Friday morning the alarm clock went off and I contemplated pitching it out
the window and spending the day alone with Paul. As much as I wanted to, I knew
I couldn't. I rolled out of bed in spite of his half-asleep attempts to keep me
there.
I thought he would sleep late but when I came out of the bathroom, he
was in the kitchen fixing tea. Brenda and Sandy were lingering over
breakfast. That was unheard of. We never allowed enough time for breakfast
much less lingering. Breakfast was a slice of left-over pizza or, at best,
a piece of toast to go, but there they sat. It didn't take long to figure
out why.
Paul had brought a nice navy blue bathrobe with him at Christmas time.
He looked cute and snuggly cuddly in it. When he left, he left it behind
saying it took up half a suitcase and rather than tote it back and forth
he would just leave it for his next visit but what he was wearing this
morning would not crowd his suitcase! It was a red silk Japanese kimono
with a flaming dragon in vivid greens and electric blue and flashing
yellow embroidered on the back. It was very eye catching all on its own
but the way he wore it! Casual, front barely closed, silk belt tied
loosely and looking as if the slightest tug would undo it. If the sight of
his bare chest was not enough to mesmerize my roommates, the robe was also
short. Not indecently so, but far from the mid-calf length of his navy
robe. Bare chest, bare legs, and just enough bare thigh showed to fire the
imagination. Put this under a face with a thick, dark shadow of beard and
it flashed “MALE” in neon.
Paul seemed oblivious to the rapt if somewhat furtive attention and
disappeared into the bathroom. “Show's over,” I whispered to my roommates
as the door closed behind him.
“Can you get him to do a matinée performance this afternoon?” Sandy
whispered back with a giggle.
“Please, no!” Brenda said. “I don't think I could take it!” We all
laughed and went back to the business of getting out the door on time.
While we went off to school and work, Paul took advantage of the offer
Carol had made at Christmas time to let him use the piano in her studio.
He was free to use the piano in the studio until they opened at eleven or
after nine at night. That worked great for him, allowing him to avoid
contact with mothers bringing their kids to lessons and giving him
something to occupy his morning.
Carol was great. She resisted the impulse to go into the studio early
and listen while he worked, but was thrilled to have him there. When she
found out he couldn’t read music, she couldn't resist offering to teach
him though. “Don't need to,” he insisted. “If it isn't good enough to
remember in me own head, then it's certainly not worth the writing down!”
Mrs. Berghoff apparently had not heard yet about the events at the
hospital the night before. She didn't pull me out of class to lambaste my
unprofessional behavior. After seeing how happy Paul's visit made Debbie,
I didn't much care that our ulterior motive of pushing Mrs. Berghoff to
take action had not worked.
On Friday evening we went down to my parents and spent Saturday with
them. Mom's phone calls to me had gradually tapered off as my parents
changed from trying to dissuade me to some kind of acceptance—resigned
from their viewpoint, sullen from mine. The official parental statement
was that they respected my decision, but they never lost an opportunity to
remind me of the problems I was letting myself in for or to tell me what
people were saying.
By this time, my family was feeling the pressure. They had been
approached by reporters, my sisters had lost friends when they said they
couldn't arrange for them to meet Paul, my father had taken an awful lot
of crap from people who couldn't believe that he would let his daughter
date one of “them long-haired hippy freaks,” and Mom's friends and
acquaintances were only too happy to pass on every rumor they ever heard
about any of the Beatles. So, the visit was a little stressful and not
helped by a comment out the mouth of a babe.
When we arrived, Jenny took only a minute to work through her shyness
with Paul and was soon pestering him to play the piano with her. He picked
her up and Jan, surprised that she remembered Paul so well, asked her
“Who's got you, Jenny?”
Jenny took a minute to look up at Paul and contemplate the question.
Her response was based on her experiences with her little world of mommies
and grampas and aunties and such. She smiled happily and announced, “Uncle
Paul!”
Steve was overcome by a fit of coughing, Mom looked away to hide the
expression on her face, and Dad just looked strained. Paul gave Jenny a
little squeeze, and I was the only one who heard him say softly to her,
“Someday, Jennybird, someday.”
Saturday's forecast was for bitter cold and I knew we would all be
trapped in the house together with no escaping outside if it got
uncomfortable inside. Worse yet, Steve had to work on Saturday so they had
not stayed long on Friday evening. Without them to help with the flow of
conversation and without Jenny to lighten the mood, it threatened to be a
long day.
I made certain I was up early enough to shield Paul from having to deal
with my parents on his own but I needn't have worried. He slept late,
still jet lagged enough to have trouble falling asleep at bedtime. When my
sisters wandered downstairs and joined Mom, Dad, and me at the kitchen
table I realized two things: Paul was going to be in plain sight of the
group at the kitchen table when he got up and headed upstairs to the
bathroom, and he was probably going to be wearing the red robe. I was just
about to get up and go see if he was awake and find a tactful way of
telling him to pull on his jeans and a shirt first when he walked into the
kitchen.
Heads swiveled. I expected jaws to drop around the table, but my mouth
was the only one hanging open. He was wearing the red silk robe all right,
but he not only had the robe neatly overlapped in front revealing no more
chest than a v-necked T-shirt, but he was also wearing matching red silk
pajama bottoms!
Paul said “Good morning” to everyone, looked at me with big grin and
knowing look, came over and dropped a kiss on the top of my head, stole a
piece of toast from Anne and responded to my mother's compliment on his
attire with the information that he had gotten it while in Japan. Fearing
I was going to burst out laughing and have to explain what was so funny, I
got up and made myself busy fixing his breakfast.
Paul went to get dressed and Mom joined me at the stove. Paul's
appearance, though nothing compared to the show he had given Brenda and
Sandy, had been enough to trigger concerns in Mom's head. “I suppose he is
staying at the apartment again and we'll be hearing about it on the news,”
she said. The tone was disapproving of both the living arrangements and
the fact that it would be public knowledge.
I shrugged. “I don't think this visit will make the evening news. Not
big news this time.”
“He could stay at a hotel.”
I didn't like the way this was heading. “No,” I explained, “I have to
go to school. He would be bored silly sitting all by himself in a hotel
room all day. This way he can walk down to Carol's studio in the morning
and work on his music.” Hoping to distract her from the real issue of how
it looked to have him staying there, I went on to tell her how he had
spent Friday afternoon with Carol's little boy. At four years, Kevin was
hard for Carol to keep entertained every afternoon at the studio and she
was glad to hand him over to Paul. They played with Kevin's train set in
the basement, built a fort with Lincoln logs, and had peanut butter
sandwiches for a snack. Aside from the peanut butter, something Paul found
disgusting, it was hard to say who had more fun.
My little ploy worked and I managed to avert an unpleasant discussion,
but for the rest of the morning, it was tough going. It was hard to keep
the conversation going because so many topics dead-ended when they
wandered off into areas we didn't want to get into. It was hard to discuss
things we had done while I was in England without reminding my parents
they never should have let me go in the first place. It was hard to talk
about Paul's work because that meant talking about the Beatles and that
risked discussion of a lifestyle my parents didn't approve of. It was hard
to talk about the future, for obvious reasons, but gradually we all
relaxed and by the time we left, things were going well. I wouldn't call
it a fun visit, but it was not unpleasant. Mom had even unbent enough to
give Paul a good-natured hard time about his mustache, saying he had more
than enough hair without it.
“You don't like it?” he asked, picking up on her teasing note.
“No, not really,” she said.
“I thought it made me look quite dashing!” he said.
“It makes you look like some old President or Civil War General. Just
like a picture in the World Book Encyclopedia.”
“Mom,” Rose spoke up, “He is in the Encyclopedia!”
“I am?” Paul asked, totally taken by surprise at this revelation.
The 1965 World Book Year Book was on the bookshelf right behind us and
a minute later we were all staring at “Popular Music” and the photo of the
Fab Four.
Paul looked absolutely amazed, proud and yet a little embarrassed to
see himself officially designated as History. He skimmed through the
article, chuckling at the description of them “thwacking” away at their
guitars. Mom just looked at the picture and said, “You look better without
the mustache” We all cracked up.
All in all, the time with Mom and Dad was a little tense, but on the
way home, Paul and I agreed that at least they were trying. There wasn't
much else to say on the subject and we rode in silence for a while. His
comment to Jenny kept coming back to me and had me thinking about marriage
and engagements—and broken engagements.
“Tell me about Jane?” I asked
with no little hesitation. I wasn't sure he wanted to talk about her.
It was a moment before he answered and he startled me because he
laughed first. “I met her way back in '62. She was supposed to interview
us!”
I was surprised to learn that and laughed at the coincidence. “Did she
proposition you, too?”
“Lord, no. She was just seventeen—“ He said that with a straight face,
and I had to strangle the urge to laugh. “—and quite proper. I'm not sure
she was that taken with me right off, but I certainly was with her. I was
just a scruffy bloke in a new rock and roll group. She was an actress. A
celebrity. She'd been on TV and the stage since she was five or six. Mike
and I used to watch her on teen shows on the telly and rave about her.
When I met her, I couldn't get over her hair. It is this incredible shade
of red. We had no idea. We had only seen her on the telly in black and
white. Mike was speechless when I brought her home with me. He was in awe
of her and green with envy.” He chuckled a little at the memory.
So far, this was not what I wanted to hear. I already knew she was
beautiful and talented. “What was she like?” I asked.
“She was not like any bird I ever knew. Posh. Intelligent, public
schools all the way.” I was momentarily confused until I remembered that
in England, “public” is what we consider a private school.
“Spoke the Queen's English. Mum would have loved her. She was always on
Mike and me to speak properly. I guess Jane was the shining example of a
good upbringing. Her father was a doctor and her Mum was a professor of
classical music. She knew about posh things, was right at home with them.
Opera, art galleries, the theater., but she wasn't big headed about any of
it. She was quiet, sweet, but she had this attitude of ... I don't know.
Self-assurance, I guess. Not conceited, just sure of herself. She was so
far above us Liverpool scruffs.” He laughed a little. “Maybe that was part
of the appeal, the idea of me having a bird like that.”
We drove on in silence for a bit. I wasn't sure I wanted to hear any
more about this model of perfection but Paul picked up and went on.
“So, I gave her a pull and the next thing I know she is my girl and I
am going to the opera and the philharmonic and art shows, hanging out with
the Beautiful People, people with class and money, and in love with her.”
That was no surprise to me, but it did give me a funny ache inside to
hear him say it.
“And she loved you.”
“Yeah.”
I wasn't sure he was going to say anymore and I didn't know exactly
what it was I wanted to hear. I guess I wanted to know more about the
problems that he had mentioned when he told me about Francie. What had
Jane done wrong? How could I avoid the same mistakes?
“So what went wrong?” I asked.
Paul sighed and lit up a cigarette as he considered how to answer.
“Well, we were together for almost three years. We were so busy. Recording
albums in between the two movies, touring for weeks on end with hardly a
break between. Special appearances, writing songs at the last minute to
fill out an album. It was great to have Jane to come home to. I lived at
her parents' house in London for the first year, then got a flat of my own
for a bit. It was a good time for us. We were in love but she wasn't
pushing me. I had no desire to get married at that point—furthest thing
from my mind—and Jane was not ready to settle down. She was just out of
school and she wanted to act. She loved the theater and almost didn't take
the role in Alfie because she wanted to be a stage actress, not a movie
star.”
He fell quiet. “But you did get engaged," I prompted.
“Yeah. In part, I guess because it was the thing to do. The longer we
were together the more people questioned when we were getting married.
There were always stories goin' round that we were secretly married or
about to get married. If we planned to go away for a few days, it suddenly
became a honeymoon. The reporters constantly asked if I was going to marry
her. It made me angry to have them prying like that, and I finally told
one of them to bugger off. Even though she was in no rush to get married,
that upset Jane because it looked as if I didn't want to marry her.” He
sighed, was silent for a while before going on.
“My life was getting crazier. It was one thing when all the teenagers
went crazy over us, but when we got really big, after America, everyone
started treating us like some cross between gods and freaks. I needed
something, someone I could count on but Jane wasn't always there. I bought
the house and I guess I thought we would be together whenever I wasn't on
tour, but she was off working somewhere half the time. Mostly in London
but sometimes elsewhere. It never felt like we were really together. Oh,
she had her clothes there and few pots and pans and we picked out some
furniture together but there was always this feeling that she was just
sleeping over. I knew she didn't want to be there alone when I was gone
but even when I was around... "
The laughter was long gone from his voice by this point and the
nostalgia was giving way to some painful memories, but he was just getting
around to the part I wanted to hear.
“And …?”
“She was busy with her acting, doing plays and that movie. Even though
she said she wanted to spend more time with me, she was happy with the
situation. I wasn't. I wanted her to be there when I got home. I thought
maybe getting engaged would make her give more consideration to what I
needed. Kind of set us in a new direction, prove to her she didn't have to
make it big because I was going to marry her. So, I gave her a ring. We
agreed we didn't want to get married for another year or so at least, but
this made us kind of official. It backfired though. Instead of making her
feel like she could ease up on her acting, she felt more than ever she had
to make a go of it. She didn't want to be just ‘Paul's wife' or to make it
in her career because of me. She wanted to be somebody on her own. We had
a few rows over that but never really had a big fight. It was just kind of
a constant thing between us. I pushed and she resisted. I kept saying if
she loved me... She said I was being selfish. I talked about how I wanted
her home with me when I was there and she talked about her next tryout. We
weren’t ready to get married but there I was, engaged and all, and things
hadn't changed. If anything, we were spending less time together and
talking less about the whole marriage thing.”
He stopped. I waited, but he seemed to be lost in his thoughts.
“So she didn’t want to even talk about getting married because she
wanted to get her career started? That was the problem between you?” I
finally asked.
“Yeah... No. There was more. She was not too crazy about the people I
spent time with. Didn’t like the parties, the drugs. I could understand
that but she was always encouraging me to get into classical music or
become a record producer. She wasn't being critical or anything. She just
didn't seem to take what I was doing seriously as if it were ... I don't
know. A kid's hobby until I decided what I really wanted to do, I guess. I
knew the whole Beatles thing could fade away in no time at all but I knew
I was going to be writing and performing and if it was going to change it
was going to be in the direction of Jim Mac's Band, not the philharmonic
as she seemed to think I should go. I knew she was right about not being a
Beatle forever, and I was glad she wasn't all starry-eyed over being with
me just because of that, but... " He sighed. “I don't know. It was all
just off somehow. We didn't see it the same at all, but it wasn't
impossible. I still thought we could make it work.”
“Then she found out about Francie and left?”
“No.” He hesitated and for the first time he seemed to be uncomfortable
talking about this. “Well, yes. Or at least for the same basic reason, I
guess."
I remembered his admission that Francie hadn't been the only one.
“We had some big rows over all that and things got worse between us. We
didn't talk much and things seemed on and off between us. I guess Francie
was the topper. I took up with Francie while Jane was gone for a bit. Let
her stay at the house.”
There was another pause while Paul remembered and then he blurted out
“Jane announced the engagement was off. That was so... " He stopped,
apparently not finding a self-recriminating enough word. “That is what I
regret most. Not just because it ended things with Jane once and for
all—that was happening anyway I guess—but because it was such a shit way
to let it end. I was mad at her for going, for other things. I thought
screw it. If she won't stay here now, when we need to try to pull things
back together, it is pointless to keep on. Then she came back early and
found Francie there—”
“She found you with Francie?” I was shocked.
He was surprised too. “I thought you'd heard about that! The gatebirds
knew all about it!”
“No! All I knew is that you cheated on Jane with Francie. I thought she
just found out from someone else.”
He grinned a sad, sickly grin. “Oh no. I had to do it up right. Had
Francie there. The gatebirds rang the bell and said ‘Jane's coming!' I
thought they were just making it up to give me a hard time over what I was
doing, but she was there. She came in, I came downstairs, and she looked
around, saw some of Francie's things and that was The End. She had a few
choice words to say and left. If there had ever been any chance at all of
us sorting things out, that put an end to it.”
We rode in silence for a while as I thought about this. I guess I had
envisioned the end of their relationship as sudden and dramatic and due to
one single cause, his screwing around with Francie, but this had been a
slow-motion train wreck.
“Did you try to get her back?” I asked after a bit.
“No. Not really. I knew it was over. I did try to ring her up to
apologize but she wouldn't come to
the phone. I felt bad. I had really hurt her and I wanted to tell her
... "
His voice trailed off and I thought that was going to be the end of it,
but he picked it up again. “In a way though, I was glad she wouldn't talk
to me. I knew if we talked about it, odds were it would just get worse.
She would ask the same questions you did.”
I couldn't quite follow that. “What questions did I ask?”
“If the thing with Francie was because she had agreed to take a spot in
a touring company. That would have led to asking if there had been
others.”
“She knew that already, didn't she?”
“About the girls while we were on tour at least. Anything else, no, she
didn’t know all of it. Didn't seem necessary to get into that.”
Anything else? That could only mean girls while he wasn't on tour.
Girls in London, girls besides Francie. I could see his reasoning.
“Yeah, that would have hurt her worse.”
He laughed. A sad, rueful laugh at himself. “I wasn't being all that
noble, love. I was afraid she would be so angry she would tell everyone
what a bastard I was.”
“She never has said much of anything, has she?”
“No. A lot of people know what happened with Francie. The gatebirds
knew all about, saw it all happening, but they never ran to the press with
any of it. Jane said enough to make it clear she was angry with me, but
she never gave out interviews. She has too much class for that kind of
thing.”
He laughed a little. “As for Francie, she was quite the girl, that one.
She was anybody's for the promise of a good time or an opportunity.” There
was some sarcasm there but he also sounded rather bemused. “She wanted us
to be together whatever her reasons, really tried in her own way. Put up
with a lot of crap, especially after Jane left, but it wasn't enough for
either of us and it didn't last long.”
I listened to that in silence. Part of me was appalled that he could
brush her off so lightly. She was never a serious contender but certainly
more than a one night stand. Yet I was also glad that he did not attempt
to blame her for his break-up with Jane or imply that he was momentarily
infatuated with her and plead temporary insanity. The honesty in that was
nice and I managed to focus on that rather than the fact that he was
talking about someone he had been screwing while he was engaged to Jane. I
didn't want to hear any more about that aspect of it and turned the
conversation back to Jane.
“You must run into Jane from time to time. Did you ever talk to her
about what happened?”
“Yeah. Enough to confirm that it was just not meant to be and best left
alone. When I see her now and again it is a bit awkward. We say hello, how
are you, what are you doing these days, and avoid looking at each other.”
My questions were answered. Paul wanted security and stability in his
crazy life and Jane wasn't willing to give up acting to give him that. I
didn't blame her for wanting a career, and two careers each demanding
weeks away from home at a time would be difficult for any couple, but
still... Although my '60s unenlightened, unliberated viewpoint still had
me leaning toward the automatic assumption that the man’s career came
first because the woman could find fulfillment in motherhood, and, even
though I had some understanding of how out of control Paul’s life as a
Beatle felt to him sometimes, it still seemed to me that some compromise
between her acting and his desire for a stay at home wife could have been
found. How much effect her response to that demand had on his failure to
honor his commitment to her, at least once they were engaged, I wasn’t
sure. The temptations Paul faced were more than the average guy’s
temptations or opportunities.
All things considered, I felt better after hearing all that. I might
not have Jane's glorious red hair or classy upbringing, but I wanted the
same things he wanted. I had no desire for him to move into a more
respectable field of music. The idea of not taking the man who had written
“Yesterday” seriously as a musician was nuts! If he ever wanted to get
married, I would. When he wanted children, I would be thrilled and willing
to give up nursing for that. In that regard, nursing was an ideal
profession for a wife and mother. I could stop work when we started our
family and go back to it on a part-time basis when the kids were a little
older if I wanted. As for Paul’s infidelities, he had learned a lesson
from both Jane and me about how women react to their man playing around.
With those thoughts, I changed the subject.
Paul was leaving on Tuesday. This time it would only be three weeks
before I flew to England to see him on my Spring Break. The night before
he left we went out for a long walk. We walked a lot whenever the weather
allowed because it was one time we could be alone. The fans seemed to know
they were not allowed to tag along. They might lie to their parents about
where they were going in order to stand around outside the house, steal
any memento of their visit to this local Beatles shrine they could pry
loose, and stomp on their best friend's head if necessary to be the first
in line to get Paul’s autograph, but when Paul said “We are going to take
a walk. Alone,” they at least kept a reasonable distance.
That night he was awfully quiet, and I finally asked what was on his
mind. “I don't want to go back without you,” he said carefully, knowing
this conversation was off limits.
“I know. I keep thinking about grabbing a suitcase, stuffing in the
essentials and just taking off with you,” I laughed, trying to lighten
things up.
He didn't see that I was joking, probably because I wasn't really. I
did think about it but knew I wouldn't do it. His expression was hopeful
but I had asked him not to ask me that again. “Can we talk about it?” he
asked and when I didn't say no immediately, he turned me to face him.
“Honey, I know how much nursing means to you, and you could finish next
year in England if you decided you still wanted to, but Tess, you don't
have to finish so you can get a job, not if you are going to be with me.
Having you tied down to a job... I want you to be able to go places with
me. If we tour again or make another movie, I want you with me. I'm not
sure there is any point in your finishing school.”
I didn't know what to say. This was an escalation from his previous
requests for me to go to England with me. This was the whole thing about
being a nurse, not that I hadn't thought about this. If I worked even part
time, it would be hard to get away for two weeks in Jamaica or a jaunt to
Switzerland or Greece or wherever. The Beautiful People didn't have
regular jobs. Two weeks' vacation a year was generous in the United States
and I doubted that England was much different. But dropping out of school?
I just couldn't do that, especially now when I was so close. Besides my
desire to be a nurse, there was also the fact that it seemed to be the one
thing that was impressing my parents. “At least she has enough sense to
finish school in case he dumps her,” kind of thing. Quitting school might
well end the shaky truce we had going.
I remembered the conversation about Jane just a couple of nights
earlier. Was this going to be like what came between him and Jane? I
thought there was enough difference between an acting career and working
as a nurse that it wasn’t the same situation at all, but maybe Paul didn’t
see it that way. I was learning how determined Paul could be when he
thought he was right. Was I going to have to choose between Paul and my
career after all?
I leaned against him, feeling shaken. No, this wasn't the same thing
Jane had faced. This was worse. Jane at least had an engagement ring on
her finger. I didn't. All the insecurities of that night in Scotland came
back to me. There was no guarantee we would make it, no guarantee he
wanted to get married. Was I being foolish in insisting on going on with
my nursing? Was I being selfish in asking him to wait when it meant being
so far apart? Was this going to drive us apart as Jane's acting had done?
I hated it when women used tears to get their way and had no intention
of pulling that stunt with Paul but when I looked up at him and tried to
begin to discuss it with him calmly, all that came out was a sob and rush
of tears.
“Oh, God. Tess, don't. Don't do that, honey,” He was hugging me and
pleading with me. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. I just...
Please stop, sweetheart. I didn't mean it. Everything will be OK. Don't
cry. We'll do it just like we planned. It's only a few weeks before spring
break, then only a month and a half."
”J-J-Jane,” I sniveled.
“What?”
“You b-broke up with h-her because you d-didn't want her to w-w-work.”
“Oh, love. That wasn't the same at all! She wasn't planning some
regular job. She wanted to be a star. Show Business. Agents and bookings
and engagements all around the world. It was bad enough with me doing
that, but both of us? We couldn't have had any kind of life like that.”
Paul was quiet as I pulled myself together. I dug through my pockets
for Kleenex, wiped my nose.
“Are we all right now?” he asked. “Back to plan A. In June we'll be
together?”
I nodded, feeling foolish. I leaned against him again and he kissed my
forehead. He held me for just a moment, then we started walking again. As
we headed back to the apartment, he asked, “Have you been worrying about
that all along?”
I thought for a moment before answering. “I had thought about it. I
wasn't worrying. Not very much, anyway.”
He didn't say anything for a while, then spoke with obvious reluctance.
“Tess, I know I made it sound like Jane and I had big problems before
Francie but the truth is we didn't. Nothing that we wouldn't have worked
out. She could have had her career and she was just too young to think
about marriage and kids yet. She wasn't refusing that, she just was asking
for time. Neither of us was in any big hurry about any of that
anyway.”
I looked up at him, wondering why he was going back into this.
“It wasn't her job. Not really. Not when you get right down to it. It
was me. I couldn't keep my pants zipped. It was as simple as that. I like
to pretend it was more complicated. There were differences between us, and
we might well have split up in time but... "
I wasn't sure how to respond to this confession and after a long
silence, fell back on humor. “I never thought I'd be relieved to hear that
the guy I love has a wandering eye!”
He laughed and hugged me to his side. “Well, the eye still wanders, but
I stay zipped these days.”
We walked on and I thought about that, thought about all the years Paul
had sex whenever he wanted and how hard being faithful to me must be. Like
giving up sweets for Lent. No, worse than that. Sex was more addictive.
You didn't just want it, after a week or so you began to need it. Your
mind wandered in that direction constantly, your dreams teased you, you
just ached to be held. If I felt that way after just a few months of very
intermittent sex, how must he feel after years of having it regularly with
an army of willing and enthusiastic partners to choose from? No, I wasn't
going to get into that subject. If he was screwing around a bit, so be it.
I guess I was silent too long and he misread my silence.
“What's wrong?” he asked as if expecting to be cross-examined on the
topic of zipper unzipping.
I shrugged and gave him a big smile. “I just get a little overwhelmed
sometimes. Paul McCartney, and me!”
Rather than bringing a smile to his face, that brought a frown. “That
Cinderella thing again!”
“What?”
“This is all a fairy tale. I'm Prince Charming and you're Cinderella.
Sometimes you get scared because you can't believe I'm a real person.”
I had to consider that. “Sometimes I do feel like Cinderella but it
isn't that I don't believe in you. I only get scared when I don't believe
in myself. When I don't believe you could possibly be in love with me.
When I don't believe I can make the transition from my life to yours.”
His response was firm. “I am in love with you and it's our life, Tess.
Not mine. Ours. It'll be what we make it.”
The only response I could make to that was to kiss him.
There were some extra cars parked in front of the apartment, and, as we
expected, a flock of fans erupted from them as soon as they spotted their
prey. Paul obligingly chatted and signed autographs. In addition to the
girls, one of the more tenacious of the local reporters was also waiting.
He elbowed his way through the chattering girls and shoved a camera in our
faces. While we were still wincing and seeing spots from the flash, he
started in with the questions.
“How much longer will you be staying in Minneapolis, Paul?”
“Not much longer,” Paul answered. “I've got to get back. We are in the
middle of working on our next album.” Neatly done. It was a true but
non-specific answer to the question. He didn't need the press to know his
plane was leaving at 9:00 a.m. It was also a wonderful lead to promotion
of the new album.
The reporter didn't bite though. He had his mind elsewhere.
“Tess, is it true that you are planning to go to England as soon as you
finish school this spring?”
The girls gathered around all went “Ooooh!” and I thought “Oh, crap.”
The reporters had been nosing around my classmates like bloodhounds ever
since Paul showed up at Christmas. It was inevitable that information
would leak out. No point in being evasive.
“Yes. I'll be graduating and plan to move to England.”
“Ahhhh,” went the chorus of girls.
“Because of Paul?”
I had to laugh. “Of course!” The chorus laughed with me.
“When are you going to announce your engagement?” A hiss of indrawn
breaths came from the chorus.
“We aren't engaged,” Paul answered for me. Sighs of relief from the
chorus.
“But isn't it true that you are planning to be married in September?”
“What?” Paul and I both said at once. Even the chorus was speechless.
“I understand you are planning a September wedding here in
Minneapolis.”
I started to laugh. “Right month, wrong people. It is my roommate who
is getting married in September.” The chorus broke out in little squeaky
cheers of relief.
“You are going to England to be with him though?”
“Yes.” Persistent creep!
“Paul, are you planning to ask her to marry you?”
“Look, mate,” Paul said with amazing good humor. “You really put me on
the spot with that kind of question. If I say no, Tess here is going to
wonder what kind of game I am up to. If I say yes, don't you think that is
going to take a bit of the fun out of it for her if I do pop the question?
Let's just say that she is coming to England so we can spend time
together, get to know each other better. If it all works out, we'll
probably get married one day.”
The reporter was writing furiously in his notebook. Paul took my arm
and we headed for the safety of the house. Inside, I stopped to lock the
downstairs door. Paul leaned against the newel post waiting while I
jiggled the touchy mechanism to make sure it had locked. When I turned and
headed up the stairs, Paul said, “Hold on a minute, love.” I turned back
to look down at him. “I want to talk to you about what that reporter said.
About what I said.”
He looked flustered. That was scary enough. It took a hell of a lot to
get Paul to look anything but composed and what the reporter had talked
about was us getting married. A wild thought jumped into my head, but I
squelched it as fast as I could. He wouldn't ask me to marry him now, not
after just denying it to the press, not the night before he had to leave,
and not standing here in the stairway. He reached up and pulled me down to
sit on the step and sat next to me. I needn't have bothered struggling to
overcome the surge of anticipation in my heart. His next words would have
done it nicely.
“Tess, I don't know how to explain this to you, but I need to try.”
They say the mind works hundreds of times faster than we can speak, and
mine proved it. Before he could get the next sentence out, I imagined him
saying he was in no rush to get married, didn't ever want to get married,
was marrying someone else, was already married... Shut up and listen! I
told myself.
“I can't ask you to marry me yet. I ... It's too soon, but I will
someday.” He kissed me very softly, then smiled. “I just want to be
certain Cinderella knows that!”
I nodded, feeling amazingly calm for someone who just had the whole
world promised to her, but the truth was that except for that gap of time
when we were apart and, as I had experienced tonight, a few moments of
doubt now and then, I had known since those days in Scotland he wanted a
wife and odds were good it was going to be me.
“I knew from the first you wanted to get married, have a family
someday,” I told him. “You wouldn't go to all this trouble for me if you
didn't think that maybe five years from now we could be ‘married raising a
family.'”
“No ‘maybe' and I won't wait five years, Tess. I can't ask you now, but
it won't be anywhere near five years.”
“Then I suppose I can't say ‘yes' yet either?”
“No,” he laughed, “not just yet, but hold that thought.” Then suddenly
he looked serious and in a funny tone he said, “When I ask you, I want to
be certain you know what you are getting into.” He paused, sighed, and
when he went on it was as if he were saying things he wanted me to know
and yet didn't want to say.
“I know it looks glamorous. Money and fame. Man, we all thought that
was what we wanted once.” Another hesitation and he shook his head as if
in disbelief that they ever could have been that naive. “The money is
nice, but it won't be forever. I don't think I'll end up some bum. I've
tried to invest some money and I know I can make a decent living for us no
matter what happens to the Beatles.”
I didn't believe that he thought for a single minute that I was in this
for the money, so I didn't bother objecting.
“But the rest... " he went on. “Tess, everything we say and do can end
up in the papers. That would be all right if they did it straight up, but
things get twisted 'round. I don't know how long it will be like that.
Even when the Beatles are just some old group that used to be big, I'm
afraid the press will still be out there, waiting for some juicy gossip
about the has-beens.”
He sighed again. “You know how they are, always asking questions hoping
to stir something up, like tonight. You've seen a lot of it, but I want
you to think about what it would mean to live with it every day.”
I had thought about it, but only as an immediate problem, not as
something that would be there for years to come. I nodded. “All right.”
“There is no real privacy. The press is bad enough, but the fans are
always there, always watching. They know what brand of tooth powder I buy!
That is just daft, but that's what they do. It's annoying, but it is worse
when you hear what they say about you. Tess, you are going to have to deal
with that part of it more than I do. The fans are nice to me. They don't
judge whether I am good enough, pretty enough, fashionable enough to be
with the Beatles. They are nice here, but... "
He stopped and I finished for him. “You don't think the ones in England
are going to take too kindly to an American.”
“Yeah. They can be nasty about the girls we date, make fun of
everything about them. They will say some pretty awful things right to
your face when I'm not around.”
“Pattie warned me about that and Cyn told me how scary it is to think
someone might kidnap your kids.”
He groaned. “Yeah. There's that. Some people hate us. They think we
represent the end of the world as far as music is concerned and worse.
Some think we are dangerous, evil, spawn of Satan crap. It is surprising
where they pop up. Then there are the ones who want something from you,
try to get inside your life and then turn around and use you. It’s bad
enough having to sort people
out and fend off that lot but it is worse when it is an old friend who
sells you out for a few minutes of being famous themselves.” He hesitated,
fidgeted and finally came to the point. “Tess, I don't have to work with
people who don't like us, but there will be others like your teacher. They
could make things very rough for you. You might find it impossible to go
on with your nursing.”
Back to my nursing again, and more. This was his laundry list of things
to worry about. For all his reluctance to discuss it, it was still a much
shorter list than mine. I had all of that on my list plus worries about
adjusting to living in England, being so far away from my family, fitting
in with his friends, meeting his family, learning to be a nurse in a
foreign country, holding down a regular job when his life was wide open,
establishing a relationship with John that didn't threaten Paul, wondering
if he would get tired of me or outgrow me like John had Cyn. Even so,
there was still not enough on that list to make me give him up. Nothing
would.
“Paul, I'll think about all those things, but the thing with my
nursing, maybe it won't work out. Maybe I will have to give it up, at
least for a few years, but right now I have to try. It isn't just that I
have always wanted to be a nurse, or that I love it, or that finishing
school will keep my parents off my back. I don't know if I can explain
it—”
“You don't need to, sweets,” Paul said, but I wanted to try.
“Before I go to England, before I can start a life with you, I need
something ... something that is me. Something I can turn to, escape to
when the whole Beatle thing gets too crazy. Being a nurse will keep me
grounded, be something normal. I don't know. Maybe it is nothing more than
a security blanket or a place to hide.”
Paul smiled. “That I understand. I know how you feel because besides
loving you beyond reason, besides being besotted by your body, your touch,
your smile, I need you for my bit of normal, my security blanket, my place
to hide.”
That put an end to talking for a bit while I kissed the living
daylights out of him.
When I stopped I said, “OK, I know other people might make it hard for
me to go on with nursing, and if you have to travel I may not be able to
hold down a job, and when we have kids I won't want to work then anyway—”
His smile was wonderful.
“But there is something else, something that could keep me out of
nursing entirely and you have to take care of it. I can't.”
“What?”
“Drugs,” I said, knowing no other way to say it except bluntly. “I
can't be with you if you are using drugs. I can't go to your house if you
have them there. I can't have them in my house or our house. I can't hang
out where drugs are being used or with the drug crowd.”
He considered my words and nodded. “All right, love. There won't be any
in the house, but drugs are part of the music scene and that is where I
work. LSD isn't illegal, at least not yet. If they ban it, I won't cross
that line. It isn't worth it. I don't use the hard stuff, but there will
be pot at parties and I will probably smoke it and I will publicly support
any move to get it legalized. I won't smoke it at home, but that means I
may not take you with me sometimes. I will do what I can to keep you out
of it, but, love, I can't sit here and promise you that you won't get
booted out of nursing because of me.”
“I know.” I couldn't be unrealistic. Drugs were big in the music
business and it was crazy to think that Paul could disassociate from
everyone who was using them. If he chose to keep smoking marijuana, well,
from what I had seen, being around someone high was a lot more pleasant
and safer than being around someone drunk and it just seemed like the laws
had it all backward. I couldn't object to his support of legalizing it.
We sat there in silence for a minute, then Paul sighed. “I guess all
that is enough to make you think twice about marrying me.”
“I'll take all of it into consideration,” I said smiling at his
dejected look.
He looked relieved at my smile. “Consider this, too,” he said and
kissed me in a way that erased everything he had said.
We sat on the stairs and held each other, kissing and whispering the
first of the goodbyes we needed to say. “Paul,” I said after a while,
“There is something else that reporter said."
He groaned. “What?”
“It wasn't so much what he said as the way he made it sound. I can't
move in with you. I'm going to get an apartment in London.”
“I guess it is better that way,” he agreed with a sigh. “Your parents,
my Dad, the press. All that.”
“It will mean sneaking around if we want to spend a night together.”
“No. Not really,” he said with a laugh. “No one seems to raise an
eyebrow at that. They just frown on flat out living together.”
“At least it will be easier than here. We can go to your place instead
of sending my new roommates to the movies.”
“Roommates?”
“I'll have to have roommates. I can't afford much more than a room on
my own.” I didn't want to insult his English loyalties, but from what I
had learned while in London, the standard of living for young, single
people generally meant a two-room flat in a fourth-floor walk-up, heat
paid for by putting coins in a meter, hot water unlikely, no closets, and
a bath shared by several other tenants. By comparison, I was spoiled
rotten.
“Tess, I have a flat. I kept the one I was living in before I bought
the house.”
“Why?”
By the look on his face, that wasn't the question to ask, and he
avoided answering it directly. “Comes in handy if a friend needs a place
for a bit. You can stay there. We can work something out in trade,” he
grinned.
I was still thinking about the cost of maintaining my own place and
about the implications of why he had kept the apartment so the idea of
being a “kept woman” didn't strike me. “Is it furnished?” I asked.
“Sort of. No telly, no phone. I don't think there is a kitchen table
but there is a sofa.”
“I'd be willing to bet there is a bed.”
He caught the meaning and had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Yes,
there is a bed.”
“Did John use the place too?”
Now he looked really uncomfortable. “Yes, a bit.”
I didn't want to hear who else might have used it for little
extramarital escapades and so I teased him. “If I live there instead of
with you, then I'll know you aren't going there with some other girl.”
He didn't know I was teasing. “There aren't any other girls, Tess. I
told you I wasn't going to make that mistake—”
I shut him up with a kiss. He came up smiling.
“While we are on the subject of being together forever,” he said after
a bit, “I guess there is one more thing you need to think about and I had
better say it.” This had the sound of something that could have been
followed with that stupidest of all questions: “Promise you won't get
mad?” He didn't say that and I waited and listened.
“There are going to be birds hanging about who want a tumble with a
Beatle. Even when we aren't at the top anymore, they will be there,
waiting for a day when I might be tempted. They aren't shy about letting
me know they are available. Before I ask you to marry me, I think that you
need to give a bit of thought to whether that is going to be a problem for
you, knowing they are always there, always willing, always trying, waiting
for a day when I might not walk away from it.”
I wasn't even a budding feminist at that point so where my response
came from, I'll never know. I guess the whole issue of his being faithful
had always been on my mind, and especially so since we had talked about
his breakup with Jane. I'd said back the first night we had gotten back
together that if he did screw around, I would try to deal with it and that
was still true. As I had discovered when questioned by Sandy and Brenda, I
had to admit that I would forgive him, stay with him, keep trying until I
couldn't take anymore, but I certainly didn't want him to know that! I had
told him I would “try to deal with it” and that was supposed to mean “It
would be hard to take and I didn't know if I could forgive you.” but it
still left the door open. Although not flat out permission like saying
“I'll understand,” it was still wishy-washy. But tonight the right answer
was suddenly crystal clear in my mind. The problem was not in stating how
I would deal with it. It was not my problem at all.
I looked him straight in the eye and said, “I can handle them being
around, but I think you need to give a bit of thought to whether you can
before you ask me.”
I left him sitting on the steps looking more than a little surprised.
Brenda and Sandy were making popcorn, and when I came in alone, they
asked where Paul was. “Thinking,” I replied.
“About what?”
“Whether he really wants to be married.”
That got gasps and “He asked you?” from Sandy and “You asked him?” from
Brenda.
“No. Neither. Do we have any Coke left?”
“No. What is going on?”
“Preliminary discussions,” I said with a laugh at the oddity of the
situation. “I'll make some Kool-Ade. Red or grape?”
“Red. So what did he say?”
“He listed all the problems I would have if I married him.”
“All the problems you would have? Then what is he sitting out there
thinking about?”
“He mentioned that I might have trouble dealing with the fact that
there are always going to be girls who are eager and willing whether he is
married or not.”
“Yeah, that might be a problem,” they agreed.
“Yeah, but I told him it shouldn't be my problem. I told him not to ask
me unless he was sure he could handle it. That is what he is thinking
about.”
They were more than a little startled. Before they could say anything,
Paul came in. Ignoring my roommates who were trying hard not to let on
that they were dying to know his response, he came directly to me.
“That's the first time you've ever done that to me,” he said with a
rueful grin.
“Done what?”
“Put me in my place right proper as you do with John.”
“John needs it, you usually don't.”
“Well, John would argue with you. I won't. You are right.”
“And?”
“I'll take it into consideration,” he answered with a wicked grin.