By the time John's plane left the local rock radio station, WDGY, was
beginning to report rumors that John Lennon had been seen in town and I
braced myself for reporters. When I tried to leave the hospital Monday
afternoon there were several of them hanging around the employee entrance,
correctly having guessed that if John was in town, it would be to see me. I
was considering the stupid but still appealing idea of flat-out lying and
saying John had never been here, but with a police report on file saying
they had been called to a disturbance created by his presence, that wasn't
going to fly! A delaying tactic was the best I could do. I ducked back
inside, called Sandy and had her bring some street clothes in to me and
left through the front door, mingling with a family of visitors,
unidentifiable as a student nurse.
Morning brought a couple of die-hard reporters to my door. They had finally
found out where I lived. I wasn't surprised as much as relieved that they
hadn't managed it while John was still there. The fact that they weren't
sharp enough or interested enough to find an address hundreds of fans had
already ferreted out amused Sandy, Brenda, and me. We decided to make them
work for any further information. We hatched a plan, packed up our books
and ventured down the stairs and off the front porch. Brenda and I rushed
to her car, Sandy dawdled a little behind. The reporters closed in on her,
discovered quickly she wasn't the right one and caught up with me as I
tossed my books into the car. After confirming that I was Tess Martin, they
asked if it was true that John was in town and I was able to say with
complete honesty, “No, he is in California.”
“Lots of reports that he is here. People saw him at a party—”
“Terry, we are going to be late for school!” Brenda said urgently.
“Sorry,” I said to the reporters as I got into the car. “We have to get to
class. We have clinical this morning—”
“Terry! We have to go!” Brenda repeated with over-acting sending her voice
into the hysteria range. She had the car started and I waved at the
reporters and pulled the door shut as she pulled away. We left them
standing on the sidewalk and laughed all the way to school. Brenda just
thought it was fun to get away with it and was pleased with being able to
give John a break from the press. I was just plain relieved. I guess the
local media never really believed the rumors in the first place because
they never followed up, never learned of the police intervention, and
didn't bother me again. Their laxness gave me the courage to go ahead with
my plans to see John again.
Over the next few weeks, I planned the trip to California. I knew we had
just gotten lucky with his last visit and the worries I'd had about
reporters finding out about that visit were laughable compared to the ones
I had about them finding out about me visiting him in California. Alone.
Secretly. The press would never be so quick to give up a lead on a juicy
story like that. Part of the reason I was able to go ahead with the plan is
that it seemed like a juicy story only if you looked at it from the
outside. From the inside, we were simply two people who wanted some time
alone together. What we did was no one else's business. So I told the
necessary lies, more irritated by the need to lie than remorseful about
doing so.
Mom was only mildly disappointed that I wouldn't be home for Thanksgiving
but mistaken about the reason. Anne told me that Mom thought I wasn't
coming home because I was mad at her because she was upset about my
allowing John to visit. I assured her I just wanted to earn some extra
money for Christmas. The less Anne knew, the better off she would be. Mom
had grilled the poor kid for weeks when I first got back from England,
guessing correctly that if I told anyone it would be Anne. She didn't need
the burden of any more information about her sister's descent into carnal
depravity.
Yes, that is about how I viewed it. Carnal depravity. No excuses of being
in love, believing it would lead to marriage, or any other illusions. I
simply enjoyed being with John and in an odd combination of childish
stubbornness and adult self-determination about morality, I was going to do
this.
John didn't think there would be a problem with privacy. The house where he
was staying was a guest house on a private estate owned by the head of the
movie studio. There were two other guest cottages in addition to the huge
mansion and they were used by VIPs, actors, or writers of whatever project
was currently of great importance to the studio. The enclosed estate had
security staff as well as chauffeurs, cooks, and maids. John simply picked
up the phone if he wanted anything. He had nearly complete privacy on the
estate and a driver or a car or security any time he wanted them. He would
make sure there was plenty of food in the house, tell the maid she wouldn't
be needed over the holiday, and give Hans and Tom the days off too. If we
wanted to go out, there was a car I could drive. The only person who would
see me would be the driver who picked me up and took me back to the
airport. I wasn't someone who would be recognized by anyone but a die-hard
Beatles fan so using a false name and wearing sunglasses and pulling my
hair up under a touristy looking sun hat would be sufficient. If ever
questioned about who he picked up or delivered to the airport, all the
driver would have would be a fake name and a vague description.
After the last class on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I rushed home
and prayed Brenda and Sandy would head out for their respective family
get-togethers quickly. They were taking their time, so I reported that the
radio was predicting bad weather later, they should leave soon. That
worked. They left, I grabbed the suitcase I had packed and hidden under my
bed and raced to the airport.
With the time difference, it was only early evening in L.A. when I arrived.
I claimed my luggage and found my driver was waiting at the assigned spot,
far away from the Northwest Airlines gate I arrived at. The sunglasses were
a little much that late in the day, but I wore them anyway. I needn't have
bothered. The driver barely looked at me as he took my luggage and escorted
me to the car. It was nearly an hour's drive to the beach house where John
was living. The driver unloaded my suitcase, carried it to the door of
John's guest house, accepted a large tip from John, and disappeared
wordlessly.
“Thank God you've gotten here, Agent 00Tess,” John greeted me as he closed
the door behind us. “Are you certain you weren't followed? The bastards are
clever, but we have our ways if we need to take further action.”
“No, I wasn't followed, and I checked everything thoroughly to make sure
they haven't planted a tracking device on me,” I laughed.
“Good work, but perhaps I should double check,” he said and then proceeded
to frisk me. He started with a routine patting down but on the way back up,
his hands were not just patting.
I was laughing and didn't bother to pretend to protest. I was here to have
fun. He pulled me to him for a kiss and when we finally came up for air, he
said, “This is going to have to wait. We might not get another clear
evening while you are here and you don't want to miss the sunset. Let's go
down to the beach.”
I turned and got my first view of the ocean through the wall of glass that
was the back of the beach house. The sun was an orange ball of flame
hovering just above the water. The memory of another ocean sunset hit me
hard. I gritted my teeth and refused, just flat out refused, to let that
memory find a foothold. I would not get caught up in that again.
John stopped to grab a couple of blankets and took me out across the deck
and down the steps to the narrow beach. We bundled up in the blankets and
watched the sun go down and the light fade, talking. There were a few
questions about my flight, a few awed comments about the sunset, and some
easy kisses. If I had been nervous at all about seeing him again, that was
gone in no time. As the stars came out, he went back for wood and started a
fire in the shelter of some rocks. I watched him start the fire, snuggled
up next to him, and when he kissed me again, I slipped my hand under his
shirt and jokingly asked just how private the beach was.
I never got a verbal answer. The air was chilly and damp, and I was already
shivering a little, but the sand under the blanket was dry and still warm,
the stars were coming out and the fire was hot and his hands felt so good.
I lay back on the blanket and took him down with me. He pulled the other
blanket over us. From then on it was a blur of intoxicating fresh sea air,
stars brightening in the darkening sky over his head, the heat of his body,
the dancing light of the fire, the sound of the waves.
“Welcome to California,” he laughed as he lifted my skirt and tugged my
panties down. It was over in just a few minutes. I had thought of little
else for weeks so it was no wonder that was all it took before I was moving
under his hand, breathing so hard and fast, and feeling the climax take
over, as easy as that. John wasted no time either and when he was finished
and had caught his breath, he lifted his head and looked down at me. This
was no look of ongoing passion, undying love, or anything else like that.
Just a smile of simple enjoyment. This was so easy! I was just plain happy
for the first time in too long. I smiled a big goofy smile at him and
suddenly we were both laughing.
“You enjoyed that, did you?” John said. “Here I thought you came to
California for the sunshine!”
“I came for you,” I said.
“Because you know I'm easy!”
I laughed at him. “That is part of it, but I have always liked being with
you. The sex is kind of like a bonus.”
“Like getting green stamps with your marketing?”
“Exactly!” I laughed. “I'm saving up for a toaster.”
“By the end of the weekend, I should think you'll be able to get a new
telly! I can tell you really like it!” He eased off of me and rearranged
the blanket over us.
“Yes, I do. Sometimes I think that was the meanest thing Paul did to me,
introduce me to the wonders of sex!” I said, laughing. “I never knew what I
was missing. Now I am miserable without it!”
That got him laughing. “Guys feel like that from the time they are twelve
years old. How come girls don't?”
“I don't know. Maybe because boys have the ... um ... equipment right out
there and it is easier for them to figure it out, try it out.”
“And if they don't, they wake up wet and sticky!”
“Yeah, but girls don't have a clue as to what it is all about.”
“So they never get horny until after some guy shows them?”
“I don't know. I guess they just don't know that is what they are feeling.
At least I didn't. I dreamed about how good it would feel to hold somebody
close, but there wasn't a whole lot of physical detail. Just a lot of
feeling. It was as much emotional as physical. I thought I was dreaming
about being in love.”
“So now you have x-rated fucking dreams instead?”
“Now I have the same dreams and wake up wanting both the sex and the love,”
I answered.
Something in my voice must have given me away because he hugged me close
and said, “Someday you'll find it, Tess. Hang on.” What he didn't say was
“You won't find it with me.” He had said it the last time we were together
and knew I understood that. Even so, I felt an odd moment of emptiness. I
suppose there was an element of wishing that he and I could somehow make
something of this, but I preferred to think of that emptiness as being a
recognition that I was going to be alone again in a few days. I quickly
found a smile for John. “In the meantime, can I hang on to you?”
“I thought I was hanging on to you!”
“Then we are in big trouble!”
When it got too cold, we headed back to the house for a late dinner, wine
in front of the fireplace, and sex on the floor. Slow, thorough sex,
everything I couldn't hold out for on the beach. Afterward, when I was
exhausted, lying limp in his arms, he started again! I thought perhaps he
wasn't satisfied with plain old sex. I slid down and gave it my best
effort, doing for him what I had never done to Paul, graduating to that
second level of expertise. I don't know exactly why I had never brought
Paul to climax that way. I guess I wasn't ready for that at first, and
during our time in Scotland, oral sex was just foreplay for the real thing.
Anyway, I was glad to have something to give John that I hadn't given Paul
even if John didn't know that. Maybe it was my way of being sort of a
virgin again and giving him that.
When I had finished him off and he caught his breath, John said, “I thought
you were a virgin just a few months ago. When did you learn to do that?” He
sounded a little shocked, and shocking John was something I had not thought
possible. For all his talk, he had absorbed a lot of his Aunt Mimi's
traditional values. I just didn't think they extended to sexual practices.
I was confused and more than a little embarrassed.
I slid back up into his arms, snuggling against him. “Well, we couldn't do
it until I was on the pill, so Paul and I... " I wasn't immune to saying
his name, and these memories still hurt. “At first, we just did everything
else.”
John was laughing. “You mean he taught you to do that before you even had
sex?”
“I guess so but he didn't exactly teach me. Not like he said 'Do this, now
do that.' He just encouraged me to do whatever felt good. I just did what
he did to me and ... figured out what he liked.”
He was laughing hard now. “Oh, Luv. Do you know that some people never do
what you two did those first few days?”
I was blushing furiously. I hadn't known that. If I had thought that oral
sex was outside the norm before Paul, he had erased that notion. Paul had
made oral sex seem like just another way of making love. Thinking that it
was just another example of how little I knew about sex in spite of my
‘book learnin’ I went right from thinking it was a rare and kinky thing to
assuming that everyone included that in their bedroom activities. Now John
was telling me that wasn’t so either. The fact that I had shocked him by
doing it made it pretty clear that it was not something good girls did. I
suddenly felt dirty, cheap, immoral, and all the other bad labels I thought
didn't apply to me.
“But it feels so good,” I protested weakly.
John heard the misery in my voice. He leaned over me, brushing my hair back
from my face. “Oh, Luv,” he said with a little laugh, “There is nothing
wrong with giving someone a blow job. Or letting a guy go down on you. How
can it be wrong to make someone feel good? Some people are just so
tight-assed and hung up on sex that anything but a quick poke on Saturday
night is against their morals. The human body is made for more than that.”
“At least my body is,” I agreed, responding to his reassurances.
He laughed and said, “Tess, you aren't abnormal. You just somehow escaped
all the crap about sex that some girls have pounded into their brains, all
that crap that keeps them from letting go and doing what comes naturally.
You might have been inexperienced, but I doubt Paul had to teach you
anything, just turn you loose!”
I guess every girl has to ask the question at some point as she tries her
sexual wings and this was my time. “John, am I ... good?”
He chuckled. “Only you would ask like that! Straight up, ‘Am I a good lay?'
You are supposed to hint around, fish for compliments!”
“You would never give me a straight answer if I did that,” I responded,
putting the blame for my social faux pas back on him, “and I want to know.”
“Luv, I knew you would be good right from the first. The way you looked at
Paul. Dead easy to see. You weren't swooning over a Beatle, you were hot.
Definitely had potential. If I hadn't thought that, I never would have
hired you.”
I sat straight up in shock and indignation. “That's why you hired me? You
were thinking about... " I spluttered to a halt.
“No,” he said with a laugh and yanked me back down. “I was just sending you
up. I hired you because you cared about me, looked out for me. You didn't
look at me and see a Beatle either. You looked right past all that crap and
saw me.”
As usual, I found it hard to take a compliment head on. “Well, I saw a
patient I was responsible for.”
That got a chuckle from John. “That got to me too. You were so scared but
so serious and determined. It was sweet. I usually don't like sweet little
things, but you ... I don't know how, but you just walked right in.”
“No one is more surprised at that than I am,” I said. “I think it was just
because you were hurt and needed someone. You let down your guard.”
He nodded and nuzzled my ear. “And then you sneaked into me bed. That's
when I started getting ideas about how good you would be!”
“You pervert!”
“I was right! You do just fine, girl. You are going to find Prince Charming
someday, and he is going to be one lucky bloke.”
“I just hope Prince Charming has a bed,” I laughed. “Are we ever going to
do this in a bed? Lumpy couch, cold beach, hard floor. You really know how
to show a girl a good time!”
John grinned. “We haven't done the kitchen table or the shower or the back
of the limo yet!”
“I don't think I can do it again tonight. I'm beat!”
“One good turn deserves another. Let me do you.”
“OK, but in a bed.”
We took my suitcase into his bedroom and I hung up my clothes, went into
the bathroom and did my nightly routine, slipped into bed with John, and
soon the score was Tess 2, John 4. Even though he had gone down on me and
it had felt good, I was just too sleepy and maybe sexually sated to make
it. Afterward, I heard him say something about “next time” but I was
already half asleep. Worn out from a long day of school, travel, and time
change, and sedated by sex, I fell asleep quickly. I woke up in the middle
of the night to the touch of his hands. I snuggled into his arms and would
have fallen back to sleep immediately but he was persistent.
“Now?” I asked in a sleepy haze.
“You feel so good. I can't just lie here next to you and not want you.” I
was a pushover for a line like that and this time I improved my batting
average. Tess 3, John 5.
When I awoke it was morning and John was already up. I was just lying there
looking out the big windows at the ocean trying to imagine what it would be
like to live in this incredible house when John came in to see if I was
awake. He slowly slid the sheet back and stretched out next to me. Next
thing I knew, we were at it again. I think I could have really enjoyed
it—there was something really erotic about him being up and dressed and
started on his day while I stayed naked in his bed, as though that is where
he kept me, a secret pleasure he could come back to any time of the day or
night—but somewhere in the back of my mind, this was making me very uneasy.
Paul and I had managed to spend a lot of time in bed, but it was not like
this. Six times in twelve hours? I couldn't help but wonder if John wasn't
on something. I had heard of Spanish Fly but understood that the guy didn't
take it, the girl did (or had it slipped into her drink). I also understood
that it caused frenzied lust. John was not frenzied, he was sweet and
gentle, but I still wondered if there were some other drugs that had
similar if somewhat toned down effects. After all, this was California, the
hedonistic capital of the country. If there was such a drug, my little
Midwestern mind believed it would be in common supply here! The idea that
he might be using some kind of drug was a little scary and so it was soon
Tess 3, John 6.
“Tess, if there is something else you want me to do... " he said. John knew
the score. It never occurred to me to fake it.
“No! You are doing just fine.”
He grinned. “I am doing great, but you don't seem to be. Just tell me what
you like. I'll do anything except wear your knickers.”
I started laughing and hugged him. “Last night I was too sleepy and this
morning I am starved and I just want food more than sex. Fix me breakfast.”
“Fix your own breakfast, woman,” he said slapping my bottom. “The offer is
limited to sex—and the sex is unlimited.”
We were finally up and dressed in time to catch the end of the Thanksgiving
Day Parade on TV. A huge Thanksgiving dinner was delivered, fully cooked
and complete with turkey, stuffing, cranberries, sweet potatoes, and
pumpkin pie. Afterward, a long walk on the beach was desperately needed. We
walked for hours, talking and sharing.
He had come a long way in a few months. When I first met him, he was in a
tailspin, convinced that his “lifelong” dream, attained before he was
twenty-five, was over. Even though he had gone further than he had ever
imagined, the dream had gone sour somewhere along the way. He had gone back
to London thinking that he could salvage a good life on the edges of the
dream, only to find that home was as empty as the dream. Angry, lost, he
didn't know what he was supposed to do with the whole rest of his life.
Now, he was moving again. He didn't know where he was headed, but he was
trying. Movies, art, politics, writing, and always music. He knew that
there was something more he was meant to do, something more important than
being a Beatle for girls to scream at and money men to get rich off of. He
told me he believed he was either crazy or a genius. I didn't think he was
crazy but I didn't think he was a genius either. Eccentric, really bright,
but not crazy and probably not a genius. That statement was pure John
Lennon; incredible ego plagued by raging insecurity. Sometimes he was so
obviously a little boy trying any way he could to prove he was somebody
even if neither of his parents wanted him. Exaggerated ego was how he
coped. It scared me to think that having been a Beatle was not enough. If
that fame, money, and mark on the world of music did not make him
worthwhile in his own eyes, what ever could? What would it take to put
childhood hurts to rest?
Anyway, he was feeling good. His confidence was up and he had the time and
money to explore a lot of possibilities. He was ready to go back to being a
Beatle but on his terms this time.
Back at the beach house, we sat in the kitchen picking at leftovers. “I've
got to quit eating,” I said. “I'll be stuffed again and I don't think I
could do that walk again. I'm worn out.”
I was sitting on the counter and John looked up at me with what was
becoming a very familiar look on his face. “We could go have a little
lie-down.”
I didn't know what to say. It wasn't a bad idea. After the walk on the
beach, I felt so close to him. If I hadn't thought there was something
abnormal about his wanting me again, I would have enjoyed it. He saw
something in my expression and got up and came to me.
“What is it?” he asked as he took my hands in his.
I looked at him and realized that if I started holding back, playing games,
he would be out of my life as fast as he could. He was lonely and I was
here because I was someone he trusted. “Are you taking something?” I asked.
He was bewildered. “What are you talking about?”
“You just ... well, I thought maybe you took something to make you want to
do it. I mean it's not like I'm Bridget Bardot and you just keep on."
He burst out laughing. “You thought I had discovered some aphrodisiac, some
kind of Ever Hard Pill?”
Burning with embarrassment, I nodded.
He got a great laugh out of that but apologized anyway. “I'm sorry, Luv. I
didn't mean to scare you.” Lord, he could read me like a book. “It's just
me, honest. I've been living like a monk since I last saw you.”
“You have? Why?” I certainly had no notion that he had been waiting for me.
That idea never occurred to me. I was just so surprised that the words
popped out. That gave him another laugh.
“I wasn't being faithful and true to you, you little love-obsessed idiot.”
That was delivered with a hug that took the sting out of the sarcasm.
“We've been putting in some long days on the set and I've been busy working
on some songs. I haven't written anything since Revolver and I was
beginning to think... I know you think I am some kind of sex god, but when
I get involved in something, everything else just goes out the window.
Right now, I am involved in you. Besides, I have to do something to make up
for not being Paul.”
“Is that what you thought? That I was thinking of Paul?”
He shrugged. “Of course you were.”
“Look, I can't say I never think of him but that didn't stop me last night
or even the first couple of times we did it at my place, and I thought a
lot more about him then, but even when I do think of him, it isn't to wish
you were him.”
“Comparing us, are you?” he laughed.
“Well, yeah,” I had to admit.
“And?”
“Oh come on! I wasn't comparing you like “Which one is better?” I was
comparing how you did it. What was different, what was the same.”
“And who was bigger, harder,—”
Of course I had but didn't want to discuss it. “No! Technique!”
“Who has the best technique, then?”
“Stop it!”
“Oh, Come ‘ead. You can tell me. It's just one bird's opinion, after all,
isn't it? It's not as if you were an expert in the field! Little Miss
Proper, you are!”
“Come on! You don't have to be a ... one of them to know good from bad in
bed!”
“So, who is better, me or Paulie?”
As usual, he had me so exasperated, the only thing left was the truth. “I
can't tell you. I don't know! I was so lost in Paul. It was all mixed up
with love and dreams and promises. I can't compare you. It's entirely
different—and I fully expect that one of these days I am going to meet some
guy who will make both of you look like amateurs!”
“Oh yeah?” he growled. He slid me off the counter and I hung on, arms
around his neck and legs around his waist. I thought we were headed for the
bedroom but I found myself on my back on the kitchen table with a turkey
carcass on one side and a melting cranberry mold on the other. We did it on
the table. Tess 4, John 7.
Friday morning I woke up and lay quietly watching John sleep. When he
finally stirred, I said, “Now don't get upset, but I have been lying here
thinking and there is something I have to tell you.”
He looked at me, surprised and wary.
“No, don't worry. It is all right. It is just something I have to say and
hope you will understand.”
“Let's have it then, Luv.”
“I love you.”
He took it better than I thought he would. I had this vision of him leaping
out of bed, grabbing his clothes and disappearing. No, it wouldn't happen
like that at all. John would toss me, my clothes, and my suitcase out the
front door! Instead, he just looked at me, shook his head and said, “Tess,
no. I told you—”
“I know, and nothing has changed. It is just that I may never see you
again, and I want you to know how much I care about you. Maybe it is just
me. Maybe I have to justify being here with you by saying I love you. I
don't mean I love you like ‘I want to marry you and have your baby.' You
are the best friend I ever had and the sex is great, but I'm not in love
with you. I just love you, that's all, and I wanted you to know.”
He pulled me into the circle of his arm, my head on his shoulder. “I
understand,” he said softly. We lay quietly for a few minutes, then he
turned on his side to face me. “Tess, I told you that sex is just physical.
That it doesn't matter who you are with, but that is not true. It is
something special with you because you care and so do I. I love you, too.”
“Oh, John,” I said, feeling a little overwhelmed. I hadn't expected this.
Hoped for it, I suppose, but not expected it. “Don't tell me that. I am not
strong enough to hear it, no matter how you mean it.”
“I mean it just as you do. Maybe if things had been different."
“What do you mean?”
“If Paul hadn't taken an interest, if I hadn't still been with Cyn."
I didn't have to think about that. No “if” about it. “Yes. I would have
been yours. It wouldn't have worked out though.”
“Why not?” he asked, surprised.
“Because I am nothing but an American version of Cyn. We would have ended
up the same way.”
He thought about that for a while. “Yeah, in some ways you are a lot alike
but you are not as shy, not as scared of things. You are tougher. Hell, you
stood up to me!”
“I was just doing my job, being your nurse!”
He laughed. “More than that. Being my friend, and if the cute one hadn't
butted in, I would have had you! I saw you first and by rights you were
mine!”
“Oh ho!” I said. “Now it all comes out! This is nothing but you reclaiming
stolen goods. One-upmanship with Paul!”
“Oh,” he countered, “and I thought this was just your little revenge on
Paulie for being an asshole!”
I was startled. “No, that's not true!” I protested. “I never thought of
being with you as a way of getting even with him.”
Sobered by my heartfelt objection to his teasing, John observed quietly,
“Me thinks she doth protest too much."
“No, it isn't that way at all. I just don't want you to think for one
minute that I am sleeping with you for any reason except that I care about
you.”
“Hmmm. I seem to recall the first occasion being a ... what was it? A
sexorcism, I believe was the term.”
As usual, John was winning this battle. “Yeah, but I was having a hard time
getting over Paul but I wouldn't have slept with you if I didn't care about
you!”
John was grinning at my discomfort. “Now there is the real difference
between us, Luv. I would have balled you at the drop of a hat. Liking you
was purely coincidental! Admit it, girl, we're a good pair, you and I.
Petty, spiteful little people and sex maniacs to boot!”
I couldn't help but laugh at him. “Listen, did you hear that?” I asked.
“What?”
“Why I do believe I heard a hat dropping!”
“Aha!” His hands were sliding my nightgown up.
“And John—I love you anyway,” I said.
So our too-short weekend sped by. We didn't spend all of our time having
sex, though it seemed like that was always the intermission between other
activities. In those few days we were together we drove up the coast, out
to the desert, up to the mountains and I even found myself driving through
Bel Air to gawk at famous people's houses. I drove while John navigated
using a map to the stars' homes. John thought that was a riot. I was oohing
and ahhing over the homes of the stars while one of the biggest celebrities
in the world was sitting beside me.
We did a lot of talking or at least John did. It was as if he had saved up
weeks worth of things waiting for me, waiting for a friend to talk to. He
talked of his regret at hurting Cyn, guilt at leaving Julian, brave talk
and wild plans about what he was going to do with his life, stories of
incredible parties and LSD trips at Hollywood mansions. Scattered in
between that, he would throw in something about books he had been reading.
There were stacks of books piled here and there, half packed for shipping
back to England; history, philosophy, sociology, psychology, religion,
science fiction. I felt like the village idiot next to this guy who hated
school, barely squeaked into an art college, then dropped out to avoid
being kicked out.
As for the sex, I had thought he was kidding, but we did it in the shower
and on the couch as well as the bed in those four days. Or more precisely,
we did it standing up, bent over the back of the couch, and in a variety of
positions on the bed. I don't know exactly why we got into trying different
positions. Paul and I hadn't gone much beyond the standard face to face
position, maybe because we were so busy gazing into each other's eyes and
holding each other close. Sex with John was just so much fun and so just
plain sexual that my thoughts were more on the sensations and the
possibilities than the emotions. John caught on right away that I was
curious and willing, and took it from there.
John liked sex. Often. Fast, but often. It was so different from being with
Paul. Paul whispered sweet things. John laughed and teased and the words he
used were words I had always thought of as crude and dirty but his voice
and his touch made them intimate and sexy. Paul made love to me like he was
composing a song, building slowly, trying out new moods, new tempos, but
always moving toward the end—and always satisfying. John was a dee-jay
spinning a song and if that one didn't work for you, or was over too soon,
all you had to do was ask and he would be ready and more than willing to
play another. You were bound to catch fire with one of them. I certainly
did. Even if I couldn't quite catch up with John on the scoreboard. I found
that instead of reaching a point of being sexually sated and disinterested
in more, I was more easily turned on than ever. Release was slower in
coming but that was part of the appeal. I was never really “done.” Maybe it
was something about the total privacy or the freedom from emotional
turmoil—Does he love me? Where do we go from here?—or just the simple fact
that this weekend was meant for sex, but I enjoyed it. It was just plain
fun. Exhausting, but fun.
With two exceptions, it was a fantastic vacation. The first exception was
expected: Letting go of John and letting go for good this time. Sunday
morning we slept until nine, did it one last time, a slow and gentle
goodbye. I held back the tears but was gratified to see that John seemed a
little quiet and sad too. It wasn't that I had ever planned for any future
for us. It was obvious we were headed in different directions. I wanted to
be a nurse, quietly helping people one at a time. He wanted to stir people
up, challenge their views, and do it a million people at a time. I wanted a
home, a safe shelter for raising my children. That is what he had just
rejected as stifling and boring. Different directions.
I guess it was possible to say goodbye to him because of that—and because I
was just plain too scared to go on. Being with him was inevitably going to
bring on a firestorm. My parents would be furious and humiliated to find I
was with him even if we managed to keep it from them until after the
divorce was filed. Catholics could not marry someone who was divorced, and
if I was with him, it sure as hell better be heading toward marriage. Not
that they would allow that, anyway!
Dealing with my parents might be easier than dealing with the press. No
matter how much I protested and explained, it was going to look as though
this had started while I was in England. “Home-wrecker” would be the nicest
thing people would call me. Even if we survived that, it would mean going
to England and living with John. His divorce wouldn't be final for a year
after Cyn filed. I didn't think I could expect a warm welcome from anyone
there.
The bottom line was simple; even if John eventually felt ready to try
marriage again ( a big “if”, I thought) would I want to be married to him?
I adored the guy, loved being around him, loved having sex with him, but
was I prepared for a lifetime with him? I just didn't know if I could
handle his ups and downs, his drug thing, his lifestyle. Contemplating
those things when I was with Paul had been a piece of cake compared to the
extremes of John's way of going at things. He did nothing by halves.
Everything was all or nothing with him. I was too cautious, too inhibited,
too careful to deal well with his approach to life. These four days of
having his ideas soaring over my head reminded me of what I had always
known: I just couldn't keep up with him. They had also made sure that I
would always, always love him. I knew we would keep in touch for a while,
but in time we would both have another life. I would never forget him. We
promised that if the other ever needed a friend, we would be there for each
other, no matter how many years intervened.
The second, unexpected exception came right after breakfast. I was starting
to pack and John had just stepped into the shower when the phone rang. The
staff from the main house called every morning to see if we needed anything
and I assumed it was them so I went out to the living room to answer it. A
voice said, “Is John there, please.”
The room spun and tilted as if California had chosen that moment for its
long-predicted slide into the ocean. I sat down hard on the couch. “Hello,
Paul,” I managed to say. Getting those words out was excruciating. I was
amazed to hear myself add, “John can't come to the phone right now.”
There was a long silence on the line before Paul said, in a voice so cold I
barely recognized it, “Tell him to ring me. I need to know when he is
coming back so I can get studio time arranged.”
“He'll be back in London on Wednesday.”
“Good. We need to get going on this.”
I was fighting tears. I didn't know what to say, I only knew I didn't want
him to hang up. “How are you, Paul?”
After another long silence he said, “I am just fine, and it looks like you
got what you wanted after all.”
I didn't know what the words meant, but the voice was hard and the words
hit like bullets. “What I wanted?” I asked in bewilderment.
“A Beatle. Too bad he is married, but I guess that is just a temporary
inconvenience. Congratulations, Tess.” The line went dead and I dropped the
phone.
John found me curled up on the couch, beyond tears, numb with pain and
shock. Paul hated me! I never expected that!
“Tess, what the hell?." He saw the phone and picked it up and when he found
the line dead, he slammed the receiver back onto the cradle. Pulling me up
into his arms, he looked scared when he saw my face.
“What happened, love? Tess, honey, talk to me!”
“He hates me,” I whispered, still reeling from the anger in Paul's voice.
“Who?”
“Paul.”
“He was on the phone?”
“He needed to know when you were coming back. So he could . .. so he... "
Could what? I couldn't think.
“Tess, come on, love!” John was shaking me a little. Apparently, I was not
too coherent.
“Oh, yeah. Arrange studio time. I told him Wednesday.” Zombie secretary.
I must have sounded awful. John propped me up on the couch and disappeared,
not that I really noticed. He returned a minute later with a glass, and
said, “Drink this.” I did, and coughed and spluttered on the whiskey that
burned all the way down.
“Jesus Christ, John!” I croaked when I could finally talk. “That only works
in the movies!”
He laughed in relief and amusement. “Seems to have done you!”
“Next time just slap me!”
“I'll slap that bloody bastard! What did he say to you?”
I had to think for a minute. If his words had made sense, I didn't get it
because all I had heard was the anger and biting sarcasm. When I finally
came up with the words, the tears that shock had frozen melted down my
face. “He said ‘Congratulations.' That all I wanted was one of the Beatles
and now I have one.”
I thought knowing that he used me to cheat on someone else was painful, but
knowing that he thought I was just some kind of ultimate groupie was
crushing. I thought I had been the angry one, but his voice... I had
thought that if I ever heard his voice again it would be like tearing open
an old wound, but this was worse. It tore open the old wound and then
stabbed deeper with the new pain of knowing he despised me.
I was close to losing it, crying myself into exhaustion, but then I looked
up and saw the worried look on John's face. I would not give in to the
tears. I would not spend my last few hours with John crying over Paul
again. I didn't think I could have any more tears to cry on that situation
anyway. I wiped my eyes, finding I could be tough if it was important, and
John was.
We went for one last walk along the beach together. When we got back to the
beach house we sat on the deck, looking out over the ocean. The gray,
overcast day matched the mood that was closing in as it got closer to time
for me to leave.
“This is a little difficult,” John commented.
“What is?”
“Saying goodbye to you. I don't know why we are together in the first
place, but I don't look forward to being alone again.”
That just about summed up my feelings about being with him. I told him my
theory, that we were together because we were both alone, finding temporary
shelter until we felt strong enough to go out and try again.
He agreed with the part about being alone but objected to the idea that he
would find someone else someday. He didn't believe in love ever after. “I
need something bigger than that,” he said. “Something more than someone who
loves me. I've had that and it just isn't enough.”
“Maybe someday you'll find someone you can love, someone who is enough.”
“God, that sounds like a curse!” he laughed.
I thought of Paul and thought maybe he was right, but that wasn't a fair
comparison to the kind of love I had in mind. “Not if she loves you just as
much!” I said.
“That's just it. It isn't just loving. I have so many empty spots. So much
I need.”
“And so much to give,” I pointed out.
He shrugged. “I don't know. She'd have to be strong enough to take it.”
I laughed at that. “Oh, yeah. Strong and smart and a sex machine!”
He laughed too and put his arm around me. “Ok, so I am asking for the
impossible. Hell, look at you. Perfect material for a wife and I can't see
myself with you. Not like that.”
“I'd be a great wife for a guy who wants a normal, ordinary life. That's
not you.”
“No, that's not,” he agreed quietly and we both lapsed into silence,
wondering if either of us would ever find what we were looking for.
He asked if I had any message for Paul.
“No!” That response was emphatic. “There is nothing to say,” I explained.
“I'd rather you didn't talk to him about me at all.” I simply didn't want
John saying anything that would reveal to Paul how badly he had hurt me.
Let him think I was a gold digger or whatever.
John hesitated before responding, “He knows you were here this weekend,
love. He is bound to have something to say about it.”
It hadn't dawned on me until that moment that our cover was blown, all our
careful plans to assure secrecy undone because I had answered the phone.
“Oh, John! If he tells anyone... "
John snorted. “Paul? He would never let this out. Bad Publicity and a nasty
little blow to his pride to think that you... No, he won't tell anyone.”
I must have looked stricken because he hugged me. “When I get back, I'll
tell him he got it all wrong. I'll tell him he has a filthy mind. We're
just good friends and this was just a chance for you to see California.
Sightseeing, not a weekend of fuckin' each other's brain's out.”
“John, you don't have to lie for me—”
“Not a total lie. We are friends, you did go sightseeing.”
I sighed, more upset at the idea of John having to lie than all the lies I
had told to get here.
“All right then, I'll just tell him to bugger off. It is none of his
business what you and I did or didn't do this weekend,” John said.
I had to laugh. That was a typical John Lennon response. “That's more like
it,” I told him, “but you two have been friends since you were seventeen. I
don't want our being together to make things difficult between you two.”
“Ah, but that's the beauty of it. He can't go on being pissy about it. He
has no proof and if he wants to go on being The Fab Four, he is going to
have to let it pass, make friends, play nice again. That is exactly what
our boy will do. Loves the bleedin' Beatles, that one.”
Why had I ever thought that what went on between John and me was a simple,
private matter? “I'm sorry,” I said. “I should never have let this happen.”
“I'm not,” he said firmly and kissed me. Not a friendly kiss, not a let's
have sex kiss, not a thanks for the sex kiss. It was a rather disturbing
kiss for someone who thought she had made up her mind that he was the wrong
guy for her.
I was so exhausted from four days of sightseeing and sex that I slept for
most of the plane trip home. As the plane circled the Minneapolis airport,
I woke up and as we dropped back down to earth the finality of this weekend
got to me at last and I cried a few quiet, sad tears. I cried because I was
losing my friend, losing a guy who something special. Wild, maybe a bit
crazy, but so special. I cried because an incredible interlude in my life
was ending. I would never see him or any of the others again. I couldn't
see myself going back to England ever again, not with the memories that
were there. That brought on a few more tears and, disgusted with myself for
it, I cried because I was losing my last link to Paul.
In an airport restroom, I changed into my uniform, carefully packed and
brought along so it would appear to my roommates I was coming home from
work. After picking up my suitcase, I headed out into the cold Minnesota
night to my car. I stashed my suitcase in the trunk where it would have to
stay until I could safely sneak it back into the apartment, ransomed my car
from the airport parking lot attendant, and drove home. I had planned to
kill time so I could arrive home at twelve-thirty. It was only ten thirty,
but I just wanted to get home. I could tell them work was slow so they let
me leave early. I could have saved myself the trouble of changing. Brenda
and Sandy were already in bed when I got home.
I fell into bed and lay staring into the dark for hours haunted by what
were now and forever only memories: Being scared silly but laughing with
John anyway when a small tremor rattled the beach house at just the right
moment. Paul laughing as he tried to undress me in a scratchy bed of
heather, telling me this was where Jane Eyre liked it best. Arguing for
hours with John about religion, politics, drugs. Talking and laughing with
Paul for hours about music, childhood memories, and nothing at all. Sex
with John. Making love to Paul. Loving them both in different ways and
knowing neither of them was right for me.