I had thought that if I ever saw Paul again my immediate response would be
an emotional cataclysm. I hadn't counted on it being a surprise encounter
and hadn't imagined the physical pain. My insides contracted in a sickening
spasm and my heart lurched in one explosive beat that made my chest ache. I
couldn't breathe. I watched as a fellow departing passenger grabbed Paul's
arm to request an autograph. Smiling, juggling carry-on bag and coat, he
signed her ticket stub.
“Why is Paul here?” Brenda was demanding of me, her voice coming to me from
a million miles away.
“Where is John?” Sandy was asking excitedly. “Did you know Paul was coming
too?”
I couldn't answer. I was concentrating on not fainting. Paul handed the
ticket back to the fan and looked around, searching for John's welcoming
committee. His eyes met mine from twenty feet away and now I not only
couldn't breathe or speak, I couldn't move, couldn't even think. He
hesitated for a moment, then began to walk toward us.
I was vaguely aware of the two men shadowing him, moving along on either
side of him, but all I really saw was his face. I stared at him, trying to
read the expression there, trying to determine in a matter of seconds what
had brought him here after months of silence and only weeks after that
brief exchange on the phone in which he had all but called me a two-timing,
gold-digging bitch.
He was just a few feet away now, looking at me. The smile he had given the
autograph seeker had disappeared. “Contained” was the only word that
described his facial expression even though the look in his eyes was
intense. Whatever he was thinking, feeling, he was not about to show it
here in the middle of this throng of people.
I hadn't moved. Couldn't. He reached out and put his arms around me, and
simply said, “Hello Tess.”
Proper airport etiquette required a hug to welcome a traveler. At least
that is what my arms seemed to believe. On autopilot, my arms went around
him. He pulled me tighter and bent his head to touch his cheek to mine. The
feel, the scent of his skin, his hair, everything that was the physical
essence of Paul overwhelmed me. I had never fainted in my life and thought
once I survived that first wave of physical shock that I would be OK, but
this nearly did me in. My head was roaring and the world was closing in,
becoming a fuzzy gray tunnel.
He didn't try to kiss me. Did I want him to? No, simply because it didn't
occur to me that he might. Nothing was occurring to me at that moment, no
thoughts, no wants, nothing except sensory overload. My winter coat
insulated me from the feel of his body against mine and no doubt saved me
from a complete meltdown.
A few seconds later, an eternity later, a split second later, I couldn't
begin to guess how long, his arms relaxed. He breathed my name as he pulled
away. “Tess,” he said and his lips brushed my cheek and then he was turning
away. I swayed unsteadily, wondering if I had imagined the whisper, the
touch of his lips. Brenda caught me, grabbing my arms and steadying me. I
forced myself to take a breath and the roaring grayness receded.
Paul had turned to smile at Sandy. “You must be Sandy,” he said. “Ringo
sent you this,” and he gave her a definite kiss on the cheek. Before she
could recover, he turned to Brenda. “Tess told me so much about you two, I
feel like I know you already. Hello, Brenda.”
“Hello, Paul,” Brenda responded and went right on. “So you are the one,”
she said in an accusatory tone. Good old dependable Brenda could hold me
upright, meet Paul McCartney, and make a pointed comment all at the same
time.
Paul didn't answer, just looked at her unsure of what to say. I was beyond
speech but not numb. No, if I had been numb I wouldn't have been feeling
the ghost of a kiss on my cheek or the lingering sensation of his arms
around me. Paul looked at me and I don't know what would have happened
next, what the hell I could have said, even if I could have gotten any
words out at all, but from the crowd behind me I heard a girl's voice
saying on a note of rising hysteria, “It IS him! Oh my God! Carol, it's
him!” That snapped me back to what was going to have to pass for normal
function. I looked around and saw people were staring, pointing, moving in
on us as the sound level increased.
The two anonymous security men with Paul moved quickly, grabbing Paul's arm
and pulled him behind the only sturdy barrier available, the ticket
counter. The ticket agent, phone in hand, stared at him open-mouthed. The
other agent, a man, grabbed the phone from her hand and yelled into it,
“Where the hell is security?”
The shuttle cart and two security men arrived instantly as if teleported in
response to the agent's panic call. There was a bit of confusion in sorting
out who was supposed to be with Paul. Airport security kept trying to keep
Sandy, Brenda, and me away from Paul, assuming we were fans. Paul's
security people, New Yorkers by their accents, kept hauling us back and the
airport security pulled us away. Paul was laughingly protesting, “No, that
one's with me too!” Eventually, it was sorted out and we were hustled onto
two of their little carts, and I ended up sitting next to Paul.
As we pulled away from the gate, I looked at him and finally spoke. “John
did this?” I asked although it was less a question than an accusation.
He nodded, studying my face as he reached into the inside breast pocket of
his coat and handed me an envelope. “He sent you this,” he said.
I took it from him, not seeing the envelope at all, just seeing Paul's
hand, remembering his touch. That left me momentarily incapacitated again
and I sat there frozen for several thudding heartbeats before I even
thought about reading the letter. As it occurred to me to do so, we turned
into a side hallway and were delivered to a private waiting room. The
airport security people asked for Paul's luggage claim tickets and he got
them out and handed them over. A couple of stewardesses came in and the
usual exchange of fan meets star was going on.
I moved across the room and watched, thankful for the interlude in which to
pull myself together to think, not that I was having much luck at that.
While half my mind was singing “He's here! He wants me back!” The other
half was a terrified mess of “Don't jump to conclusions,” “Don't get your
hopes up,” “Be careful. You can't go through that again.”
Brenda and Sandy stood by, uncertain of what was going on, watching me
because they knew I was close to falling apart. They kept asking if I was
OK. I wasn't, and at that moment, I didn't think I was going to get out of
the airport without crying, fainting, throwing up, or throwing myself into
his arms, or all of the above. Somewhere along the line, I realized I still
had the letter from John in my hand. I tried to open it, but I was shaking
so badly I couldn't. Ever practical Brenda took it out of my hands, opened
the envelope, handed me the paper and I sat down to read it.
Direst Theresa,
I am sending to you a yum genitalman of my accountainace to esquire as
to the position of Prince Charming. He be a seamly lad with a tootly
good talent for the musical hearts. His family is well known among me
and I can azure (a shade he wares so well) you that his uprearing has
been egg salad preparation for the position even if his upfronting
leaves desire.
Unfortoon-happenstancilly, he has in recent years fallen in with a
rather bad lot of mucky roods, but he has risen above that mush as did
the Lord are save yours, amen, and shown himself to be made of sterner
stuffing and kidney pie. It is my considerable opium that he is well
suited to meet your knees. As you know, I find the role of Prince to be
ill fitted to the suit of my character. It is with no small amount of
humbly sighing sad that I therefore (or five) nominate this upstooding,
hard workful, obnoxiously good-natured young man with a sneaky
upper-cut to this position and all those of the Campbellsouptra.
Love always, Winston
P.S
Thomas Hardy's Tess was too trusting. I believe mine may not have
trusted enough. Talk to him, Tess. He loves you better than I can.
It took a while to decipher the message as I read it, hearing John's voice,
smiling at the take-off on British propriety done a la Lennon. When I got
to the end, I stopped smiling. It hit me then that John was saying goodbye.
As I had already guessed, he had never planned to come. What I had thought
I had heard in his voice on the phone was not a suggestion of something
more between us but simply that he cared and wanted me to be happy. There
was an ache deep inside as I read the last line. I sank onto a chair and
the page in front of me was blurred by tears. “Goodbye, John,” said a small
sad voice in my heart. The tears stayed unshed. The last thing John meant
to do was make me cry.
I calmed down, and as I read it over again I wanted to strangle John. What
the hell was this all about? He knew damn well I had no immunity to Paul.
How could he let him show up here? No, it was more than just letting him
come. He had planned this! This note was not just something he had given
Paul when he found out Paul was planning to come. John had set this up.
There was no business meeting bringing him back to the States. That
insistence in his voice wasn't a need to see me, it was just a way to get
me to agree to let him visit me so he could send Paul instead. Why? Dammit,
John, why?
I looked up to see Paul's security men trying to herd the stewardesses out
the door only to have another group of airline personnel invite themselves
in. His men looked at Paul, uncertain whether to get forceful about keeping
them out.
In turn, Paul looked over at me and I had the distinct feeling that he
would have thrown them out promptly with a look from me, but I needed time
to think. I turned away.
Brenda and Sandy asked again if I was all right and I finally managed to
answer them. “Yeah. I am not going to faint. You can put that away,
Brenda.” Brenda had the smelling salts in her hand, ready and eager to snap
the capsule open and wave the ammonia under my nose.
“So what is going on?” Sandy asked, probably for the hundredth time.
I handed her John's note. “Here, this explains it all,” I said with a
laugh. They snatched it eagerly, not realizing it would raise more
questions than it answered, and I got up and went to stand by the window.
There was nothing out there but a colorless, darkening winter evening on a
gray airport runway, but I wasn't looking at the view anyway. I leaned my
forehead against the cold glass as if the cold could somehow shock my brain
back to thinking. It seemed to help.
He was here because he wanted me back, that was clear. There was absolutely
no other reason for him to come. John said to talk to him and I could
hardly refuse to do that. But trust him? I hadn't recovered from the last
time I trusted him.
You know that little voice of your subconscious that whispers warnings to
you? Mine was using a megaphone and was bawling orders; “Don't let him
close. You'll fall apart if he touches you.” I listened to that voice and
decided I would talk to him but I wouldn't let him touch me. That was as
far as I could think or plan at that point.
I was only vaguely aware of Brenda and Sandy talking next to me, but I
heard Sandy say in awed tones, “He is so gorgeous! He really looks like a
Beatle! Brenda, we are meeting a Beatle!” That struck me as so odd it
caught my attention.
I turned to look at her, bewildered by her response. “You met John!” I
said.
“Oh, yeah, but John was John. He didn't look like a Beatle. Look at Paul!”
I turned the rest of the way around. Paul was quietly signing autographs,
shaking hands, talking to the handful of people who had gotten into the
room. There was nothing unusual there, at least nothing Sandy could be
aware of. She couldn't know that Paul's lack of a smile and enthusiasm for
what he was doing was not like him at all.
“It looks like something we should be seeing on TV,” Brenda agreed. “Not
like when we were sneaking John out of here.”
That was true. Paul was being greeted by people who had the connections to
get in. It looked like one of a hundred film clips of the Beatles arriving
somewhere, surrounded by fawning adults while the young fans were held back
behind barriers.
“No, it’s the clothes,” Sandy said. “John just wore ordinary clothes but
Paul looks like they do on TV or in pictures.”
I took another look and realized she was right. He was wearing a gray-blue
Harris tweed jacket with a light blue dress shirt with a tie, perfectly
tailored dark trousers and the classic Beatle Boots with Cuban heels. I
hadn't seen him dressed up since the day we left for England, and that was
just a sports coat tossed on briefly. This man before me was the Paul
McCartney from Hard Days Night, the Paul McCartney who posed for photos,
the Paul McCartney who received an MBE from the Queen. The Beatle. John in
his turtleneck and sports coat had come close, but this was one of Brian
Epstein's Beatles.
As if I wasn't feeling confused and disoriented enough.
Paul glanced up and saw me looking at him. He said something to one of his
men and they promptly began easing the airline people out the door.
Politely but firmly and efficiently the room was cleared. After a brief
exchange between Paul and his men, the men stepped out of the room and
closed the door behind them.
There was an awkward silence.
“Someone needs to go bring the car around,” Brenda said.
In my shell-shocked state, it hadn't occurred to me that Paul was going to
come with us. I hadn't thought beyond the moment and it made my mind reel,
ricocheting from exhilaration to horror and back again.
“Should I go get it or do you want to?” Brenda asked when I didn't answer.
I looked at her blankly, the question not registering.
Without a word, Brenda reached out a hand to me. “Give me your keys,” she
said. “I'll go.” She looked at me uncertainly. “Do you want Sandy to go
with me?”
That not only registered but was quickly translated to its ultimate
meaning; “Do you want to be alone with him?”
Alone with him? The thought brought another scramble of opposing thoughts.
“Yes,” I finally said.
My subconscious gasped in horror. My conscious mind was a little horrified
too, but I had to find out what was going on and I was certain I didn't
want witnesses.
Sandy looked as if she were about to protest, but Brenda said, “Let's give
them a few minutes alone. I think they need it.” Sandy agreed, and from the
look on Paul's face, he most certainly did too. Together my friends slipped
out the door, shutting it in the face of the people gathering outside. We
were alone.
He stood there, across the room from me, looking at me as if unsure of how
to proceed. One look at his face, the dark eyes that I knew up close
weren't just brown at all, and the Beatle was gone and I was looking at
Paul. Or maybe it was the trousers, cut to fit just right. Snug but not
tight. God, I knew that body so well. How he moved, how he felt moving
against me. All I could think was that I wanted to touch him, all I could
hear was “Don't let him touch you!” He moved towards me and I stepped
aside, putting a sofa between us. He stopped.
“Why are you here?” I asked, barely managing to get the words out.
“We need to talk.”
“You made it pretty clear – ” I had to stop. Tears were already stinging my
eyes, and my voice was choked off. I took a deep shuddering breath and
somehow managed to say it. Quavery, a little squeaky, but I got the words
out. “You told me on the phone what you think of me. I don't think there is
much else for you to say.”
“Oh, Christ, Tess. I am dead sorry about that. I need to explain. I – ”
“I am not sure I want to listen!” I cut in and I was surprised to hear the
anger in my voice. It was amazing how angry words I didn't plan to say came
out easier than the things I wanted to say.
He didn't look surprised, he looked miserable. He shoved his hands in his
pockets and looked down at the floor. After a bit he looked up at me and
said softly, “So shall I get back on the next plane to London or will you
let me stay to talk?”
I didn't believe for a moment he would leave that easily, not Paul. I
didn't really want him to anyway. The anger was gone as fast as it had
come. “We'll talk,” I said, the tears spilling over. After another pause to
get my voice to work and I went on, “John says to trust you, but…. ”
I wasn't ready for this after all. I never should have let the others
leave. I knew why he was here. Why after all this time, and why after that
phone call I had no idea, but it was clear he was going to say and do
whatever it took to get me back. I felt ambushed. The defenses I had
readied the day I left England had long since been abandoned. I needed time
to think, time to go over every way he had lied, every way he had hurt me.
I needed time to reinforce those defense barriers. My mind frantically
searched for an excuse.
“We can't talk here. Not now.”
He nodded in agreement.
Silence.
We stood there awkwardly. The shock of seeing him was wearing off and with
it the urge to throw myself into his arms. That urge was far from gone, but
it was now under the control of what was passing for rational thought.
There was a knock on the door and, grateful for the interruption, I went to
open it in spite of Paul's, “No, ignore them.”
A pilot in uniform and an important looking man in a suit wanted to talk to
Paul. The security person behind him was looking past me at Paul and
holding his hands up in a gesture that said “Sorry!” I knew Paul wouldn't
appreciate it, but I let the men in. I simply couldn't handle being alone
with him. If we did start to talk about what happened I would fall apart
and when we left this room I would be a sobbing, miserable wreck. I didn't
want to do this in a public place.
Paul put on his smile, signed autographs for one of them, and chatted
politely with them while I retreated across the room and watched, mind
spinning and seeing only Paul. I could not believe I was standing here,
hearing his voice, seeing that smile, and, as always, feeling that magnetic
physical presence, and had not fallen completely apart. Maybe it was
because I had rehearsed this moment over and over the first few days after
I got back from England. If he came after me I had to be strong, had to
hear him out, listen to him say that she didn't mean anything to him, she
was just another bird. I had to listen to the excuses: He didn't want to
hurt her, didn't know how to tell her about us, didn't think I was serious
until that week in Scotland and he had already promised to take her to the
big event at the theater. Then I would have to listen to him swear that he
loved me, and probably even swear it would never happen again. Through it
all, I would have to listen with my head and not my heart, and then tell
him to leave. The role I was to play didn't have many speaking lines, so it
came back, rusty but remembered.
Or maybe I was holding together because this was three and a half months
later. In some ways, I was stronger. I had cried all the tears I possibly
could. I had gotten on with my life. Even if I hadn't exactly found someone
new, I had found someone ... intermediary. I knew I could go on without
Paul.
Oh, but the flip side of that was simple. It was three and a half months
later and if the feeling in my pounding heart meant anything, I still loved
him. If the fact that I wanted to feel his arms around me again, hear his
heart beat, listen to his voice meant anything, I still loved him. If the
fact that I wanted to hear everything he had to say, wanted to believe him,
wanted to walk beside him again, laugh with him, be with him, stay with
him, meant anything, then, yes, I still loved him.
Every instinct of self-preservation I had was fighting back though. No
matter what I felt, I had learned a hard, painful lesson. He was not safe.
He was here and that proved he cared, but he still wasn't safe to love, to
trust, to believe in a happy ever after with. I was not going to invest
years like Jane had because it would end the same way. So I had to protect
myself. We would talk, I would explain that love wasn't enough, that we
were oceans apart in what we thought love was all about. Then I would tell
him to leave, just close my ears and my heart to his words and tell him to
leave. That was going to be so very, very hard and I didn't know if I could
do it.
When Paul was finally able to shut the door on the airline people, he
turned to look at me. I wasn't ready to play out the first scene, but that
didn't matter – He hadn't read the script. He was supposed to talk to me
from a safe distance but instead, he walked towards me, reached out to me.
I put my hands up, holding him away, but to do so I had to touch him. I
started to cry. He stopped and took a step back.
“Rules,” I finally managed to say. “We have to have some rules here!”
“All right,” he said, and his words weren't coming much easier than mine.
“I don't want you to touch me.”
“Tess – ”
“If I let you touch me and then you leave, I can't go through that again.”
“I didn't leave, Tess,” he reminded me. His voice was so full of emotion,
it cut right through me. It wasn't just the bitter pain in his words, there
was something else I couldn't quite put my finger on. It startled me enough
to make me look at him, look in his eyes, something that I didn't want to
do, was afraid to do. I would drown there. Willingly.
I couldn't read it in his eyes, either. He was studying me, evaluating my
response to him as he had done when he got off the plane and again when he
handed over the letter from John. What else did he need to know? Was he
trying to see if he had a chance with me? Hell, I had blown any possibility
of pretending I didn't still care. There was no point in pretending I
didn't, but that didn't mean I was going to let him back into my life.
“I know,” I finally responded. “but I had to leave, and this will hurt just
as bad. So, please... "
“I won't touch you. I couldn't go through that again either, but I don't
plan on leaving. We are going to talk and straighten things out between
us.”
That was McCartney determination, confidence, optimism at its finest. Well,
he was right. We would straighten things out, but if he thought I would
give him another chance – and why would he be here if that was not his
goal? – he was wrong. Please God, let him be wrong. Let me be strong enough
to save myself from round two of loving Paul.
Another knock sounded at the door. Paul looked as if he had no intention of
opening it, but a man was saying that he had the luggage and we could leave
now. I ducked into the little bathroom and Paul went to the door.
As I wiped the smeared mascara from my face I thought “If I had a dime for
every time I have seen this face in the mirror because of him!”
I came out of the bathroom and Paul's security men were waiting along with
airport security and the shuttle carts and Paul's luggage. I think that is
when it hit me that packing six people and that luggage into my Ford Falcon
was not going to work, not with the bag of sand and box of winter survival
gear already in the trunk. I turned to one of the security men. “Do you
have a car? We won't all fit in mine.”
Rather than answer me, he turned to Paul. “What's it gonna be, boss?”
“I am staying,” Paul said.
The guy nodded and said to me, “We were just along for the ride. He is all
yours now.”
With that he took my arm and moved me into my seat on the shuttle and
before I could sort out what was going on, we were cruising through the
terminal. Heads swiveled. A couple of girls screamed and by the time we got
to the doors, there was a group of people trying desperately to keep up
with us.
“You aren't keeping the security?” I asked Paul.
“John said I won't need it. Mal has someone lined up here to accompany me
back to London. I've a number to call.”
Brenda and Sandy were waiting and quickly stowed away what luggage would
fit in the trunk and the rest in the backseat while security blocked people
at the doors. Two things hit me then. First was the fact that along with a
suitcase, a garment bag, and a carry-on bag, his luggage included a guitar
case. He was planning to stay a while, confident I would take him back. Was
that arrogance on his part or simply that he loved me so much he was
determined that it would happen?
The battle between anger with him and a hope I didn't want to feel ended
abruptly as the next thing hit me. We were not just taking Paul with us,
getting him out of the airport. He was coming home with me, coming to stay
with us just as John had planned to. That sounded like a really, really bad
idea. Just the thought of him in my apartment was somehow too much, too
symbolic of how deep into my life this brief encounter was going bring him.
I didn't want him there. It was going to be hell when he left and my only
defense was to keep him as distant as possible. If he came to the
apartment, I would have to live with memories of him being there. No, I
would take Brenda and Sandy home, then drive him to a hotel somewhere. We
would talk, I would tell him I didn't want to try again, and I would leave
him there. As fast as that occurred to me, so did the picture of a hotel
room; Paul and I alone in a room full of nothing but a bed. Another bad
idea, but any public place was out. I had to take him back to the
apartment.
“Can you drive?” Brenda asked. Not “Do you want to?” but “Can you?” I
nodded. What I could not do is sit in the back seat with Paul. She gave me
the keys and got in the back seat with Sandy. Paul took a moment to shake
hands with his security men, then got in next to me and I pulled the car
away from the curb, thankful for the heavy airport traffic that swallowed
us up immediately.
I waited for Brenda to ask one of her pointed questions, like “Why are you
here?”, but she didn't and Sandy didn't say “Ooh, this is so romantic.” It
wasn't. It was wretchedly painful and she could see that on my face. She
just looked worried and confused. Brenda filled what was becoming an
awkward silence by talking about the weather. Before long everything was
fine. Paul was good at putting people at ease. He and Sandy and Brenda were
talking away and I felt like the world had just gone crazy. We were
cruising down the freeway making small talk about wind chill factor, the
number of shopping days until Christmas, and how salt rusts out cars, while
the man who had torn my heart out was close enough to reach out and touch.
Kiss. Slap. Whatever.
While they talked, I forced myself to concentrate on driving. My few
contributions to the conversation were monosyllables and I refused to allow
myself to so much as glance over at him. In spite of that, I could feel him
looking at me, feel him wanting to reach over and take my hand in his.
Worse, I wanted him to do it. I wanted to just pull the car over, throw
myself into his arms, pound on his chest and ask him “Why? Why are you
here? Why after all this time? Dammit, why now when I am finally getting
over you? Why, oh why, did you that to me?”
That brought me back to that moment outside the Royal Theatre and the
moment I saw him with her. That image helped. I spent the rest of the trip
arming and fortifying myself with a list of the crimes he had committed. He
had lied to me with his words and his actions, cheated on her and on me,
taken my emotional virginity as well as the physical, made promises and not
kept them, accused me of being a gold digger, made a fool out of me, and
shattered my confidence in ever being able to recognize love. Now he
thought he could walk back into my life and talk me into forgiving him?
Conceited son of a bitch! Three months ago I might have caved in, but not
now. No way was I going to let him give me some cock and bull story about
finally realizing how much I meant to him. Too little too late!
Anger is strengthening. My knuckles were white and my arms hurting from the
death grip I had on the steering wheel. Luckily no other driver cut me off
or drifted into my lane. I probably would have rammed him. Unfortunately,
the adrenaline rush and anger refueling was minimal armor against the sound
of his voice as he talked to my roommates, against his laugh, the scent of
his aftershave, cigarettes, the sight of him. As we reached my
neighborhood, I found that I felt only marginally stronger. Even though I
had loaded my guns, I wasn't sure it was going to be enough. The right
words, the right touch, and I wouldn't be able to pull the trigger and send
him home. The shoot-out at this Not OK At All Corral was going to be a
bloodbath and I wasn't going to get out of it without a lot of bullet holes
to tend to.
We had to stop at a shopping center to pick up Brenda's dress at the dry
cleaners and film for the camera. Paul wanted to go in with us. He had
never been in an American store. I protested, but unlike John, Paul wasn't
afraid of being recognized. John hated it when girls made a scene, and
almost cringed if they touched him while Paul would have been miffed if no
one recognized him. He pointed out that there was no way a mob was going to
form in the few minutes we were in the store. “Just like shopping in
London, Tess,” he said. “Get in an' out before anyone cracks on and we have
ta leg it.”
Good grief, scouse on top of gorgeous.
Well, anyway, that would be better than sitting in the car with him while
Brenda and Sandy went in. I had managed to pretty much avoid talking to him
and even looking at him so far. If they left us alone I knew he would give
me no choice and there was no way we would finish this in the few minutes
we would have. Paul hadn't come all this way to give in the minute I said
“no.” Paul never gave in that easily.
So we all headed into the drug store, ready to make a run for it if
necessary. The stores were crammed with Christmas schlock and Paul laughed
at the Christmas stockings for pets, snowmen salt and pepper shakers, and
other great gifts. Apparently, the British didn't get quite so carried away
at Christmas time.
Few of the shoppers were teenagers, and everyone was in a hurry so, except
for a few puzzled stares (“Where have I seen him before?”), no one noticed
us except the checkout clerk. She did a double take, stuttered, “What are
you doing here?” and turned bright red when she realized how stupid that
sounded.
“Just visiting,” Paul said cheerfully. Then he noticed the little packets
of mistletoe on a rack. “I might well need one of these,” he laughed. Sandy
reached over and took one off the rack and put it on the counter with our
purchases. As we left the store, she handed it to Paul, grinning at me.
“If you don't, I will!” she threatened me.
Sandy, Paul and I went to the bakery while Brenda went into the dry
cleaners to get her dress and soon we were all piling back into my car.
“Wait until you see Terry's dress, Paul,” Sandy was chattering. “She looks
great in it. It's red – ”
“I can't go to the dance, Sandy!” I said, surprised she even thought I
would.
“Why?” she asked. “It's your party! You have to go! Everyone will want to
meet Paul.”
“No!” I wasn't going to be in any shape for a party after we talked. Brenda
and Sandy would go and Paul and I would stay at the apartment and get it
over with and then I would send him to a hotel. Sandy looked so
disappointed but I just let it go. When she found out he was leaving on the
first plane out in the morning, she would understand.
While I made my plans, Sandy told Paul all about our annual Christmas party
and how this was the last one since we were graduating in the spring. Back
at the apartment, I got out and opened the trunk to get the rest of Paul's
luggage out. He came around the car and said quietly, “Tess, I can go to a
hotel if you'd rather. You go to your dance and we can talk tomorrow.”
A reprieve from talking, from crying, from trying to be strong and from
having him stay at the apartment! The thought of spending a night with him
sleeping only a couple of yards away was unbearable. Knowing he was in the
same town would be bad enough. I closed the trunk, but Brenda had
overheard.
“What about security? You can't go to a hotel alone.”
She was right. I opened the trunk.
“They are already on their way back to New York. They had reservations
made,” Paul said, “but I've someone here in Minneapolis I am to call if I
need security people. They may not be able to get anyone until morning, but
I'll be fine until then.”
I closed the trunk.
“You can't leave him sitting in a hotel all evening!” Sandy said to me.
Turning to Paul, she went on, sounding like a heartbroken four-year-old.
“Oh, please come with us! You have to! I won't have any fun at all knowing
you're sitting there all alone. None of us will!”
Paul looked at me. Sandy was right about one thing. I was not going to
enjoy the party. I wasn't ready to talk to him, but I was kidding myself if
I thought putting it off was going to make me stronger. Every look at him
was taking its toll, but going to the dance with him? Smiling, making small
talk, all the while thinking about what he had done to me, been to me, and
about the discussion we were putting off? Having all my friends bug-eyed
with wondering what was going on? No, taking him to the dance was a crazy
idea.
Sandy didn't give up though. She flipped fro ma pleading four-year-old to
Scarlet O'Hara without a pause. “Well, if Terry won't invite you, I will.
I'll break my date and ask you to take me – and we have the mistletoe!”
I looked at her, open-mouthed with surprise, dismay, irritation. Brenda
said, “Sandy!” in shock and reprimand.
Sandy just said defensively, “I had to do something, Bren. He came all this
way and she won't even look at him! We can't let her ship him off to a
hotel!”
Paul ducked his head to hide a big grin as Brenda swatted Sandy with a bag
of burger buns. “That's a dirty trick,” she said to her, “but I am glad you
thought of it!”
“So will you come, Paul?” Sandy asked.
He looked at me and, still smiling at Sandy's wiles, asked with a hint of
wiles of his own, “Do you have a date for the dance?”
“He stood me up,” I said angrily.
“He sent me.”
“I'll get him for that!”
We all laughed a little at that, and it helped, but it was still a
standoff.
“You don't really want to go to this dance, do you?” I asked him, a little
surprised he would even consider it.
“No more than you want to sit down and talk to me, apparently,” he said,
very serious now. “Compromise? We go to the dance for a bit, then talk?”
Brenda and Sandy, no doubt ecstatic about having a second Beatle to show
off to our friends, were emphatically in favor of that idea. I was
outnumbered and worse, I felt a sense of relief at a reprieve from
confronting him. I knew I would be miserable at the party, knew it was only
putting off the inevitable. Worse, I knew I was agreeing because no matter
how painful, how pointless, how masochistic, I wanted to spend a little
time with him before I had to tell him to leave.
I signaled capitulation by reopening the trunk, he hauled his luggage out,
and we went into the house and up to our apartment. Inside, Brenda started
to open the door to the closet in the hall by the front door to hang up the
garment bag she had carried in. That was where John had hung his clothes
when he visited, but I stopped her. Agreeing to go to the dance had been
crazy and I wasn't going to do anything else to give him the impression
that he had a chance with me. I took the garment bag from her and put it on
one of the coat hooks on the back of the front door and set the carry-on
bag I was holding on the floor next to the door. I couldn't have made it
more obvious that Paul's visit was going to be very short.
Brenda looked startled, Sandy looked dismayed and Paul's look damn near
killed me. He had seen Sandy and Brenda’s reactions and didn’t need anyone
to explain that he had just been symbolically rejected. His famous
composure was blown. He looked stunned, his face fell, and he looked as
though I had slapped him. His face flushed a little and he turned away from
us, trying to hide his feelings as he put his guitar case next to the
others. I wanted to apologize and say, “I'm sorry! I know what you want, I
know you think you love me, but I can't do this!” Instead, I mumbled
something about it getting late and we had to get ready for the dance, and
pushed past them and escaped to the kitchen.
It was well past five and we needed to get down to the dance studio before
seven to get the tables set up and other last-minute things. Three females
and one bathroom meant we had to get moving. We organized shower time based
on the time needed to fix hair so Brenda went first, then Sandy, then me.
While Brenda showered – limited to three minutes so there would be hot
water left for me – Sandy and I packed up an assortment of the cookies we
had been baking for weeks. I fixed Paul some tea and he sampled cookies,
chatting with Sandy about Christmas food traditions.
I was careful not to get too close, not to touch him, not to look into his
eyes, but I couldn't avoid the sound of his voice, his laugh. Even his
laugh hurt. How many times had we dissolved into laughter together? Silly
giggles, surprised guffaws, belly laughs. Those memories seemed impossible
now. How could we have been so happy? I couldn't stop myself from looking
at him, wondering how it could have gone so bad, and every time I sneaked a
look at him, he was looking at me. My heart raced.
With her hair done up in monster curlers, Brenda came out to the kitchen to
sit under the hairdryer and do her nails. Sandy zipped off to take her
shower. I was telling Paul about the Christmas party, where and who, when
Carol's little girl came up to bring us the keys to the studio. Her eyes
got big at the sight of all the cookies. Brenda asked if she had dinner
yet, and when she said she had, we let her join us for cookies and milk.
She was a very shy little girl, but after Paul told her he had a little
sister named Ruth who was just a few years younger than her and he was
getting her a puppy for Christmas, she started talking to him. He managed
to coax her Christmas list out of her. He didn't know what half the toys
she listed were, but he got her to explain them to him. He was completely
at ease with her, and she opened up and talked excitedly to him.
While they talked, I sat back and tried to keep my eyes off of him so my
brain could work. I was still at a loss as to why John had helped him. John
had suggested several times early on that I should talk to Paul, but even
if he still felt I hadn't given Paul a fair chance to explain, the phone
call from Paul to California should have made it clear there was no point
in talking. What could Paul have possibly said to him that made John want
to help him? “Trust him,” John's note said. “He loves you.” Had Paul
insisted to John that he did love me, that the other girl was just a bird
he slept with? John would buy that. He had no problems separating love and
sex. But dammit, John knew I didn't feel that way! Or did he think that in
light of what went on between us, I was a little more open-minded now? A
little more likely to listen to male reasoning?
By the time Carol's little girl left, I was no closer to understanding what
was going on, but one thing was becoming clear. Paul had won Brenda over
too. The way she was smiling at him, I knew that whatever lecture she had
been preparing for the black heart who had hurt me would never be
delivered. Sandy had sold out for a cute face and British accent, Brenda
for a man who so obviously liked kids. I was on my own.
When Sandy came out to take her turn under the dryer, I went to my room for
my bathrobe and escaped into the bathroom to take my shower. By that point,
I knew my great plan wasn't working. He didn't have to touch me, kiss me,
or anything else I was going to be a basket case again when he left. Three
minutes was not nearly long enough for the crying jag I felt coming on, so
I simply refused to give in to it. I would have plenty of time for that
when he was gone. I put on the bathrobe and dried my hair. I did my makeup,
intentionally going easy on mascara figuring it was a lost cause anyway.
When I came out of the bathroom, Paul was in the living room watching TV.
Grinning, he explained that Brenda and Sandy had kicked him out of the
kitchen so they could do their hair without his comments. He asked if he
could use the bathroom for a quick shave. The minute he closed the door,
Brenda and Sandy pulled me into their bedroom and bombarded me with
questions. How could I have walked away from that? Did I still love him?
What happened anyway?
There was no reason not to tell them. The “who” was obvious now, but
explaining “why” was hard to do. I tried to tell them, but talking about
falling in love with him was not the part I wanted to remember just now and
telling about his two-timing lies still felt like a betrayal of him. I
finally just said, “I fell in love with him, and I thought he loved me. He
did, I guess, or he wouldn't be here.” I sighed. “Surprise, Sandy. Love
isn't enough. Not if you don't have the same understanding of what love
means.”
“So what are you going to do?” Brenda asked gently, seeming to take that
explanation better than Sandy who just looked bewildered.
“Talk to him, tell him it isn't enough.”
“He loves you enough to be as hurt as you were,” she said firmly and I
looked at her in surprise.
“You didn't see his face while he hugged you at the airport,” she
explained. “He looked like he never wanted to let go.”
I couldn't respond to her. There was a hard, painful lump in my throat.
“We need to get moving. It is almost seven,” Sandy said. “Maybe we should
go over and get things set up. You could stay here and talk to him first.
You can come over later as soon as you make up.”
Her words hit me as hysterically funny. We were supposed to kiss and make
up as though we'd had a little lover's spat over a careless word or
imagined slight! I started to laugh and I could feel hysteria behind the
laughter. I choked back the laughter and the tears and said, “We won't be
in a party mood after we talk. I spent a fortune on my dress and I'm going
to the dance. After all, it's my party.” That undid me. Laughing a little
hysterically I finished the line, “And I'll cry if I want to!”
I left them no doubt worrying about my tenuous hold on sanity and went to
my room to finish dressing. Alone in my room, I got my dress out of the
closet, remembering how I had chosen it with John in mind. If I'd had
anything else suitable to wear, I would have, but the only other
possibility was the black dress Paul had bought for me in London. That
would have been somehow fitting but it was folded up and shoved into the
box in my closet with a lot of other memories I didn't dare look at right
now.
I picked up the black lace underwear, thought of the evening I had
anticipated with John, and I was on the verge of tears again, confused
tears this time. I felt real regret over not having tonight with John,
anger over what seemed like his betrayal of me, love for him for caring
enough to set this up. I shoved the sexy black bra and panties to the back
of the dresser drawer and blindly grabbed whatever was on top only to
discover that my dress was too low cut for an everyday bra. Back to black.
As I went through the motions of dressing as I went over the plan; Thirty
minutes at the dance, then bring him back here, hear him out, listen to his
apology, tell him why it wouldn't work, and that he would have to leave.
I'd call a cab and send him to a motel, I would cry myself to sleep, and he
would catch a plane in the morning.
I put on earrings and untangled the fine chain of the necklace I planned to
wear. I couldn't get the tiny clasp done myself, so I went to get help.
Paul was alone in the living room. He was wearing a dark gray suit with a
light blue turtleneck. His jacket was the latest look, long, and tapered
with a stand-up collar. He was looking great, smelling good, and giving me
a bad case of the shakes.
He looked up at me and said, “You look fantastic.”
When he got up and moved toward me, I dropped the necklace. He picked it up
and, without saying anything, stepped behind me and put it around my neck.
I lifted my hair so he could fasten it. His fingers barely brushed my neck
as he did, but I felt it all the way to my knees. I crossed my arms in
front of me, gripping my upper arms to hold myself together. When I didn't
move away, Paul covered my hands with his. That simple touch felt like the
most intimate embrace. I was right about the mascara. Tears were stinging
my eyes.
“How long do we have to stay at the dance?” he asked.
“I don't know. I have to help set up. And we exchange funny gifts. It's a
tradition and I have to be there, and I really should stay and help clean
up after. Carol has students on Monday – ”
He knew stalling when he heard it. “You really don't want to talk to me, do
you?”
I just shook my head.
“We have to.”
“I know, but I was just finally—” I stopped. Up until the minute he stepped
off the plane, I would have said “Getting over you.” Right now that felt
like a gross misrepresentation of the facts. I sighed, letting that
sentence go unfinished and admitted the real reason I was delaying the
confrontation. “I'm scared. I know how this is going to end. I'm going to
wake up in tears again tomorrow morning.”
“No,” he said softly. “You are going to wake up in my arms.”
The image of that, the physical memory, flooded through me. I closed my
eyes and I was lying in a bed in a room that should have been boarded shut.
There was no dust, no cobwebs, just embers glowing red-hot in the fireplace
and me, curled up in a mountain of feather quilts, sleeping in Paul's arms.
I wasn't just seeing it, I was feeling it.
If the doorbell hadn't rung right then bringing Brenda and Sandy out of
their room, I would have turned around and fallen into his arms.
Paul moved away, Sandy opened the door. Mark was there and after kissing
Brenda and telling her how great she looked, he looked up. His face
registered surprise and amusement at seeing the wrong Beatle in our living
room. “I hope you like Black Tavern, Paul,” he said, holding up two
six-packs of John's brand of English beer. “or I am going to be one sick
boy in the morning!”
“John can drink me under the table, but I can give you a hand with those,”
Paul said. I introduced Mark to Paul, and we began the process of loading
up everything we needed to carry down the block to the studio. We put coats
on, picked up bags and boxes and headed out.
At the dance studio, we got busy moving tables into place, covering them
with paper tablecloths, setting up the food. I made sure the door to the
office – and telephone – was locked, and posted a sign on the door,
informing people that this was a “Closed Party, No Re-admittance if you
leave.” Brenda asked Paul if he still had the mistletoe, and he retrieved
it from his overcoat pocket. She and Mark were busy trying to attach it to
the light fixture over the middle of the dance floor, but Mark was more
interested in taking advantage of it than hanging it.
We were laughing at them when Chuck arrived, hauling in the first part of
his stereo system. This was his pride and joy. It was one of those
monstrously sized setups with woofers, tweeters, and other stuff the rest
of us, still dealing with record players, knew nothing about. He was
wrestling a speaker through the door, and Paul lent a hand. Chuck nearly
dropped his end of it when he looked up and saw who was helping him. Chuck
looked confused. Mark started laughing and said, “It's OK, Chuck. I don't
know what's going on either.”
“He just showed up at the airport instead of John,” Sandy said.
Brenda stepped in. “He is the reason she came back from England a total
wreck.” She was looking at Paul, not Chuck, and there was a note of
compassion in her voice as she said, “Now he's here and wants her back.”
“That's exactly what I want,” Paul said quietly and I was so glad he didn't
look at me as he said it.
“Ooooh,” said Sandy in a whisper. “This is so romantic.” You could almost
see little hearts dancing around her words like a cartoon image of true
romance. Brenda and Mark both burst out laughing at her and the rest of us
joined in.
“Let's get moving. We have got company coming,” Brenda said.
The guys went out to haul in the rest of the stereo equipment. The first of
our guests were arriving and I stayed in the doorway between the little
lobby and the big dance room, making certain everyone who came in was an
invited guest or their date. A carload of guys arrived and identified
themselves as some of Mark's friends from the U. of M., enlisted to even up
the boy/girl ratio. That was always a problem at nursing school parties
unless you planned ahead. A minute later, they found themselves shaking
hands with Paul McCartney. They were grinning like idiots and I overheard
one of them say to a friend, “Even if the girls turn out to be dogs, this
is fantastic!”
The guys went to work hooking up the stereo and four huge speakers. Sound
blared in short bursts as they tested the setup. Mark had a microphone to
play Dee-jay with and the whine of feedback was added. More people were
arriving. I greeted a group of classmates who were excitedly checking out
the potential. They had come stag to the party, knowing Mark was bringing
unattached males. The guys were at the front of the room, still working on
the stereo, having trouble with one of the speakers. Paul had his back to
us so they hadn't recognized him yet. One of the girls noticed him and
asked, “Who is that guy? The one next to Mark?”
“That,” Brenda said laughing, “is Terry's date.”
“Nice hair!” one of them said.
“Nice body!” said another and we all laughed. Paul leaned over the table to
reach around to adjust something on the stereo.
“Nice gluteus maximus!” said the third, and they dissolved in giggles.
The problem speaker blared to life and "Jingle Bell Rock" kicked off the
party. Paul turned around. My classmates had a collective heart attack.
“You can talk to him, but don't ask for autographs,” I said and escaped
back into the lobby before they could begin asking questions.
The room filled, Sandy took over door duty, and I went to rescue Paul from
a crowd of polite but overwhelming friends. I joined the group and reached
out and to take his hand, intending to lead him away, get him a drink,
something to eat, but when I touched his hand he looked at me, a little
surprised, and then squeezed my hand. I should have known better than to
touch him. We stood there talking with the others for several more minutes.
Well, he talked. I stood there in a blitzkrieg of emotions that made my
chest hurt, knowing I should pull my hand out of his and just unable to do
it.
My plan was falling apart. Oh, it was a solid plan and it would work. The
only flaw was that I didn't want to do it. I had to admit it: I wanted to
believe him. I wanted to listen to his excuses and see that there was no
real intent to lie, to hurt. All I could think was that, maybe, if he was
totally honest with me, it would be all right to give it another try. I
wasn't that narrow minded anymore. After John, I knew sex could be just for
fun, and I was pretty sure that Ringo and George had not been faithful to
Maureen and Pattie while on tour and it didn't seem to hurt their
relationships. There was something so unreal about the whole time on tour,
it was almost as if it didn't count. I could live with that. That wasn't
what Paul had done though. His wasn't an on-tour transgression. He was
seeing someone else and having a little fling with me. No, that wasn't
true. Whatever he and I had, it wasn't just a fling. He was here and that
proved it was more than that. I stopped, refusing to think any more because
it was a tangle of knots. I couldn't untangle it and it would have to wait
until I could confront him about it. That prospect made my stomach hurt.
A little later I excused us from the group and we went to get something to
eat. I got one of the English beers for him and we sat at one of the card
tables along the window. Somehow we managed to carry on a conversation
about school, the score for the movie. It was hard to find safe topics. He
asked if I was working a lot, and I told him about the money from Tony's
arrangements. He was impressed and happy for me. All I could see was the
page in the magazine that preceded my article, but I blotted it out. He
talked about progress on the album and that they would have a single out,
“Penny Lane” and “Strawberry Fields Forever”, whenever John made up his
mind about the final version of “Strawberry Fields Forever”.
In between the words were awkward pauses and moments when he looked at me,
a question in his eyes. I was sending him such mixed messages, all but
putting his luggage on the sidewalk one minute, then holding his hand as if
it were a lifeline the next. My ambivalence was leaking through so he was
as unsure about what I was going to do as I was.
People came up to talk and the music played.
The room was lit only by Christmas lights strung
around the room and the Christmas tree, and the mirrored reflections
glowed. Everyone was supercharged with excitement at having Paul there, and
it was a great party for everyone else.
The mistletoe made for
interesting dancing. Sandy pulled Paul out on the dance
floor, and I watched her trying to maneuver him to the center of the floor
under the mistletoe. He was laughing and holding back but he finally gave
in and let her collect her kiss.
I watched that laughing kiss and knew at that moment my plan was out the
window. I wanted that kiss for myself. It wasn't just the kiss. That was a
joking, nothing of a kiss. It was all of it, the smile on his face, the
teasing, the fun of being with him. I wanted him back. All my stalling and
refusing to talk to him until after the dance had backfired. My resolve to
send him packing was deteriorating fast.
Fresh from my psychiatric final exam, the thought occurred to me that maybe
that was exactly why I had stalled; to let his presence, his smile, his
eyes, his touch break down my intent to do what I saw as the sensible
thing. Sensible was out the window. The apologies and promises I had
steeled my heart against were all I wanted now. If he tried to explain, I
knew I would try to believe the excuses. If he said he was sorry, I would
accept the apology. If he promised me it wouldn't happen again, I would no
doubt give in and try again. It wasn't a change of heart. My heart had
known all along what it wanted. It just took time to over-rule common
sense.
Mark was playing DJ and had people lining up to try their best at the
"Limbo Rock."
I was anxious to leave right then, but Paul had taken an
interest in the dance contest. The Limbo must not have caught on in England
yet. I waited until the dance was over but before I could suggest we leave,
I lost him to a classmate who was bold enough to ask for a dance.
I went to Mark and searched through the records he had lined up to play.
“This one next,” I said, handing him “Unchained Melody.”
He looked at it, then at me, and said, “I've been afraid to play anything
slow. The girls will fight over Paul!”
“Not if I get to him first!”
I started towards Paul as the last song ended. When he saw me he smiled,
and when I said, “The next dance is a slow dance and it's mine,” he
grinned.
“Won't that be in violation of the rules?”
“My rules. I made them, I can break them.” I said smiling back at him. He
was looking at me as if afraid to believe it.
Mark announced, “This next song is by special request and is guaranteed to
make mistletoe obsolete! So guys, find the girl you want to hold tight and
the Righteous Brothers will put her in the mood!”
As the music started, he tentatively reached for me and I trembled as his
arm went around me.
"Oh my love, my darling, I've hungered for your touch a long lonely time.”
The words were so true but the next lines were blocked out by the pounding
of my heart, knowing what I was about to do. As I put one hand on his
shoulder and took his, the smile faded from his face and I could feel him
tense up, resisting the urge to pull me closer. I didn't resist. I closed
the few inches between us, leaning against him, sliding my arm around his
neck and putting my cheek to his. He stood frozen in my arms as if afraid
to believe what my body was telling him.
The dancers swayed around us, then his arm tightened around me and we began
to move with the music as the next aching words poured over us.
"I need your love.”
Four little words that said it all. I could feel his heart beating and I
slowly drowned in the feel of his body, the familiar scent of his
after-shave, his hair, the touch of his face against mine, the warmth of
his breath on my neck. It was everything I remembered, everything I had
cried for, everything I had searched for with other guys. I needed to love
and be loved, but for me, love was the man I was holding.
“Lonely rivers flow to the sea, to the sea, to the open arms of the sea ... "
I had gone to John's open arms, but as exciting and fulfilling and soothing
to my lonely heart as it was, it didn't compare. John was love, yes, but
more a warm place to be, a dear, loved, friend to cling to and enjoy. Being
held by Paul was total surrender. My heart's home.
“I'll be coming home, wait for me.”
Being in his arms felt like coming home, and I had been waiting so long.
The Righteous Brothers poured their hearts into the song, gentle caressing
notes and voices building to the passion of the repeated lines.
“I've hungered, hungered for your touch a long lonely time.”
We had wasted so much time. Tears of regret stung my eyes and I turned my
face into the warm comfort of his neck. He let go of my hand to put both
arms around me and I put my hand over his heart, feeling it hammering
against his ribs.
“Time goes by so slowly and time can do so much Are you still mine?
I need your love.
I need your love ... "
That did it. I was still his and I had no plan to send him away, not even a
plan to evaluate his excuses and see if I dared try again. I would. My
resolve went from ridiculously weak to not giving a damn whether he had any
excuses. He was here, he wanted me back, and he loved me. Love was enough
for now. Trust would come. He loved me and we would work it out. The song
ended with the gentle lines that soothed my heart.
“God speed your love to me.”
The music faded and I raised my head to look at him, seeing that look that
had haunted my dreams, that look of love and desire. He took my hand in
his. “Moonlight and roses,” he said as he held our hands together over my
heart, and kissed me, a warm gentle kiss that quickly became everything
else. It was a promise, an apology, a comfort, a need, a desperate passion.
When the kiss became too hungry to be satisfied with just more kisses, I
broke away and buried my face in his neck, breathing in the scent of his
skin as I struggled to regain control.
Somewhere a million miles away I heard one of the guys say, “How come you
never dance with me like that, honey?”
The laughter of a roomful of people dragged me back to reality. I released
the stranglehold I had on him as I felt my face turning red. He smiled at
me and gently wiped away the tears I hadn't even felt on my cheeks.
Marks' amplified voice was saying, “Didn't I tell you those Righteous
Brothers would get her in the mood? Now, let's pick up the pace with a
little Trash Men. The Bird is The Word! “Bird Dance Beat”!”
I was in no mood for The Bird, even if it was The Word. “Let's go home,” I
said, taking his hand and leading him away from the dancers.
“What about the giftie thingy?”
I slipped my arm around him in a sideways hug. He pulled me close, my head
against his chest and I said, “I think I already got my present.” As I
spoke those words I remembered John saying something about a present. The
conversation with him made sense now – Why he was glad I wasn't dating
anyone, why he said I wouldn't be at the dance long. A cold chill came over
me. I remembered laughing because I thought I knew what ‘present’ he was
referring to. I had planned to end this night having wild sex on the grand
piano with John. If I had searched the world over to find someone to screw
around with for the sole purpose of hurting Paul, I couldn't have done a
better job than selecting John.
I pulled away, shaken. I guess I had been so overwhelmed by the fact that
Paul was here, that he wanted me to give him another chance, that I had
forgotten about that aspect of the situation. What had John told him? He
knew I had been in California with John, but did John tell him it was
strictly sightseeing? He must have because something had changed Paul's
mind since that telephone call to California. The way he felt that day, he
never would have wanted me back.
“What's wrong?” Paul asked.
I tried to smile, but it couldn't have been convincing. “I am just really
confused. This has been a confusing day.”
As we headed for the door, I was very aware that people were watching,
nudging each other, whispering. It occurred to me that after that moment of
obvious surrender on the dance floor, my friends would probably think we
were going straight to bed. Maybe that would be the best way to do this, to
just forget the past and start over tonight. He wouldn't have to explain
his relationship with that girl and I wouldn't have to explain about John.
We put on our coats, went out into the cold and walked back to the
apartment in silence. My hand was in his pocket, holding his hand tightly.