure that was
what he was leading up to tonight, but he hadn't said it. Was he waiting
for the moment that would come in Scotland? Would he tell me he did when he
finally made love to me? If he did, what then? The answer should have been
simple; if he says he loves me, I stay, but it wasn't simple at all. I
wasn't the level-headed realist that Brenda was, but neither was I a
starry-eyed romantic like Sandy. I was caught in the middle wanting to
believe in love but seeing clearly that staying here was a huge decision.
If I stayed, my parents would be shocked, horrified. Worse, they would be
frightened for me. They would question whether I was staying of my own free
will, suspect drugs or brainwashing, and they would come up with the money
for a plane ticket somehow and Dad would come after me. There would be
confrontation, tears, accusations, pleading, all with the media waiting in
the wings for a scrap of scandal, and in the end, since I was not yet
twenty-one, I would have no choice to go home anyway.
It would take a miracle to get past that hurdle and the only thing I could
offer that would make a dent in my parents' resistance would be if I could
tell my parents I was going to finish school here, but in all probability,
Brian would never be able to get a school here to accept me. It would be
another year before I could get in, and the thought of changing schools was
pretty scary. If I went home, I could be finished
before I could even get
started here. That thought brought me back to the beginning. Did Paul love
me? If I went home, would he wait for me? Nine months apart. If he did love
me, did he love me enough to even begin to tolerate that?
Who was I kidding? Paul McCartney waiting for me for the better part of a
year? Maybe I should just drop everything and stay here. Waiting a year to
go back to school was better than losing Paul. We could be together. But
could I fit in here? Fit in with his friends, his lifestyle, the life in
the public eye? Could I adjust to nursing school in a foreign country?
Would I even be able to get into a school here? Even if I never got back
into nursing, I would have Paul. Or would I? Would he get tired of me? And,
back to square one; did he love me?