Jim McCartney was a bit of a surprise to me. The only prepping I got from
Paul on what to expect was “Call him Mr. McCartney until he tells you
otherwise, don't say too much about John—he tolerates him but isn't too
keen on him—and be prepared for separate bedrooms. What we do elsewhere is
our concern and I can sneak into your room but Dad won't have it appear
that he approves of such goings-on.”
I expected Mr. McCartney to be in his early fifties at the oldest. I knew
he had remarried a woman with a six-year-old daughter. Paul had mentioned
somewhere along the line that his dad was retired, but he had also said he
had arthritis pretty bad. I also knew that Paul had bought him the house he
was now living in, a racehorse, a car, so I had assumed that his early
retirement was partly health and partly a matter of not having to work
anymore since his son was well off. I hadn't realized that he was forty
when Paul was born and was now in his mid-sixties. My parents were only in
their forties and it struck me that Jim was old enough to be my
grandfather.
As much a surprise as Mr. McCartney was, Mike was the one who shocked me. I
guess I had expected a lesser version of Paul, a shadow of his big brother.
He didn't look much like Paul and was nothing like him in personality
either. His sense of humor was more like John's than Paul's though a lot
kinder and generally cleaner than John's, he was a mixer, that one. He
teased Paul mercilessly and Paul bossed him around. Mike freely ignored him
and Paul just smiled at him with amused affection. Just when you thought
Mike was too much to take, out came his affectionate, sentimental side.
We arrived in mid-afternoon, (“No, love. I'll take you sightseeing some
other day. It's your turn to go meet the family!”) and by early evening
there was a steady parade of relatives and friends arriving. I wasn't sure
if this was the usual reaction to Paul's visits. That didn't seem likely
since they didn't seem unduly impressed with Paul. Lots of comments about
his still needing a haircut and so did his dog were made. From his elders,
we heard that “Penny Lane” was very nice, but that Strawberry thing!
Aunty Gin arrived. She blew into the house, with hugs for Mike and Angela
and then descended on Paul, scooping him into a bear hug that he returned
enthusiastically.
She wasn't even through hugging him when she demanded, “All right, Paulie.
Where is the girl?”
“Right here,” he said and pulled me over to stand in front of him, on
display. Introductions were made. Aunty Gin hugged me and managed to give
me head to toe scrutiny at the same time.
“She is lovely,” she told him, “and not one of those skinny little bits.”
I felt like a moose.
“She looks healthy! She'll stand the years.”
A young moose in her prime.
“Aunty Gin,” Paul chided. “Next you'll be checking her teeth!”
“Oh, I should think your father already did that, him being the horse
fancier!” Everyone laughed and Aunty Gin took my hands in hers. “Sorry,
Luv, but Paul has talked of nothing but you since the holidays. We were all
so eager to meet you.”
“He made you sound like Bridget Bardot and Florence Nightingale and Rebecca
of Sunnybrook farm all in one,” Mike informed me.
“She is,” Paul said as he put his arms around me. “You'll see.”
I was at a loss for words. I wanted to say “I think I act like Laura Petri
and look like Buddy,” but doubted they were familiar with American TV, so I
just stood there blushing.
“Here now, you are embarrassing the girl with your nonsense,” Mr. McCartney
intervened. “Gin, go help Angie in the kitchen if you would. She isn't used
to having the clan descend on her like this.”
“Certainly, and I'll just take Tess with me. No better place to get to know
a girl than over a kitchen sink.”
“I could argue that,” Mike said. Mike and Paul were snickering like
schoolboys and Jim was chastising them as Gin led me away. Gin was right,
though. As we put together trays of sandwiches and cookies, Gin, Angie and
Angela and I talked and got comfortable with each other. Mike's new bride
Angela was very shy. That answered the question of why Paul's gatebirds
didn't know who she was even though she was there most of the summer. She
never would have stopped to talk to them. She took a quiet moment to say
“Tess, I am sorry about what happened last summer. I never would have let
Paul take me if I had known what was going to happen.”
“Oh, Angela! That was all just a big mistake. You couldn't have known that
I would be there much less what stupid things I was thinking.”
She smiled. “ If ever I have reason to stay over at Paul's again, I'll be
more careful about where I leave my things lying about! A bathrobe and
slippers really are suspicious when they show up in a man's bath!”
Paul's stepmother, Angie, seemed nice but a little nervous and I realized
she was still adjusting to this crowd of relatively new in-laws herself. We
were laughing over the communication barrier of biscuits versus cookies and
dustbin versus trash can when Mike came after me.
“Tess, Paul sent me to rescue you from the clutches of Aunty Gin. Aunt
Millie is here.”
“This is not my idea of rescuing, Sir Lancelot,” I said as we headed
through the dining room to the living room. “If you want to rescue me,
sneak me out the back door to someplace where there are no more relatives!”
“Paul would have my skin. He wants to show you off.”
“I feel like the prize cow at the fair!”
“You haven't the udders,” he said with a grin. “Nice, but not prize winners
like Cousin Louise!”
I didn't recall a Cousin Louise by name, but by the physical description
knew right off who he was talking about. Prize winners indeed! I laughed
with him, happily accepting his teasing. In the couple hours we had been
here, Mike had been polite to me but a little distant. He was so outspoken
and such a cut up with everyone else that the fact that he was merely
polite to me felt like a bit of a cold shoulder. It was pretty obvious he
had his reservations about me. This bit of teasing was delivered with the
friendliest look I had gotten from him all day and I considered it a very
positive step forward.
There was no time for any response to Mike though. I was once again in the
clutches of the McCartney Clan. There was Aunt Millie, another Gin but a
little less overwhelming. Uncle Albert and cousin Ian and cousin Bett and
her husband Michael and more and more and more. Over the next couple of
hours, people continued to drop in adding old friends to the mob of
relatives.
Paul's off-hand comment in the car on the way up had been “I told Dad to
let people know we were coming and he's invited them to stop by this
evening. I thought we would be going up a day sooner and you'd have a day
to get to know Dad and Angie first but I guess you'll have to get them all
the same day.”
I expected a few people to stop in but there must have been fifty people in
the house and a small army of children! Paul was clearly happy to see the
turnout, even touched by it. He had told me that his fame made even family
treat him differently but it wasn’t the favors, a word about a job for a
friend, an appearance at a fundraiser and so on that they requested that
bothered him. He knew that they were pressured by their friends too. What
bothered him was when they ended up avoiding him rather than have it appear
they were just keeping in touch because of his fame. He was hurt when he
found out a cousin or old friend had been to London and hadn’t called or
dropped in. Having them turn out tonight just to meet me was reassuring and
gratifying to him even if it was rather overwhelming to me. Lucky Martha
was allowed to seek shelter in the garage. The best I could manage was a
few minutes back in the kitchen now and then.
At one point I found myself alone in the kitchen with Paul's stepmother.
“Angie, how many hundreds of McCartneys are there?” I asked in despair.
“I've forgotten half the names already. I don't know how many more I can
process at one time!”
She started laughing. “It's been two years and I haven't sorted them out
yet, but don't worry. They don't seem to mind in the least!”
By nine the younger relatives and friends were packing up sleepy kids and
leaving. By ten the older generation began to leave. By the time Aunty Gin
left that night, she knew all about me, my family, my roommates, my plans
to move to England. She was even better at getting information than my
mother. She simply apologized for being nosy and flat out asked.
As she hugged Paul goodbye she said, “Paulie, if she were a Northern girl
she would be perfect. As is, she'll do fine. Be good to her and don't mess
up.”
Uncle Joe simply informed him I was too good for the likes of a Teddy Boy
like him.
“That goes double for you, lad,” he said to Mike who was snickering again.
“That little girl of yours has more sense in her little finger than you do
in your whole head. Couple of little swine you always were and no better
for the years!”
“Aw, Uncle Joe,” Paul protested. “I haven't chucked a brick through a
window in years!”
“Moved on to bigger things, no doubt.”
When everyone was gone Paul disappeared into the den with his Dad and Mike.
I knew from the look he gave me as he closed the door that he was going to
tell them about the paternity suit. I pitched in to help clear up. When the
men reappeared, they all looked a little subdued. When I got a moment alone
with Paul I whispered, “Is he really upset?”
He shrugged a little. “He isn't thrilled.”
Everyone settled down in front of the TV, but I was exhausted. Angie
noticed and encouraged me to go to bed. “They will be up for hours. When
Paul comes home they sit up arguing and laughing till all hours. I'm
turning in. Come ahead. We'll leave them to their beer and nonsense!”
Gratefully, I agreed. I said goodnight to Paul with the family looking on,
a quick little kiss I hoped would be all right. I was sound asleep
when I felt Paul slip into bed with me. He kissed me awake and said he
couldn't sleep alone, he would sneak back to his room in the morning. I
snuggled sleepily into his arms.
“So what did you think of the family,” he asked.
“Family? I thought that was half of Liverpool!”
He just laughed. “We'll get to them tomorrow. So was it awful for you?”
“I thought you had it bad meeting my family, but at least they didn't call
in reinforcements!”
Paul chuckled and cuddled me in his arms. “You charmed the pants off Aunty
Gin. They all liked you.”
“I'm not so sure about Mike.”
“You just leave his pants right where they are!”
“No,” I laughed. “I meant I am not sure he is too impressed with me.”
“Mike had it bad for Jane. Absolutely tongue-tied around her.”
“Tongue-tied? Mike?”
Paul chuckled. “Oh yes. My being a Beatle didn't impress him but bringing
home Jane certainly did! He has never forgiven me for messing that up
either. He hasn't liked anyone since. Of course, there hasn't been anyone
that mattered, but, anyway, he is going to take a little time. Just ignore
him.”
“Your little brother is a bit hard to ignore. He is a riot. You never told
me who the real wit in the family is!”
“He didn't say anything awful to you, did he?”
“No! I just catch him looking at me sometimes as though ... I don't know.
As if he isn't sure I am good enough for his big brother. He adores you,
you know.”
“I don't know about that, but I do know I adore you,” he said and started
adoring me with his warm mouth and hands.
“No, we can't. Your Dad—”
“Sleeps like a log. Deaf in one ear to boot. Make love to me, Tess.”
“It just doesn't seem like we should do it here," I said, “and I really am
tired.”
“All right, but don't ask me to leave. I am not giving up a night with
you.”
Who could argue with that? I curled up against him and fell asleep.
The next morning we lingered until nearly noon over a late breakfast. There
was a lot of good-natured teasing of Angela, who was eating like an army.
She was pregnant (the planned spring wedding had taken place rather
abruptly in February) and was just past the morning sickness stage and
making up for lost meals. Talk of morning sickness gave way to Mike, much
to Paul's dismay and his father's disapproval, telling the tale of Paul
upchucking his way all the way from London to Liverpool one night last
fall. Mr. McCartney apologized for his sons' manners and disappeared behind
his morning paper leaving his boys to be disgusting if they so chose. We
were all laughing at the story and at Paul's protests that he had not
thrown up in Mike's car.
“By the time Neil turned me over to Mike I was out like a light! I don't
remember anything past Neil swearing at me and calling me the most
disgusting drunk he'd ever met.”
Mike just laughed and said “OK, it was Neil's car. You didn't start in
again until the next morning.”
“That part I remember all too well,” Paul laughed.
“As do we all,” Mr. McCartney intoned from behind his paper. Paul laughed
and explained that Dad never did deal well with vomiting kids. He just
couldn't stand to be there.
“After Mum died, Paul got the privilege of holding my head and cleaning up
whenever I got sick,” Mike said. He said it lightly, but the way he was
looking at his big brother said a lot more. He turned to me. “This was his
turn to pay me back. He was a mess, was our boy.” His tone was light, but
his next words were less so. “You really hurt him,” he said.
I realized then that his feelings toward me had nothing to do with having a
crush on Jane. I had hurt his brother. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw
that Mr. McCartney had lowered his paper and was looking at me, waiting to
hear my response.
Paul started to say something, but I stopped him with a squeeze of his
hand.
“I know,” I said, meeting Mike's look. “I should have trusted him more, but
I just couldn't believe he could love me. I'm not Bardot or Nightingale or
Sweet Rebecca or an actress or a model or anything else. Just Terry Martin
from Minnesota. It was never a matter of my not loving him. I just couldn't
believe he loved me.”
“It was just a mistake and the hurting was mutual,” Paul said. “Tess just
had more sense than to try to drink it away.”
“Well, he does love you,” Mike said softly. “The only question is ... "
I cringed, afraid of what might be coming.
“ ... what on earth do you see in him?”
We all broke up laughing and Paul reached across the table to pour the
remains of his orange juice into Mike's lap. Mike threw toast, and Mr.
McCartney threatened to send them both to their rooms.
As we made plans for the day, I asked Paul if I could see a bit of
Liverpool and we decided we would go out that afternoon. We could drive by
his old home, John’s Aunt Mimi’s, check out Penny Lane and Strawberry
Fields, and he would call and see if we could visit the Cavern.
As we began to clear away the breakfast things, Paul went to make his phone
call. He had been checking his watch off and on all morning and I figured
he was also going to try to reach Brian to see if there was any news on the
blood test. I went to help with the dishes. Paul was in the den, still on
the phone when we finished and I started to join him, but Mike, who was
with him, got up and steered me into the living room, closing the door to
the den behind him. “Do you mind if I steal Paul for an hour or so? I'd
like him to come with me while I take care of a few things.”
That sounded a little evasive, but I figured they just wanted some time
alone for some guy stuff. “No, I don't mind,” I said. “And Mike, the answer
to your other question is 'everything'.”
Mike took a second to figure out what question I was talking about, then
smiled.
“Good. Else this could get a bit awkward for our kid.”
“What could?” I asked him, unsure what he was referring to.
“Why bringing you home to meet the family!” he said. “It seems he's told us
you are madly in love with him, you see.”
“It seems I am,” I laughed. “Against my better judgment sometimes, but I
am!”
After I said it, I realized that kind of comment could be interpreted
wrongly, but Mike seemed to understand.
“Yes, falling for our boy comes with a few complications, it does. So were
you a fan before you became infatuated with the great man himself?”
Laughing at Mike's irreverence for Paul's fame, I said, “A little too old
to be screaming at airports or swooning at concerts, but yes, I was a
Beatles fan. Want to hear a deep, dark secret, though? John was my
favorite!”
Mike loved that bit of news. “Alright John-fan, I promise I'll have Paul
back in time to get you to the Cavern this afternoon. You can see first
hand the Birthplace of Beatlemania and I can even show you the john where
the lads used to puke up when they had a bit too much.”
“You have an emesis fixation!”
“A what?”
While I was explaining that emesis was the medical term for throwing up,
Paul reappeared. The two of them took off shortly on some unspecified
business. I spent the next couple of hours with Mr. McCartney, now “Jim” at
his request, looking at photo albums, laughing at pictures of the boys as
babies, as schoolboys, as teenagers. I heard Jim's versions of the stories
Paul had told me. The quiet, reserved image I had seen so far was a very
thin cover for a warm, gentle man with a witty sense of humor who loved to
poke fun at convention. In spite of trying to raise his boys properly, Jim
took great delight in their rambunctious rule breaking.
At one point Jim went to take a phone call. When he came back he looked at
me very seriously. “That was Mr. Epstein,” he said.
I caught my breath.
“All is well. She doesn't have a claim on him.”
I exhaled in a whoosh of relief.
Jim grinned and for the first time, I saw a little family resemblance to
Paul. “That is exactly what I said.”
When Paul and Mike got back, Jim gave me a little nod as if to say “You
tell him,” and disappeared with Mike in tow.
“Brian called,” I said, and I knew I didn't have to say more. I couldn't
help the big smile on my face. He smiled, though a little wanly, and
reached for me. I hugged him tight and he just stood there with his cheek
against mine for a long time.
When he let go, he said, “I wish I could promise you that this won't ever
happen again.”
I smiled. “Just promise me your wild oats days are over!”
He laughed. “Are you prepared to tend the fields all by yourself?”
“Yes. It is a big job, but it is the kind of work I love!”
“Then the job is yours, farmer's daughter, but you have to be available to
start tonight!”
No one had noticed that Paul slept in my room last night, and it seemed a
little silly to draw a line at having sex. “All right, but I expect all
holidays and weekends off and I want four weeks vacation a year.”
“I'd never agree to those ridiculous terms for anyone else, but you ... oh
you.” He was nibbling on my neck, tickling my ear.
“Forget the terms,” I said. “I don't want any time off, ever.”
It was already two o'clock so we headed out to see the Cavern. Paul had
spoken to the owner who was delighted at the prospect of a visit from him.
He assured Paul that if we got there early in the afternoon, there would be
no one but a few employees around—and no tip-off to the press. Angie had
never been there, so she and Jim came along for the visit to what Mike
continued to refer to in pompous tones as “The Shrine.”
When we arrived I was struck by the shabbiness of the neighborhood. It was
no entertainment center, just a club tucked under a block of warehouses in
a neighborhood of light industry. Nearby small shops leaned toward shoe
repair and pawnshops rather than boutiques and gift shops.
The entrance to the Cavern proudly proclaimed itself the “Birthplace of the
Beatles” and the narrow stone staircase leading down to the club was full
of framed and autographed shots of the Fab Four on stage here. Most were of
them in black leather with slicked-back hair and included Pete Best at the
drums.
Paul barely glanced at the pictures, but I was fascinated. His dad remarked
that he was still a Teddy Boy at heart since he still preferred black
leather to decent clothing. Paul laughed, and, indicating the lining of the
black leather jacket he had on, said, “Ahh, but now I can afford the best
black leather, Dad!”
Downstairs, we were met by the current owner of the club, Harry Wilson, and
what appeared to be every member of his staff. No press was present, as
agreed, but every employee seemed to be working on a weekday afternoon. Mr.
Wilson had never met any of the Beatles and was thrilled to have Paul stop
in.
“It has changed a bit,” Paul said.
“Smells better!” Mike put in and we all laughed as he described how the
smell of rotting fruit from the warehouse above combined with the scent of
urine from the toilets and the sweat of the crowd to create an
unforgettable stench.
“We remodeled a few years ago,” Mr. Wilson explained. “We improved the
ventilation as best we could. It was always damp down here.”
“I'll say,” Paul put in. “Even in winter, the ceiling would get to the
point of dripping with condensation. We were sopping wet with sweat and
dripping water by the end of the night. Mike's job was to keep the floor of
the stage mopped up so we wouldn't get electrocuted.”
“I was expendable as I couldn't play,” Mike explained.
“You were not expendable!” Paul assured him. “We would never have made it
if you hadn't been about to run for Cokes!”
“There you have it, folks,” Mike proclaimed. “I was the driving force
behind Beatlemania!”
Mr. Wilson explained how the remodeling had been done to enlarge the space
by opening up to an adjoining basement which allowed them to add a
recording studio for local groups trying to break into the big time. He
took us on a tour of the area, explaining they did a lot of demo tapes and
converted tapes to records. Paul seemed interested in looking at the studio
and agreed to have a few photos taken to commemorate his visit.
I wandered back out to the Cavern Club. The space was larger than I
expected, but I wasn't sure if that wasn’t the result of the remodeling.
The ceiling was quite low and the walls were still the old bricks. A wooden
dance floor covered the area in front of the stage and tables and chairs
the rest of the room. I went to look at more pictures on one of the walls
and tried to pick out what had changed during the remodeling. The stage was
different. The one in the pictures was in an alcove. It had a wine cellar
appearance with its rounded arch and ceiling. The alcoves were still there
but opened up more. I walked across the dimly lit space and just to the
side of the new stage found that one of them still had the small stage and
graffiti-covered wall. It was immediately recognizable as the spot where
most of the photos had been taken. I sat on the edge of the stage,
imagining Paul and John and George up there, wearing black leather and
slicked-back hair, laughing and clowning around while they filled the
cellar with rock n roll. Stu with his back to the audience struggling to
get the chords right. Pete, unsmiling, at the drums. The room full of kids,
packed full. Girls lining the edge of the stage. The Beginning. I shivered
and felt goosebumps break out on my arms as I thought of the power and the
promise that must have radiated from the stage.
The others returned from their tour and Paul joined me. “Found it, eh?”
I just nodded, feeling more than a little overwhelmed. Mike got up on the
small stage. There was a microphone there and he flipped it on, deafening
us all with feedback. He fiddled with it, got it under control, and then
announced to the assembled group, “And now ladies and gentlemen, a few
words from your fave, your rave, Paul McCartney!”
We cheered, clapped, and whistled and Paul obligingly got up on the stage.
Mike interviewed him with questions like “Is it true that it was your
brother Michael that kept you going when it seemed like the Beatles were
never going to be anything but a mediocre skiffle group?”
“We were a rock ‘n roll group and Mike always said we were a bum group. The
only thing that kept us going was reluctance to get a real job!”
They kept it up for several minutes and I was in some kind of time warp. I
was seeing him up there on stage in the old Cavern, imagining him sweating
in black leather and belting out the opening line of “Long Tall Sally”, a
different person yet the same Paul I was in love with. Mind bending!
Somewhere along the line, Paul put his hands in his jacket pockets. He
looked down at me where I was sitting on the edge of the stage
thoughtfully. He answered Mike's next question, something about how he was
busy these days promoting a new comedy group called The Scaffold, then took
the microphone away from Mike. “I'd like to say a few things,” he said, and
his tone was suddenly different. Everyone recognized the change and the
room hushed.
“The Cavern is where it all started. We played here before Hamburg and
nobody listened. When we came back from Hamburg we were as ready as we ever
would be. This time the kids here listened, decided we had something, and
took us to the top. It has been a real trip. We made it bigger than we ever
dreamed and somehow it keeps on going.” He paused then shook his head as if
bewildered by it all. “I don't know why it happened, but it has been
incredible.” He hesitated again. I thought he was trying to come up with a
good ending to this little monologue, but then he snapped off the mic,
turned to Mike, stepped close and said something to him.
Mike looked a little puzzled for just a moment, then nodded and jumped down
from the stage and began leading everyone away.
“Now let us all adjourn to the refreshment stand and enjoy ourselves
compliments of our boy,” he said. “If you knew what a cheapskate he is you
would recognize what a momentous occasion this is in Beatles history!”
I started to get up from my seat on the edge of the stage but felt Paul’s
hand on my shoulder. I looked up at him but he was watching the group
moving away to another little alcove at the opposite corner of the room. He
waited until they were all gathered around the refreshment bar, then he
looked down at me.
“The Cavern was the start of something great for me once,” he said quietly.
“Let's see if the magic is still here.”
He straightened up, put the microphone back on its stand then stepped
forward and jumped down off the edge of the stage. As he turned back to me,
I felt a shiver up my spine and I think I knew what he was up to even
before he dropped down on one knee in front of me.
“Tess, I love you,” he said softly as he took my hand in his. With the
other, he reached into his pocket and took out a small velvet jewelry box.
He opened it and held it up to me, the diamond sparkling even in the dim
lighting of the Cavern. “Will you marry me?” he asked.
I shouldn't have been surprised. He had told me he was going to ask me and
that it wasn't going to be years from now, but I never dreamed it would be
so soon—nor so public! Paul just didn't do things like this, but here he
was, looking up at me, so serious, so intent, as if there was not a bunch
of people across the room, a bunch of people who had realized Paul hadn’t
followed them and were now looking back to see where he was. I didn’t have
to look over at them to know that. I had heard more than one startled “Oh,
look!” when Paul had dropped onto his knee.
I knew they were watching but I wasn’t thinking about them at all. My mind
was whirling. For all the times I had imagined this moment, I hadn't
expected this, not yet, not until I had moved to England, settled in,
proven I could handle his life as well as my new life. I had planned to say
yes, most definitely yes, but this was too soon! The reasonable, prudent,
rational thing to do would be to wait until fall to take this step.
I took a breath. “Yes,” I said. Reasonable, prudent, rational be damned! I
knew this was what I wanted.
He smiled, and I leaned down to kiss him. There was a burst of whispered
but excited chatter from across the room but we ignored it. Paul got up and
sat beside me and I took the ring out of the box. He took it from me and
slipped it on my finger. “You are shaking!” I said with amazement.
“You took a split second too long to answer! Scared the bloody hell out of
me!”
“I had my answer ready months ago. I was just surprised that you asked me
so soon. I wasn't expecting it yet.”
“So soon? Oh, Tess,” he said with a rueful laugh. “I have wanted to ask you
so many times. I am amazed I held out this long. If I hadn't—” He stopped
and looked flustered.
“Hadn't what?”
“I'll tell you later,” he said and I settled for another kiss.
“Time’s up,” Mike called to Paul.
Paul laughed. “Come ‘ead,” he said to me as he pulled me to my feet. He led
me across the room and while the Cavern's employees hung back politely, I
collected hugs and kisses from his family. We hung around for a bit longer
with Paul signing autographs for the staff.
There were some enthusiastic and some almost begrudging congratulations for
me and lots of oohing and ahhing over the ring. They didn't seem to know
what to say to me until one of the girls said, “Here I thought I was
jealous of you when I was reading your stories about being John's nurse!”
After being reminded of how I had gotten to meet Paul, it suddenly didn't
seem so bad that I was now engaged to him. They knew me and knew I was one
of them, the one who had gotten what they always dreamed of. They were full
of questions about what I had thought of Paul when we first met.
“I thought he was even better looking than in pictures,” I said. “I just
wanted to touch him. I didn't care if he turned out to be rude, obnoxious,
stupid, or anything else. I just kept wanting to put my arms around him!”
“Don't we all!” one of the girls laughed. “So when did you fall in love?”
“That is a little
harder to say. I think probably the first time I sat down and talked to
him, but I just kept denying it to myself for the longest time. I was so
confused. I kept thinking that this really couldn't be happening to me.
After all, he was a Beatle!”
They all seemed able to relate to that, and one of them said, “You have to
write another story for the magazine and this time tell all!”
“Sorry, my journalism days are over!”
They groaned and Mike spoke up. “Oh, do write another Tess! Tell you
what—I'll come along on the honeymoon and take pictures and you can write
about it. We'll have a great pictorial essay. Pulitzer prize material, I
guarantee it!”
Paul gave Mike a brotherly hug around the neck, cutting off his oxygen.
“It's been great meeting you all,” he said to the staff, “We've got to
run.” We thanked everyone and made our way back up the stairs to the
street.
As we were getting into our cars, Ruth started to get into Paul's car. She
and Jim and Angie had ridden over with us. “Perhaps you had best ride back
with us, Dad,” Mike said. “Give the happy couple a few minutes alone. Tess
probably wants to give the ring back. I am sure she said yes only to avoid
embarrassing Paul in front of everyone.”
Paul looked stricken. He turned to me, “Tess, I never gave a thought—”
“When are you going to stop listening to Mike?” I asked him. “I've only
known him twenty-four hours and even I know he is a nut case. Ignore him!”
Everyone laughed and Paul looked sheepish as he hugged me. “Get in the car,
Dad,” he said.
By the time we drove around Paul’s old neighborhood and got back to the
house, it was after five PM. That meant school was out for the day, and the
fans had assembled at the gate. We eased the cars through the crowd and
Paul waited in the car until the gate was closed before getting out. He
surprised me a bit by going back to the gate to talk to the girls, sign
autographs. I hung back but after a few minutes, he turned around and
motioned for me to join him. The look on the faces on the other side of the
gate was more curious than hostile, a big improvement over London's group.
“Girls, this is Tess Martin,” he said as I stepped up to his side, my hand
hidden in my coat pocket. He put his arm around me and smiled at me. A few
girls shyly greeted me, the rest stood in awkward silence.
“You are the one from the States,” one said. Somehow it sounded like an
accusation.
“Yes,” I said. “I met Paul last summer. I was John's nurse when he got
hurt. Did any of you read the articles I wrote for the fan club magazine?”
That had broken the ice with the girls at the cavern, and I hoped it would
do the same here.
It worked. They had all read them and they told me how much they enjoyed
them and started asking questions about things I had said in the articles.
I breathed a sigh of relief, relaxed and started enjoying talking with
them. Then one of the girls said, “I would say you left out some very
important information. You never said anything about you and Paul.”
She sounded upset as if I had lied to them. Someone tried to hush her, but
the good feeling was gone.
Once again, I heard myself explaining how confused I was at first about my
feelings for Paul. Love or infatuation. A fairy tale or the real thing. “It
wasn't until I had finished the article that I ... he ... we—”
Paul came to my rescue. “That we stopped trying to avoid it and fell in
love.”
Ooohs and aahs came from the group.
“Took a bit for us to get things together. She went back to the States and
I have been back and forth, and now... " He smiled at me, gave me a little
kiss—caught by a girl with a camera and lightning-quick reflexes—and said
to me, “It will be all over the papers by tomorrow, so shall we tell them?”
He looked so happy, bursting to tell them, and he was right. Someone from
the Cavern had no doubt tipped off the press by now. I smiled at him and
nodded.
“I asked Tess to marry me just a bit ago, and she said yes. I know you
won't see that as good news, but I want a wife, I want a family. I want
Tess. I hope you will be happy for me.”
Girls were crying before he even finished, but they obediently
congratulated us and when they wished us well, it sounded sincere. He
signed a few more autographs and we headed back to the house.
For the rest of the evening, I discussed our plans with everyone except
Paul! He was out in the back garden with Ruth, Martha, and the puppy, out
checking out Mike’s new car with him, on the phone, anywhere but in the
kitchen where the female half of the family gathered to discuss wedding
plans.
Angie and Angela asked if we had discussed a date, and I had to explain
that I hadn't even expected a proposal for months yet. I had no idea about
when we would be married. Maybe this fall. Or maybe next spring.
We talked about whether a real wedding would be possible, whether it should
be in the States or England, London or Liverpool. They wanted to know how
my family was going to react to the news. I answered honestly. “They aren't
sure about any of this. They haven't had much time to get to know Paul, but
I think they are past being horrified at the idea of a rock ‘n roll star.
He is a real person to him now at least, not just one of the Beatles. They
are still trying to get used to the idea that I am moving to England. I
think that they will feel a little better knowing we are engaged.”
Angie told me to feel free to call them and tell them but a look at the
clock told me I was free from that awesome duty until tomorrow. It was past
midnight back home and too late to call.
Aunty Gin came flying in. She had just gotten a phone call from the
hysterical daughter of a friend. “Is it true?” the girl had sobbed and
Aunty Gin had to backtrack to find out what she was asking about. The girl
had just gotten a phone call from a friend who had heard from another
friend who had heard from someone who worked at the Cavern that Paul was
engaged. The grapevine was humming. Gin told the girl that it hadn't been
true as of 10:00 p.m. the night before, but she wouldn't be a bit
surprised. Then she came right over to find out for herself.
Over tea, Gin and I had the same conversation about non-existent wedding
plans. When I said I wasn't sure how we would ever have a real wedding, she
was sympathetic.
“It doesn't have to be a grand affair to be a real wedding,” she said.
“Just immediate family.” I knew she considered herself immediate.
“That's another problem. Do we get married here or in the States? One of us
isn't going to have our family there.”
“A wedding is the bride's show,” Gin declared. “You get married with your
family around you and your mother there to cry and act like a mother. We'll
have a reception for you here when you get back from the honeymoon.”
I was relieved to hear her common-sense solution, but I said, “I don't
think we will get married soon, and I'll be living here once school is out.
I think we'll end up getting married here.”
Gin patted my hand. “Then I'll be there to cry and carry on, Luv.”
Mike had wandered in and heard the discussion. “Rent the Queen Mary, give
the whole family—both sides—a sea cruise and get married in the middle of
the Atlantic,” was his suggestion.
Paul came in just in time to hear that and grinned. “Good idea. We can
throw any reporters overboard.”
“And the sharks will keep the number of fans down to a manageable number,”
Mike added.
Too bad there were no sharks outside. The crowd was growing and reporters
had joined the fans. Plans were made to go out for dinner to celebrate and
to give the Liverpool press their first glimpse at the future Mrs.
McCartney. I desperately wanted a little time alone with Paul, but it was
to be hours before we were finally alone together.
The street in front of the house was mobbed. We couldn't leave the house
until the police department sent a bunch of officers to clear the street.
Reporters were almost frantic in their efforts to get pictures. They
followed us into the restaurant where the haughty Maitre d' stopped them.
“No reservations? I'm sorry but we have no tables,” they were informed. The
fact that Paul had no reservations was never mentioned. We had an elaborate
meal and toasted our engagement with champagne. Leaving the restaurant
meant running the gamut of reporters who had set up camp in the lobby. We
stopped and gave them the photo session they wanted and answered questions.
They wanted to know when and where we were getting married.
“We haven't decided on that,” Paul said.
“Will we get invitations?” asked one reporter jokingly.
“Not bloody likely!” Paul laughed.
“Is it true you popped the question at the Cavern today?”
“Yes.”
“Why there?”
He shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Having second thoughts?” someone teased.
“No!”
“Miss Martin, were you surprised?”
“A little, yes. I didn't expect it so soon.”
“So you had talked about it?”
“Yes, thanks to you blokes,” Paul said. “A reporter put me on the spot
once, asking if I was thinking about marrying her right in front of her! We
had to talk about it then.”
“Miss Martin, how do your parents feel about it?”
The logical answer would have been “You'll have to ask them,” but I didn't
want Mom and Dad asked that question. They might answer honestly.
“I haven't spoken to them yet, but they like Paul and I think they'll be
happy for me. And please, call me Tess.”
“What about the fans? Will they be happy for you, Paul?”
“They've adjusted to Ringo and George getting married. They know we
couldn't stay lads forever. Everyone wants someone special to share their
life with, to have a family and all that.”
“You are the last single Beatle. Will this mark the end of Beatlemania?”
“We'll still be here, making music and all. If the music is good enough
there will always be fans.”
After answering basically the same questions at least two more times, we
made our escape. In spite of it being a cold drizzly night, there was still
a sizable gathering of fans outside both the restaurant and the house.
Back at the house, Paul said, “I'd better try again to get Brian. He won't
appreciate being the last to know.” Right on cue, the phone rang. “Yes, it
is true, Brian,” Paul laughed.
They talked for a little bit about how the fans were taking the news,
should Brian arrange a press conference (“No!” I signaled frantically to
Paul, much to his amusement.) Paul gave the phone to me. Brian expressed
his happiness for me and wished us the best, sounding rather emotional at
first then laughing at himself. “Listen to me! You'll think me a silly old
mother hen, but Paul is the last of my boys to get married. An event worth
marking, I'd say.” He laughed, “When I first took on the scruffy lot of
them they were just boys. Hard to see them becoming old married men.
Pillars of society and all.”
“Well, I don't know that any of them will ever quite make it as pillars of
society, but I think this one is going to be a good husband.”
He laughed and rang off and when I hung up and turned around, everyone else
had disappeared, leaving Paul and me alone together for the first time
since early morning. I went to him, put my arms around him and just held
on.
“Are you alright?” he asked after a moment.
“I am so alright I can't think of words to tell you.” We settled in on the
sofa, waiting for the rest of the household to go to bed so we could too.
“Do you like the ring?” he asked.
“Yes! It is beautiful.” It was a simple design, a Marquis cut diamond
flanked by two smaller ones on either side and set on a gold band. It was
big. Not huge and gaudy by any means, but a sizable chunk of rock.
He chuckled. “It is a good thing I took Mike along. I was looking at
sapphires and rubies and he reminded me that American girls require diamond
engagement rings.”
“It wouldn't have mattered to me, though I might have been a little
confused when I first saw the ring! I was so surprised!”
“Not as surprised as you would have been had I asked you the first time it
occurred to me that I wanted to marry you!”
“When was that?”
“That morning in the hotel. When you were standing there in John's shirt.”
“What?”
“Well, not exactly,” he laughed, “but I do remember looking at you,
standing there telling John he had scared the hell out of you and giving
him hell.”
“I didn't! Did I?”
“Oh yes! I thought Neil was going to choke on his toast, he was trying so
hard not to laugh. Brian looked absolutely envious. Then you turned and
looked at me and grinned. I remember thinking maybe someday I would find
someone like you—but I hoped I wouldn't have to fracture myself to do it!”
I started laughing. “I thought you didn't recognize me. I thought you were
just trying to figure out who I was and what I was doing in John's room.
You barely noticed me before that.”
“Oh, I noticed, but I was so worried about John at first, then the whole
mess with ending the tour.” He laughed. “I would have pushed John off a
balcony long before if I had known it would bring you into my life.”
“So when…?”
“I don't know exactly. From the very first, I knew you were the kind of
girl I wanted to marry, it just took a while to admit to myself that I was
in love with you and I didn't want a girl like you, I wanted you. It seemed
impossible at first, then in Scotland, I began to believe it could happen.”
“But then I left.”
“Yeah, but when I got on the plane before Christmas, I knew that if I could
straighten things out with you—and I wasn't leaving until I did—I knew I
was going to ask you to marry me. I had to. Just had to.”
“So what took you so long?” I teased.
He just laughed but looked a little flustered.
“Well?”
“Ah, it seems I promised your parents I would wait.”
“What? When? Why?”
He took a minute to kiss me and pull me more comfortably into his arms.
“Christmas. That morning before you were up. Your father asked me what the
hell I thought I was doing and I told him I loved you, told him how
important you were to me. I knew I wasn't going to be there when they tried
to change your mind and I wanted them to know where I stood. So I told them
that I wanted to marry you, had known that almost from the beginning.”
I caught my breath, but he put a finger on my lips before I could
interrupt.
“I told them I wouldn't ask you, couldn't ask you yet because you needed
time,” he explained. “It wasn't hard for me. I didn't have to turn my life
inside out to marry you, but there was so much you had to learn about me,
put up with, and so many things that would be so hard for you. You needed
time.”
I shook my head, but he said the words before my befuddled mind could get
them out. “I know. You would have said yes if I had asked you then.”
I nodded and whispered, “Yes, I would have.”
“That's what I told your parents. I told them that I just wouldn't do that,
rush you into anything. I wanted you to really think about what it meant,
what the problems would be. I told them I wouldn't ask you until this
summer after you had been in England long enough to be sure.”
“Umm, I hate to mention this,” I said, “and I am not letting you take it
back, but sweetheart, it is only April.”
“I know, I know.” he laughed, “but I barely made it this long. I wanted to
ask you that day we made love in the cemetery when you said you felt so
safe with me, and that day when I got crazy over you being too young to
know for sure you loved me and you told me you loved me every way from
Sunday. And New Year's Eve and the day I left the States and the day I came
back and that night the reporter wanted us to announce our engagement. And
during every phone call and every time I made love to you and every time I
woke up alone wanting you.”
I was astounded. “I never knew! Until that night with the reporter, I
thought getting married was a ‘maybe someday' kind of thing.”
“It was never that, girl. Not with you.”
I listened to this astonishing revelation in a lightheaded daze. “Oh,
Paul,” was all I could say. We had to stop for a kiss and another two or
three.
He held me tightly and went on. “When you walked into my house last
weekend, I knew I never wanted you to leave. Then all week long I put you
through all kinds of hell. The paternity suit, all that stuff over John,
the gatebirds, meeting the family. You came through it all without thinking
for one minute that we might not make it. At every turn I nearly did it,
nearly asked you. In the solicitor's office, after that fight over John. So
today I called your parents and told them I wasn't waiting.”
“What did they say?”
“I called early to make sure I got them before they left for work. It was
only about six there and I woke them up. Once we got it sorted out that I
wasn't calling because there had been some awful accident, or to tell them
we were already married, I think they were so relieved, an engagement
sounded like a minor disaster. I didn't ask their opinion—hell, I am not
sure what I said, I just blathered on—but right before I rang off, your Mum
got on the line and said, “Tell Terry we love her and tell her to hug my
future son-in-law for me.” She didn't sound like she was being sarcastic or
anything."
“She wasn't. Mom doesn't have a sarcastic bone in her body.”
I snuggled against him, feeling so happy that I thought I might explode or
float away but for his arms around me. A funny thought came to me and I
started to giggle.
“What is so funny?”
“I am so glad you waited until today to ask me!”
“Why?”
“Imagine someday when our daughter asks ‘Mummy, how did Daddy propose to
you?' I'd have to say ‘We were making love in this cemetery…' Or ‘We were
at the solicitor's for a paternity suit…'”
“Or Daddy and I had just had this silly fight and I had him on the bed
driving him wild and making him think he was going to die before I let him
fuck me—”
“Paul! Shhh! Oh, God!” I started laughing and trying to keep it down
because I could hear his dad and Mike saying goodnight out in the hall.
Paul wouldn't quit.
“ At least that is more romantic than ‘Daddy got tired of wanking off in
the loo with a picture of the Playmate of the month, so he rang me up one
day and asked me to marry him.'”
I lost it and buried my face in a throw pillow to stifle the laughter. I
heard footsteps and looked up to see Mike in the doorway.
“Oh,” he said pleasantly, “Hysterical laughter on your engagement night,
Tess? Has our boy just now got round to letting you see his Beatle peedle?
Should have waited 'til after the nuptials lad!”
Paul winged a pillow at him and he ducked out of sight.
We stayed up a while longer, listening to the sounds of the house settling
down for the night. Paul told me that popping the question at the Cavern
was just a spur of the moment thing that came to him when he put his hand
in his pocket and felt the jewelers box. He had originally planned to wait
until now, after everyone was in bed, to ask me.
“So when do you want to get married?” he asked.
“Oh, wow. I don't know! Tomorrow?”
He laughed. “I don't think we can get the license in time, lovebug.”
I sat back to discuss it seriously. “Not until school is out. That would be
too complicated, and not until after State boards. I want those over and
done with so I can relax and enjoy my wedding. Maybe in the fall but then
I'll be just getting started with a new job.”
I didn't want to sound pushy if he wasn't in any hurry. “Or we could wait
until spring. What do you want to do?”
He just smiled, “Whatever you want.”
We talked a bit about the complication of having families on opposite sides
of the Atlantic and of trying to keep plans from reporters and fans.
“It was a bit difficult for Ringo and George, but if we keep it small and
private—”
My face must have given it away. I didn't want a wedding limited to a few
people. I wanted to stand up in front of the whole world and say “I do!” I
knew it was unreasonable given the circumstances and I was fully prepared
to do whatever needed to be done,
but still, the regret broke through for a moment.
He gathered me into his arms. “It is OK,” I said. “I'll get married by
proxy if that's what it takes!”
“We'll work it out. We may not be able to have a big wedding but we will
have one hell of a party if you want. We could get married at the
magistrates, announce it, and let the reporters think it was all over. Then
have the big do with flowers and cake and all a few days later.”
We kissed and I was putting aside wedding thoughts in favor of more
immediate pleasures when another thought occurred to me. “Paul, there is
another problem... "
He waited.
“I know you don't consider yourself a Catholic, and it isn't important to
me, but my parents will simply not tolerate anything but a Catholic
wedding."
He sighed. “I don't reckon on gettin’ all religious here. I don't hate the
Church. I just don't believe it has the answers. I am not sure there are
any answers. If a priest will agree to do the honors in spite of that, then
I don't have a problem with it. It is what my mom would want too.”
“I don't think that priests ask much about your beliefs. They ask if you
were baptized.”
“I was.”
“They ask if you will have your kids baptized.”
Paul grinned. “I guess I am agnostic. That means I don't know if there is a
God, not that I flat out don't believe in him. So I am not averse to a
little insurance policy for my kids in case it turns out He does exist and
He requires baptism.”
“And they ask if you will raise your kids as Catholics.”
That was the stopper, I could see it on his face, but he turned the tables
on me.
“What are you going to say, Tess?”
If I were marrying a true Catholic, it would have been easy to say yes, to
go along with it because the whole matter was something I was simply more
indifferent to than against. If it were left to me alone, I would probably
raise them as Catholic just to keep peace with my mother. The whole
religion issue was unimportant to me in and of itself but was a huge issue
when it came to my dealings with my parents. If anything, Paul was more
interested in religion than I was, more curious about the meaning of life
and all that, but committing to raise our kids as Catholic was pretty
heavy. Well, kids were a couple of years down the line and, aside from the
Baptism, it would be many more years before Mom would be expecting First
Communion and Confirmation kind of things, and Mom was going to be half a
world away. It didn't seem particularly important right now. Right now the
goal was to get Mom and Dad to accept our getting married and that was
going to be difficult enough even with the required Catholic wedding. I
groaned and admitted the truth. “I will lie and say yes just to keep my
parents happy and get through the wedding.”
He consoled me. “Maybe they won't ask you that.”
I shrugged. “Maybe not, but I think they will ask you.”
He surprised me with a very wicked grin. “I shall say that I will follow my
wife's wishes in the matter.”
As the subtle sneakiness of his response hit me, I burst out laughing. He
wouldn't have to lie but I might have to!
“You are so ... so... "
“Smooth?”
“Devious!”
“Not at all!” he protested. “I just have a way with people. You can thank
John for it.”
“John?! He pisses people off all the time!”
“Exactly. Speaks his mind, he does, never mind the consequences. It is
usually the truth mind you, but there I am, trying to sort out the mess,
smooth things over. So I have gotten good at saying what people want to
hear without resorting to flat out lying.”
I laughed at him. “It is a skill that is going to come in handy. Dear Boy,
you are about to acquire a Mother-in-Law!”
“If that is what it takes to acquire you,” he said.
“All you need to acquire me is to kiss me and take me to bed,” I told him
and didn't give him any choice in the matter.
The remaining two days of my time in England were crazy. The phone was
ringing all morning with an endless stream of well-wishers and the press
was lined up outside waiting for a few words and pictures. Alistair Taylor
called wanting to arrange a meeting with the press and a couple of
interviews. Paul asked if I wanted to do it and of course, I didn't but
didn't think I could refuse if Alistair thought I should do it. Paul, his
hand over the phone, laughed. “Luv, he works for me, not the other way
round. You don't have to do it.”
Relieved, I let Paul decline for us but an hour later Brian was on the
phone urging Paul to do it. He and Alistair both felt that a press
conference with the two of us now would be easier for me than being back in
the States on my own and hounded by reporters until they got enough to
satisfy them.
I gave in quickly, worrying that I would get on the bad side of the press
if I played hard to get. Then, Alistair called back suggesting that he be
allowed to set up a formal photo session. He wanted to assure that there
was an ample supply of good pictures of me available to avoid having
magazines publishing bad ones. I read between the lines a little and
surmised that he wanted to present me at my best to make me a little more
palatable to the fans. This I agreed to with more enthusiasm. I would
rather not see myself staring back from a newspaper or magazine with lumpy
hair, closed eyes, open mouth or any of the other things candid shots are
prone to.
After lunch, I called my parents. Having been forewarned by Paul, they were
over whatever surprise they had felt at the engagement and Mom had leaped
ahead to worrying about wedding plans. I assured her there was plenty of
time for sorting all that out and we would talk when I got home. When I
asked what Paul had said when he called, Mom just laughed. "Your dad
answered the phone. He said Paul apologized about six times for not waiting
like he said he would but he just couldn't let you leave again without a
ring on your finger. I don't know what else he said but your dad couldn't
get a word in edgewise. He finally put his hand over the receiver and told
me what was going on. He said, ‘It's Paul and he says he's gonna propose
today because ... some nonsense about the other half of his life. What do I
tell him?' That's when I made him give me the phone!”
We left Liverpool mid-afternoon and drove back to London. Those hours alone
in the back of the Limo were precious. Back in London, we were met by a mob
of reporters and gatebirds waiting outside the house. Police were on hand
and it was no problem getting safely inside but it was weird knowing they
were out there all evening. The phone rang constantly here, too. Each of
the other Beatles called to congratulate us, as did a hundred other people.
The next day was crammed with the photo session and press interviews.
The interviews were actually the easy part. There were no new or original
questions. The morning photo session was the nerve-wracking part of the
day. I didn't know what to wear and Paul's shrugged “We just wear whatever
we are wearing,” was no help at all. At the last minute, I called Pattie
for suggestions. She came to my rescue, saying she would meet us at the
photographers and suggesting I bring several changes of clothes along. She
showed up with all the equipment needed for hairstyling and a huge make-up
kit. Amused, Paul sat down next to her as she prepared to transform a
simple country girl into a mod member of London's swinging set. I went
along with it right up until she started to paste on a set of false
eyelashes. They were so thick and long and sweeping, I wondered if I would
even be able to lift my eyelids under the weight!
“Pattie,” I said, hesitant to offend her yet determined not to wear them,
“This just isn't me! Can we just skip these?”
“How about these instead?” she asked, rummaging through her kit and coming
up with a pair that was only the size of a Texas tarantula.
I turned to Paul, hoping for support. He had a big grin on his face. “Don't
look at me!” he protested. “I like you dripping wet, fresh from the shower,
remember?”
That was all I needed. “OK, Pattie. No false eyelashes. We'll stick with
mascara.” I knew without that, my eyes would just disappear in the photos.
Pattie looked dubious. “Perhaps with lots of eyeliner—”
“A little eyeliner, a touch of shadow, and no white lipstick!”
I must have sat for a hundred poses and learned how to twist myself into a
photographic pretzel. “Chin up, lovie. Right shoulder forward, left elbow
back, and lean into it. Good! Good! Now, lovie, cross your left leg over
the right and arch your back just a bit! Now give me a deep, mysterious
look.”
Paul watched, laughing, from the sidelines. Finally, the photographer
called a tea break but followed Paul and me around with the camera all
through it. We went back for more posed shots, this time with Paul and I
together and finally, we were done.
We had lunch with Brian and Alistair and then it was off to meet the press.
That went OK and we went back home, alone, bracing ourselves for the
goodbye that would come at 6:00 a.m. when I got on my plane, and fortifying
ourselves against the next separation. How long that separation would be
was dependent on how quickly the Sgt. Pepper album was wrapped up. Paul
admitted he was having a hard time rushing it even though it meant we would
be apart.
After once again turning him down on the issue of moving in with him when I
did move to London, I went to take a shower. I was glad to scrub off the
makeup and wash out the ton of hair spray. When I stepped out into the
bedroom, Paul was waiting with a camera. “Now these are the photos I want!”
he said, snapping away.
“You can't take pictures of me in this!” I protested. I was wearing a
filmy, nearly see-through, red baby-doll nightie. “You can't take them in
to have them developed. There will be copies made for sure!”
“I'll do them meself. Mike has a darkroom. Now lie down on the bed, turn on
your right side, look over your shoulder, wet your lips and give me a
sultry look, lovie!”
Laughing at his imitation of the photographer, I grabbed the camera and we
ended up wrestling on the bed. Paul was winning. He managed to pull my gown
up and take what I hoped would be a dreadfully out of focus shot of my left
breast. I shrieked and pounded at him while he laughed and held the camera
at arm's length, snapping picture after picture.
“You are wasting film,” I told him. “None of that is going to come out
anyway!”
“You are right,” he said. “Hold on while I get the flash attachment.”
“No! You can't take this kind of pictures!”
“Why not? They are just for me. I can at least have a picture if I can't
have you here!”
Thinking it would make him stop and think and realize the potential danger
of having this kind of pictures around for someone else to get hold of, I
said, “Then I want pictures of you!”
He laughed, rolled off me, got up, and stripped naked. “Too bad I can't
develop my own movie film!”
I gasped and he said “I'll set the timer and put the camera on the dresser.
Take off your nightgown, love. Let's do this right.”
“Absolutely not!” I said as he prepared the camera.
“No way in hell!” I said as he came back to the bed.
“You can't be serious!” I said as he tried to undress me.
“Oh, but I am that,” he said, trying to persuade me with kisses and roaming
hands, “but, alas, I am also a lousy photographer.”
Something in his voice tipped me off. I pushed him back so I could see his
face and sure enough, he was grinning like a schoolboy.
“I sometimes forget to take the lens cap off,” he said as his hands slipped
up under my gown. “Sometimes even forget to put film in the camera,” he
said as he tipped me down on the bed. Then he pulled the blanket over us
blocking out the empty camera and the whole prying world.