I had a great time with the English students. We laughed at the differences
in their schooling and mine and laughed even harder at the similarities.
The horrors of the first injection, watching the first surgery and praying
you wouldn't faint, the fact that all psych instructors are truly weird
were the same. We had lunch in the hospital cafeteria and another laugh
about the similarities in hospital food. It was late afternoon before I got
back to John's.
“Did anyone call for me?” I asked as I joined John and Cyn on the terrace.
I said it as if I had all kinds of friends in England likely to ring me up
at any time. There was only one person who would conceivably call me and I
wasn't at all sure how likely that was.
“Just which ‘anyone’ did you have in mind, Luv?” John teased. “Neil hasn't
called. Or could you be thinking, just perhaps, of Paul? The list of
possibilities seems to grow daily!”
I blushed. Obviously, Pattie had passed on what she had observed in Paul's
kitchen last night. Rather than acknowledge that I had been hoping he had
called, I made light of it. “Well, Mal is darling, and if it weren't for
Pattie, I would go after George. Ringo has already said he won't leave
Maureen for me. Then there’s Brian. He is so sophisticated, so classy—“
John burst out laughing and Cyn giggled. “Scratch that one off your list,
Luv,” John said. “He's not for you.”
“Brian is married?” I asked in surprise.
“Not married. Just out of your league.”
Thinking he meant Brian was from a better social class, I replied, “You're
just jealous because you aren't on my list at all.” Big fat lie, but Cyn
was sitting right there.
“No, I wouldn't show up on the same list as Brian,” John said with
amusement. “Or the same clubs. Or the same back alleys!”
I was bewildered. “Because he is Jewish?” I asked, my naivety hanging out
all over the place.
He laughed even harder, making his ribs and back hurt.
I ignored his discomfort. “Well?” I demanded.
“Brian's first choice is not a girl,” he said as if clarifying the matter
for me.
I didn't get it and it showed. Cyn leaned over and said quietly, “Brian is
a homosexual.”
“Queer. A faggot,” John added as if assuming I still wouldn't get it.
I was totally surprised. Brian wasn't a flirt, or at least he talked to
girls on a little higher level than the others, but I had just thought it
was upper-class upbringing. He didn't act like what the world considered as
identifying one of "them".
“Oh, come on,” I started to say, but Cyn wouldn't kid around about that.
“Really?”
“You didn't have any idea?” John asked.
“No! He seems so normal!” The sixties were not the most enlightened of
times.
“Flippin' faggot,” John assured me. “Lots of them around. Nice enough guys
otherwise, most of them. Just fucked up when it comes to who to fuck.”
I sat down to contemplate this revelation. I didn't exactly have a lot of
homosexual acquaintances, didn't know any of them personally, for that
matter, but had been told that one of the orderlies at the hospital was.
That I could believe as he was very effeminate, but Brian?
“Wow. He sure doesn't act like ... that way,” I said.
“Oh, they don't always,” John informed me. “Not unless they are in the
theater. You would be surprised to find out how many of them there are in
the music business.”
That certainly piqued my curiosity. “Who?”
“Why none other than our Paulie!”
Cyn gasped. “John, don't go telling her that!”
“He is not!” I said hotly, making him laugh again. I didn't know much about
the subject of homosexuality beyond two sentences in my nursing textbook
and a few dirty jokes, but some things you knew instinctively. Even before
the kisses in the garden last night, I’d known that Paul was not
homosexual.
“He's having you on, Tess,” Cyn said. “Paul is definitely not.”
“You are impossible!” I said to John. Hadn't I said that to him at least
once before?
Julian was busy blowing soap bubbles and I went to play with him. He wanted
them bigger so I got a coat hanger and a pie tin and we sat out on the lawn
practicing bigger and better bubbles. Cyn went in to check on dinner, and
John limped out to join us. Soon we were speculating on how many bottles of
bubble stuff it would take to dip a hula hoop so he could make a bubble big
enough to stand in. Julian loved the idea and John promised we would try it
someday. Julian satisfied himself by trying to stick his head inside one of
the big bubbles and we watched as he chased after them. Cyn came out and
got Julian to get him washed up before dinner. I started to pick up the
bubble making things but John took the small bubble wand and blew a stream
of bubbles at me. I caught one gently on my hand and held it as the evening
sun shimmered rainbows through it. I held it out for John to see. “Look at
the sunset, John.”
John looked at it and then at me and asked, “So I'm not on your list at
all?”
I couldn't look at him. It was like the question about what I had on under
the bathrobe; he already had a good idea of the answer. The question he was
really asking hadn't been about clothes then, and it wasn't about lists
now. I could evade the issue and joke around or I could tell him the truth.
He knew it anyway. I adored him. I had since the first moment I had laid
eyes on him on the Ed Sullivan show in 1964. That was the moment that the
word “sexy” had suddenly had real meaning for me. Now, having met him, he
excited me, intrigued me, and was more fascinating than ever. Even more
appealing was the fact that improbable as it seemed, there was something
special between us. Paul might be fogging my mind at the moment, but even
so, I wondered how differently I would be feeling if John weren't married.
The bubble quivered, giving away the fact that my hand was shaking. I blew
the bubble away and watched until it settled to the grass and burst,
carrying my thoughts about an unmarried John Lennon with it. That was just
not an area that I could or should allow myself to explore. He was just
teasing anyway.
I sneaked a sideways glance at him. He was looking at me and looked away
quickly as if embarrassed to have asked the question, yet hoping for an
answer. Something about the basic insecurity of that, the shyness in the
way he had used a joke to ask me how I felt about him, showed a
vulnerability that got to me. I didn't know if I could put into words how I
felt about John, much less say it to his face, but I wanted to try.
“John,” I said, not even trying to sound light and joking, “If you could be
on it, I don't think there would even be a list.” I hesitated, hoping he
understood because I didn't know if I dared tell him any more plainly how
very much I was attracted to him, that if he were not married things would
be very different. “But you can't and you aren't.”
He was silent for a long moment, then reached out and touched my arm.
“Sorry, Luv. I was just teasing.”
“No, you weren't.” Like I said, some things you just know instinctively.
He hesitated, about to object, but then he sighed instead. "I don't belong
on that list anyway. You are looking for someone to fall in love with—”
I opened my mouth to object, but he wouldn't let me.
“You are, and I sure as hell am not what you want. What you are looking for
doesn't exist anyway.” He didn't say it with bitterness, just conviction.
“That's not true,” I said—or asked, I'm not sure which it sounded more
like.
He smiled and put his casted arm across my shoulders and pulled me to him
for a hug. “You go right ahead and believe in Love Forever True and Happy
Ever After. I'll shut me gob.”
We walked together in silence back to the house. As he reached to open the
door he smiled at me and it was one of his best lecherous old geezer looks.
“Wouldn't have a list for guys who just want to get in your knickers then,
would you, Luv?”
I laughed. “You are—”
“Impossible. So you’ve told me. Repeatedly.”
“Right. That’s why you are at the top of that list!”
Sunday was a hot, lazy day. I borrowed a swimsuit from Cyn and Julian and I
played in the pool after lunch while John groused continually about not
being able to get in the pool because of his cast. By mid-afternoon, Julian
was worn out and he conked out on the sofa. After changing out of my
swimsuit, I settled down to work on the articles. I decided I would finish
the first one and turn it in so I could get some idea of whether it was
what Tony wanted before I spent any more time on the others. I made a few
changes on it, undid some of them, and when I found myself contemplating
changing them back, I knew I was done. I re-read it, trying to see it
freshly, subjectively, but it didn't do any good. One minute I was
impressed and the next I thought it was overdone, too fan mag icky, too
clever here, too sappy there. John had read my first draft said it was
better than it needed to be for its target audience to appreciate it, but I
didn't want to turn in something mediocre just because the fans would
devour anything. All I could do was give it to Tony. First I needed to get
it to Liz, the secretary who would type it up. Then, before giving it to
Tony, I needed to let Paul edit it as I had told him I would. Paul. So much
for working. I spent the rest of the day remembering his kisses and waiting
for the phone to ring. It didn't. I didn't know what to think.
On Monday, Cyn dropped me off at the bus line as she drove Julian to
nursery school and, guidebook in hand, I headed into London for a day of
sightseeing. I went to a tourist center and took a tour bus all around the
city; Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, Hyde Park, the Houses of
Parliament, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey. When it was over, I asked
directions for a bus that would take me to Saville Row. John had said he
would be at the office and we could ride home together. The lady at the
tourist center smiled and said, “A fan of the Beatle's, eh, ducks? I can
get you on a tour that takes you to each
of their homes. We stop at each so you can take pictures and leave a note
or flowers if you've a mind to. Then it takes you to Abbey Road and to the
spots where they filmed the movies. You can get out and lark about on the
field from A Hard Days Night.”
I grinned, wanting to tell her I was living in one of those houses. “No
thanks. I just need to get to Saville Row.”
When I got there, I dug the papers out of my tote bag and took them to Liz.
“I shall have it for you tomorrow,” she said without a break in her typing.
The receptionist said John was in the back so I headed down the hall toward
the back of the building. I heard Ringo’s voice and someone laughing and
followed the sounds. Just as I stepped into the doorway of what appeared to
be a storeroom for musical equipment and stage speakers, I heard Paul say,
“One, two, three, four!” A guitar twanged to life, and Paul sang, “Well she
was just seventeen... "
I froze. The music hit me like a wall. For a moment I thought I might
faint. The Beatles! The sound I had lain awake listening to so many nights,
the whole mood of being sixteen and falling head over heels into a major
crush, washed over me. I had spent hours listening to every nuance of every
song, riding high on the waves of rock and roll, aching with the slow
songs, picking out the voices of each of them, hearing heartbreak in one
line and laughter in others, and reading more into every line, every wail,
than could ever have been intended.
They played just a couple of bars and the music fell apart except for an
impromptu, wild drum solo. The music ended and they were looking at me.
“Tess?” John said and I knew from the tone of his voice I looked as woozy
as I felt. George put his guitar down quickly and with a long stride was at
my side with an arm around me.
I looked up at him. “You are The Beatles!” I said.
He burst out laughing. “Yes, I'm George,” he said.
“No, I know that,” I said with what came out as a shaky laugh. “I know who
you are. I mean, I knew it all along, but you were the Beatles stuck in a
hotel playing cards and cheating at Scrabble and reporters and fans, but I
forgot about the music.” I was babbling. “You are the Beatles. You are ...
the music,” I finished, unable to explain it any better, with my voice
shaky again.
“That's the part we like best, too,” George said, laughing with the others
but hugging me hard. I hugged back until I thought I could talk without
squeaking.
“OK, now that I have made a complete fool of myself, play something for
me?”
“What do you want to hear?”
I only had to think for a moment. I didn't want an attempt to recreate an
album track and I had always wondered how they had sounded in those wild
Hamburg sessions. “Something you used to do in Hamburg.”
They went into a huddle around John who was sitting on a packing crate at a
very beat-up looking piano. After a brief confab, they emerged grinning at
me. Then John was singing “To know, know, know her, is to love, love, love
her.”
Behind me, the secretaries and just about everyone who was in the building
were gathering for the impromptu concert. Without any further
encouragement, Paul ripped into “Hippy Hippy Shake,” and none of us could
stand still. Brian had joined us, watching and listening from the back of
the small crowd with the biggest, happiest smile I had ever seen on his
face. At the end of the song, Ringo did a drum roll, the kind used when the
announcer says “And the winner is... ". As he did, he called to me, “So
Tess, who is your favorite Beatle?”
“John Lennon,” I blurted out immediately. Everyone laughed at the way I
said it, not “John” or even looking at John and saying, “He is.” It was an
obvious reflex answer, like any screaming fan.
George played an unfamiliar bar and began to sing “They say that everyone
wants someone, so how come no one wants me?” As soon as that one was over,
John pulled out his harmonica and they were off again. After a
twenty-minute jam session, John said, “Enough, I need a pint. Let's go
'cross the street.”
The four of them, Brian, and I, with Terry (as in “suitcase”) and Mal (as
in “in case of trouble”), headed across the street to a pub. Paul said
nothing to me, only smiled a polite smile as he held the door for me and
avoided meeting my eyes. We crossed the street and walked the half-block
down to the pub. At the pub, we headed for a big table in the back corner.
Paul ignored the empty seat next to me and pulled a chair around to the far
end of the table. I had been bewildered by his behavior at first, but that
move was so obvious, and it hurt. Terry took the chair next to me and I
forced what I hoped was a pleasant smile.
They were apparently regulars there as the waitresses seemed to be on
familiar terms with them. Even the early afternoon customers took their
appearance in stride. We ordered. John even asked me if he could “have a
beer, please, nurse.” I figured one or two wouldn't hurt since he took a
pain pill only occasionally now. I tried a dark English beer and to my
American taste buds, it was awful. Gradually the sting of being snubbed by
Paul settled into a dull ache and I sat back and began to enjoy my
companions, seven good looking young men. Six and one I couldn't bear to
look at.
Mal asked if I was enjoying my holiday. “I am having a great time,” I
answered, “but I sure am beginning to miss hamburgers and French fries!”
“I know a place that has great American style burgers,” Terry said. “I
could take you there if you like.”
Everyone laughed. “Terry is our American junk food expert,” Brian
explained.
“He even brought a suitcase full of peanut butter and Twinkies back from
the States with him!” Ringo said.
“Peanut butter! Forget the burger and fries—I want a peanut butter and
jelly sandwich!”
“I'll spring for both.” Terry laughed. “Are you busy tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow night would be great,” I said.
“Maybe we could go to the movies or something?" Terry suggested. He looked
and sounded genuinely eager to make a night of it, not just being nice.
“I would love to, Terry,” I said, knowing Paul was listening to all of
this. Take that McCartney!
“Picking up birds with peanut butter!” Ringo laughed. “Why didn't I think
of that?”
“So Terry has a date with Terry. Isn't that incest or something?” George
asked, and everybody cracked up.
“I thought it was masturbation,” John said, and we all lost it.
As we got up to leave, I found myself momentarily face to face with Paul.
My heart skipped a beat as I looked up at him. He looked at me, unsmiling,
unreadable, for just a second before his usual affable smile reappeared.
Somehow I managed a replica of his congenial smile. I could have just
arranged a date with Jack the Ripper and he wouldn't react, I thought. What
had Friday night been all about? Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing.
Terry picked me up at John's at seven the next evening. As we headed to the
restaurant it seemed strange to be doing something so ordinary, to just hop
in the car and go for something to eat. No fans, no security.
The restaurant was a replica of an American diner, run by a couple of
displaced Americans, and the food was real American. Terry had always
seemed rather quiet, but away from the Beatlemania madness, he was a lot of
fun. He had me laughing through dinner with his stories of touring
insanity, tales of girls hiding in the bathtub, of repeatedly being sent
out to buy underwear for all of them because it never seemed to come back
from the laundry. I found out that he was a university student, studying
sociology and working for the last two summers for Brian as part of the
road crew and general chauffeur and gopher the rest of the time. Next week
he was headed out again on a tour with Cilla Black.
After dinner, we debated on a movie but decided instead to check out one of
the popular clubs. The club was just gearing up for the evening, and we
found a table where we could watch the people coming in. By nine-thirty the
place was rocking. Terry pointed out members of various groups as they came
in. I never would have recognized the guys from the Dave Clark Five, and I
had never even heard of a guy from The Faces, Rod Stewart.
“But it’s Monday night! Why are all these people here?” I asked, reverting
to a small town roll up the streets at nine mentality.
Terry laughed, “It's not like they have to punch a time clock in the
morning. This is their job. Make an appearance, party, be seen, and move
on.”
We danced until I was dizzy and they mercifully put in a slow dance here
and there. The air was heavy with the acrid, burning rope smell of
marijuana. By eleven, Terry and I were sitting out all but the slow dances,
he was holding me close, and I was not even considering objecting. His
light-brown hair, gray eyes, and scattered freckles across an impossibly
Irish face were making inroads on the choirboy face and brown eyes I wanted
to forget. I knew he was going to kiss me later and I knew I would like it.
Somewhere in the smoky, sweaty haze, a thought crept into my mind. Is this
how it had been the other night? Hours in a room full of smoke, a lot of it
pot, and then in the garden with Paul thinking I had never felt anything so
incredible as his touch, his kiss. Was the whole thing a pipe dream and the
pipe full of pot? Could you get high from being in a room with others
smoking it? Was that all it was?
This was the perfect opportunity to find out. Same smoke, different guy.
“Terry,” I said softly in his ear, “could we go outside for some fresh
air?” He led me through the crowd and out to the parking lot. It was
drizzling rain. Well, I couldn't duplicate everything. We went to the car
where I slid over to sit close to him encouragingly. If he didn't try to
kiss me, I was going to have to act like one of those sex kitten girls or
be flat-out sleazy and go for him, neither of which was a comfortable role
for me. I needn't have worried. His arm
was around me and he was looking down at me. Seeing nothing remotely
resembling a “No” in my expression, he kissed me. I kissed him back, and
not just to make it a fair test of my hypothesis. He was good-looking, fun,
and it felt good.
Ten minutes later the car windows were steamed up and I was gently easing
his hand away from the buttons on my blouse. I wasn't sure if he was
usually this fast or if he was just responding to my enthusiastic testing
of secondary pot inhalation.
“We could go back to my flat for peanut butter,” he suggested hopefully.
I knew what he was really suggesting was a little more than peanut butter
sandwiches. As nice as kissing him had been, I wasn't ready for more.
Besides, my research was done. It hadn't been the marijuana. This was
nothing like kissing Paul.
“I don't think that I should do that. I'm not ready for ... peanut butter.
I've had a great time tonight, Terry,” I said and kissed him, “but I think
I better just go home.”
He smiled, not seeming put out by my reluctance to put out. “All right,
then.” We drove back out to John's home where he kissed me goodnight at the
door and said, “I will be leaving with the tour next week. Maybe we could
go out again this weekend?”
I hesitated. I felt a little pang of conscience about using him for my
little experiment and going out again seemed to compound the deceit, but I
did have a good time with him and, what the hell. This was a lot better
than waiting on a guy who ran hot and cold, a guy who kissed other girls
while his date waited inside, a guy I had no business even hoping for.
“I'd like that,” I said.
At noon the next day Julian and I were wading and trying to catch frogs in
the little creek that ran across the back of their property when Cyn came
down to round us up for lunch. John still wasn't up. He hadn't been home
when I got home from my date with Terry, but Cyn was and it was about 5:00
a.m. when I heard him come in. I took Julian into the bathroom and got him
washed up and when we got back to the kitchen, John was there, unshaven and
looking decidedly hungover. He sat at the table, drinking tea while Cyn,
Julian and I had lunch.
“How was your evening?” Cyn asked me.
“I had a great time,” I said.
“So give over! I want all the details,” said Cyn. “Is this true love?” I
laughed and told her about dinner and the club.
“And?” she said.
“And then we came home ... after a bit.”
“A bit of what?”
I just grinned at her. John was silent and if he was even listening, he was
in no mood to tease me and give me a hard time, which was a relief. I was
explaining to Cyn that Terry had asked me out again when John got up from
the table. “I have to be down at the office at two,” he interrupted. “Are
you coming along, Tess?”
“Yeah, that would be great. Liz should have finished typing—”
”Be ready in an hour,” he interrupted, then took his tea and disappeared
back upstairs.
Cyn looked surprised and embarrassed. I just smiled at her and shrugged. I
finished lunch and went upstairs to change clothes. As I changed, I thought
about John. He had been quieter since returning to England, but other than
a few cutting remarks back when he had been in a lot of pain, he had always
been nice to me. He had changed since we had been here, getting quieter,
moodier as the days went by. It wasn't that he was always in a bad mood but
the intensity, the quick temper, and crazy humor were fading day by day. He
spent most of the day reading and watching TV or just sleeping. At times he
seemed restless and bored but didn't seem to want to do anything. If Cyn
suggested going out for an evening, he shrugged and said, “You go.” When
she suggested taking Julian up to Liverpool to see Mimi he seemed to
consider it for a few hours and then lost interest in the idea. Although he
wasn't rude to Cyn, he seemed to ignore her. The evening before, when he
had left the house shortly before Terry had picked me up, all he said was,
“I'm going out,” and went out the door. She didn't look surprised, or
angry, just sadly resigned. I got a distinct impression that it wasn't
unusual for him to go out without her.
It was getting harder to get him to do his exercises. “Later,” he always
said. Mornings were a little easier because we argued over some article in
the paper all the way through the exercises. It was our morning ritual. I
found myself defending the most bizarre stands just for the sake of
argument. He always won and then told me what an idiot I was for my
beliefs. I always protested that they weren't my beliefs, that he made me
argue with him and since he had first dibs on which side he took, I didn't
have any choice! He would then go on about how only a wishy-washy person
could argue something they didn't believe in and I would say it was
indicative of an open mind capable of reason, unlike some minds. The
argument carried us through his morning exercises which was the whole
point. He hated the exercises and arguing with me kept his mind off the
pain so we got through the morning session.
By late afternoon he wouldn't do them without a few drinks or a toke first.
The pain pills made him feel queasy so he wouldn't take them. We had some
great fights over that, real arguments, not one of our mock battles. He
would tolerate a hangover for an evening of fun, risk getting busted in
order to get high on pot, but he wouldn't take a pill so he could do his
exercises! Even though I did my best arguing, for once secure in knowing I
was right and believing in my cause, I finally had to give up. He was going
to drink and smoke exercises or not, so there wasn't much point in adding
pills. So he did a fair number of exercise sessions “under the influence”
but at least he did them. Soon, however, twice a day was all I could get
him to do.
Worried, I called the physical therapist and he just laughed, saying he
always told the patient they needed to be done three times a day knowing
that with most patients, that would end up being twice. I never told John
that, just went on arguing with him over a third session and letting him
think he was winning. I figured if he knew twice was enough he would start
whittling away at that. Cyn was no help. She would reason gently with him
to do them but never insist. Neither would she learn how to do them. She
said she couldn't stand to see him hurt, much less doing it to him. After
the first few days, I realized it was just as well that she wouldn't. He
was usually in a bad mood for the afternoon sessions and I knew she
wouldn't have insisted he do them, and then he would have been angry with
her because he knew he was supposed to do them. For all his resistance, he
was concerned and I could see his relief as day by day the pain decreased
and the range of motion improved.
I finished changing and was downstairs waiting when John finally
reappeared. He looked a bit better with a shave and a something close to a
pleasant look. Les drove us into London. The glass was up between us and
Les, so after riding most of the way in silence, I asked, “John, are you
all right?”
He looked at me, startled, for just a moment. “I'm fine!” he responded, and
when he saw my dubious look, he said, “Just a bit of a hangover. Couldn't
get a decent joint last night so I had to resort to the old standby.”
“That's not what I mean.”
He looked at me for a long moment but broke away first. After another
minute of silence, I reached over and took his hand and squeezed it. He
held on to my hand but wouldn't look at me. As we turned onto Saville Row,
he said quietly, “Just wondering why I was in such a hurry to come home,
that's all.”
I was startled at that comment and dismayed by the sadness in his voice as
he said it. I couldn't think of what to say in response. Then he turned to
look at me and the warm, wicked smile that I loved broke through. “Should
have just run off to the south of Spain with you, Luv!”
We pulled up in front of the offices and Les got out and opened the door.
The receptionist told us that Brian, George, and Ringo were already
upstairs. Since I knew it was going to be a financial meeting, I stayed
downstairs with the secretaries and found myself bombarded with questions
about my date with Terry. We were laughing and talking about the whole
ritual of the first date when Paul breezed in.
He came back into the secretarial area, smiling and flirting with the
girls, and smiled at me. “Hullo, Tess. Did you have fun last night?”
Something in his voice told me he was only asking to be polite.
“Yes. I had a good time. We went to Sybilla's after dinner.”
“That's a great club. Always some action there. Susan, is today's mail in?”
Susan brought him a basket of sorted mail and he sat on her desk to look
through it.
Someone came up behind me and put his arm around me and held a jar of
peanut butter in front of me. I grabbed the jar and said, “Oh, Terry! You
shouldn't have!”
He laughed. “Flowers are so overdone!”
“Ooh” the secretaries teased. “What does a girl have to do to get peanut
butter on the first date?”
“Agree to a second date!” Terry said.
While they laughed, I took a quick look at Paul. I wanted to see his
response, hoping for something vaguely resembling jealousy. He looked at
me, smiled his meet the press smile, and got up and left.
OK, so jealousy was too much to hope for, but please, please, why couldn't
we be friends again? The other times we had spent together were wonderful,
even if Friday night had been a mistake. I missed talking to him.
I forced myself not to watch him walk out of the room, consciously composed
my facial expression and tried to focus on what Terry was saying. We talked
for a while longer, then he got a call and had to leave. Liz called me over
to her desk and reported that she had my story all typed. “It's good,” she
said in her usual no-nonsense tone. “Better than a lot of the rubbish they
print.”
I took the papers and sat down to read it. It looked
better typed, and Liz was not a person given to compliments, so I began to
finally believe that this whole thing might be going to work out. Now all I
had to do was show it to Paul.
A little later John and Ringo came downstairs. “John, I need to talk to
Paul for a few minutes before we leave,” I said dreading what comment he
might make almost as much as the meeting with Paul.
“Good. I could go with a pint. Coming, Rich?” George was coming down the
staircase as I went up. Of all of them, he was the one whose presence
always set off a surge of Beatlemania in me. I had never thought of John as
a Beatle, he was just too much all by himself, and he had gone from being
my patient to being my friend so quickly he never was one of "Them.” What
Paul triggered in me was not the starry-eyed adoration of a fan. The only
word for it was lust. Ringo always looked at the screaming girls with a
“Who, me?” expression. He was so warm, open, down to earth, I immediately
forgot I was talking to “Ringo.” So George, who hated all the fuss worse
than any of them, was the only one who set me off. Thankfully, he never
seemed to notice that when he walked in I got tongue-tied. Or maybe he did
and that's why he always grinned at me and, as often as not, hugged me.
Anyway, it worked, and in his quiet way, he always made me feel like I was
a friend, not just another fan. Today he greeted me with a warm grin.
“So when do I get to do me bit for your college fund?” he asked. Tony had
spoken to him about the interviews I needed. We talked for a few minutes
and made plans to do it that evening. When I heard Paul's voice upstairs,
my heart thumped and my palms started to sweat, I decided I wasn't up to
Paul's cold shoulder.
“George, would you take these papers up to Paul for me?”
He didn't say anything but just looked at me questioningly.
“I can't face him if he is going to get angry about my writing again,” I
explained.
“Nah. I think you should take them,” he said grinning at me as if he knew
more than he could possibly know. A quick hug and he was gone and I had no
choice.
Upstairs, Paul, Brian, and a couple of accountant types were standing in
the hall outside the conference room. I hesitated to interrupt but Brian
saw me and smiled. “Hello, Tess.”
“Hi, Brian. I need to talk to Paul for a minute when you're done.”
Paul turned to look at me, and one of the accountants said “I've got that
information with me…,” and the others all went back into the conference
room, leaving Paul and me standing there looking at each other. No smile
now, not even his pleasant meet the press face.
“I ... I have the first article done. Here.” I held out the papers to him
with one hand, a red pencil with the other. He took the papers and the
pencil produced a little smile. He only glanced at the first page, then
looked at me. Really looked this time. I didn't know what he was thinking,
didn't know what to say or do so I just stood there feeling an ache growing
inside. I wanted to go back, back to before he knew about the articles, and
I'd give up the kiss in the garden to do it.
He glanced over his shoulder into the conference room, up and down the
short hall, and then took my arm, opened the door behind me, and pulled me
inside with him. A broom closet! Before I could ask him what the hell he
was doing he had his arms around me and was kissing me.
Startled, I resisted. I resisted for about three milliseconds before I
lifted my arms around his neck and melted into the embrace and the kiss,
opening my mouth to his. When he let me go a minute later, I swayed
unsteadily, my body as confused as my mind. He steadied me, holding me
gently.
“See, Tess,” he said. “It's not just the moonlight and roses.”
Far from it. This was filtered light from the frosted glass in the transom
over the door and the smell of cleaning supplies and wet mops. No hint of
marijuana, just the scent of his aftershave and the warmth of his body and
the taste of his kiss.
“It's you and me,” I said, believing it this time. As I took the initiative
to kiss him again, I felt him reach out to set the papers on a shelf behind
me, and then he was holding me. I held onto him desperately. If this was
all I could have of Paul McCartney, I would make the most of it.
I ran my fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, touched his face
trying to memorize the way he felt. His arms were tight around me, but as I
touched him, he loosened his hold, letting me run my hands down his arms. I
loved the feel of him. As I moved my hand over his chest, all I could think
of was how I wanted to unbutton his shirt and touch him. I could feel his
heart beating against my hand and that made me kiss him again and again. He
responded with kisses that asked for more, demanded and took everything I
could put into a kiss. His hands were moving over me, caressing me as I had
him. When his hand moved up to touch my breast there was none of the usual
defense reaction, no quick calculation of the situation: Should I let this
boy make this move on this date? I just leaned into his hand and kissed him
harder. He squeezed gently and stroked me with his thumb. I had always
found boy's fascination with breasts to be a little amusing, but this was
not amusing at all. My nipples were hard and I wanted to feel his hand on
my bare skin.
It was almost as if I had said it out loud. He tugged my pullover blouse
out of my waistband, slipped his hand under my blouse, and into my bra. It
may not have been the first time I was touched like this, but no one had
ever been so bold about it—or done it so smoothly—and it had never felt
this good! I made a little gasping, moaning sound that was a first for me.
Fumbling with the top button on his shirt I undid it and pressed my face
into his neck, kissing him, tasting him, wanting more.
Time slipped by and all there was in the world was his mouth, his hands,
his body. When he slipped his hand out from under my blouse and moved it
slowly down over my hip, down to lift me against him, my body responded. I
could barely stand, all I wanted was to feel him against me. I needed to
feel him. He was hard, and as he pulled me tight against him I moaned
again. Instinct took over and I began to move slowly against him, feeling
soft where he felt hard, rubbing against him in a way that both satisfied
yet made me want more, breathing hard, wanting more, asking for more. This
time he was the one to moan.
I stopped abruptly, startled with the realization of what I had been doing.
So this is what they mean by getting carried away, I thought. Doing things
you didn't know you knew to do, and doing them without thinking of anything
but how good it felt!
Paul waited, no doubt wondering why I had stopped. I stood there, unable to
think straight, unable to decide what to say or do. When I didn't move,
didn't speak, he touched my face and tilted my head back to look into my
eyes. My first thought when I saw the intensity in his eyes was, “Oh, no. I
am about to lose my virginity in a broom closet!” Instead of trying
anything though, he pulled me close and just held me, his warm hands on my
back under my blouse. He began kissing me again with slow, soft kisses that
were even harder to resist than demanding ones.
The intensity built again. I found myself wanting to reach down and touch
him. The idea was shocking. I had never even wanted to do that, much less
done it! If I did, I knew I was forfeiting any right to say “stop.” That
was another unwritten rule of the '60s. If the girl touched the guy she was
giving him the green light. Besides, to do it, I would have to pull away
from him and the magnetic center of the earth had shifted to a spot below
my waist. My knees were weak, and if there had been room, I would have
pulled him down to the floor. I couldn't stop, and I couldn't go any
further. Another new sexual feeling; frustration.
The sound of voices and footsteps in the hall brought the world back into
focus. “John is waiting for me. He's going to wonder where I am,” I managed
to say.
He looked at me with a smile. “He'll know. He's been singing bits of
“You're Going to Lose That Girl” to me every chance he gets. He's—” Paul
broke off suddenly and looked at his watch. “Oh no! I've got a meeting with
some people about a score for a movie and I am going to be late! I've got
to go, Luv.”
After a few more kisses that were supposed to cool things off but
threatened to begin it all again, he groaned and pried me away. A quick
check to make sure no one was in the hall, and he grabbed the papers off
the shelf.
“Ready?” he asked.
“No!” I tried to stuff my blouse back in. I needed time to get myself as
well as my clothing back together. “Go on. You don't need to wait for me.”
He grinned at my flustered state, kissed me quickly, and said, “I'll bring
these back tomorrow afternoon,” and opened the door and slipped out.
I pulled the door shut after him and stood in the broom closet feeling ...
what? I didn't know how I felt. Happier than I could ever remember being
one moment, confused the next. Foolish for being in a broom closet with my
clothes all rumpled. Worried about the next time I saw him. Would he be
cool again? Or would it be like this? And if this did happen again…
Not “if”. Please let it be “when”! And what then? Pray for another
well-timed dog or meeting to bail me out? Say “no”? Would I? He touched me
and I was moaning and squirming against him and I was going to say no?
Is this how it happened? This crazy can't get enough feeling making you say
yes when you knew you should say no? I hadn't dated much in the last couple
of years, but I had spent some time in the back seat of a parked car and it
had never gotten me to this point! Not even with Gary, the boy I had dated
for several months the spring and summer I graduated. I had certainly felt
the stirring of these sensations but compared to this, it had been easy to
say “Stop.”
We had gone together all summer and spent hours parked along country roads,
but he was gentleman enough to let me set the limits and I was not in love
enough to stop being a “good girl.” That had ended with only moderate
misgivings when I moved to Minneapolis to start school and he was drafted
shortly after that.
I felt a little good old Catholic guilt about what we had done in the back
seat on those summer nights but missed those make-out sessions as much, if
not more, than I missed him. Even so, as much fun as that had been, it
wasn't like this. A few “oohs,” a definite enjoyment of pressing my body
against his, a warm glow in my nether regions, but no uncontrollable
moaning, no urge to rub hard and fast against the bulge behind his zipper.
I had been on the sidelines for two years, listening to the other girls
talk and giggle about making out, and wondering which ones had gone all the
way. I had been too busy to date any one boy long enough to consider it,
and way too straight-laced to consider it on a casual basis, but right now
I didn't feel casual about Paul and I certainly was considering it.
OK, so I was more than considering it.
I had never really given a great deal of thought to my virgin status. I
assumed that I would lose it on my wedding night, or, as I got older and
learned a little more about how these things happened in the real world, I
thought perhaps it would be in the back seat of a car with an engagement
ring safely on my finger and wedding plans underway. Now suddenly I was
tired of waiting for the right guy, the right time, the right situation.
Paul certainly felt like the right guy even if this wasn't the right time,
right situation.
So what would I do if the opportunity presented itself? Take a chance and
let it happen? Yeah, right. You can't get pregnant the first time. Famous
last words. I could just see myself waking up on the first day of school
with morning sickness! Ask him to use a condom? I couldn't imagine those
words coming from my mouth. What if he refused? Guys apparently didn't like
to use them. That left the pill, a diaphragm, foam, and coitus interruptus.
Didn't have, didn't have, unacceptable failure rate if used alone, and just
about guaranteed failure.
This was crazy. I was trying to figure out how I could have sex with some
guy I would never see again after this summer! Even so, I didn't know
exactly how, but crazy or not, I was going to have the pill and Paul
McCartney before I left London. I smoothed out my clothes, peeked out to
see if the coast was clear, and headed downstairs.
Les was waiting. John wasn’t around but had instructed him to drive me
home. I wasn't thrilled about the idea of being the one to tell Cyn that
John had taken off for the night, but when I got home I found her all
dressed to go out. John had called and told her to meet him and she looked
so happy. Mrs. Powell arrived to watch Julian so I was free to go over to
George's. Cyn dropped me off on her way to meet John.
The interview with George was more fun than I had expected. Away from the
craziness, he lost the angry, irritated stance that talking about being a
Beatle usually triggered in him. With Pattie teasing him, he talked for a
long time, laughing at himself as well as the Beatle crazy world. We sat
around the swimming pool in the courtyard while I did the interview, then
Pattie grilled me about Paul. I tried hard not to say too much, still
reeling and confused by that afternoon's encounter with him. Pattie and
George just exchanged big grins. They invited me to stay for dinner with
them, but I wanted to go home and sit by the phone.
The only phone call I got that evening was from Terry, breaking our weekend
date. Brian needed him to drive him to Liverpool over the weekend. Brian
had a couple of groups he was considering taking on, and he wanted to see
them perform. Terry sounded a little irritated. Someone else was supposed
to go and Brian had changed his mind and called him for no apparent reason.
I was a little relieved. I wasn't sure what was going to happen with Paul,
and going out with Terry might be inconvenient. Terry didn't think he would
be back from the tour before I left, and we said goodbye on the phone.
While I waited in vain for Paul to call, I wrote a letter to Mom and Dad,
and one to Brenda and Sandy. Carefully edited, it mentioned going to a
party at Paul's house, but little else. I honestly wasn't sure they would
believe it! Worse, I didn't know how to explain what was happening. You
don't just say “Paul McCartney kissed me” and not explain the situation,
but I couldn't begin to explain what was going on between us because I
didn't understand it myself. We bounced from enjoyable conversations to hot
kisses to cold shoulder. For that reason and the fact that “Kiss and Tell”
with Paul felt like a betrayal, it was easier just to say nothing. I did
tell my roommates about the date I had with Terry. That was believable and
within our frame of dating experiences! It was getting late when I finished
the letters. I gave up waiting for the phone to ring and took a long soak
in the tub and went to bed.
I had expected Cyn to be cheerful after her night out with John, but she
was very quiet the next morning. I had heard them come in around 3:00 a.m.,
and John was noisy. I couldn't make out much of what he said, but a little
later I heard Cyn's voice from the bottom of the stairs. “All right. I
can't handle him when he's like this anyway.”
A man's voice answered, saying something about “until morning.” It wasn't
John's voice. Cyn came upstairs then and I heard her go in to check on
Julian before she went to her room.
The house was very quiet when I got up the next morning. Mal was sleeping
on the couch in the living room and John in the sunroom. Mrs. Powell was in
the kitchen with Julian and she was not in a good mood. I decided it was
not the time for questions and after a quick breakfast, I took Julian
upstairs to play so he wouldn't awaken John. When we came back down a
couple of hours later, Mal was gone, John was still sleeping, Dot had
arrived and was doing laundry and Cyn and her mother were not speaking.
Julian and I went outside. I managed to keep Julian occupied for another
hour or so and when we went back in, Mrs. Powell had left. Cyn seemed to
want to pretend that everything was fine and we set about making small talk
and fixing lunch. Dot left to take Julian to nursery school a little later.
Finally alone with Cyn and hoping John wouldn't choose this time to put in
an appearance, I awkwardly asked her how I could go about getting birth
control pills, coaching it in terms of a hypothetical question and knowing
darn well my blush and stammer was giving me away. She looked a little
surprised. Probably not as surprised as I was to hear myself saying that.
If you didn't grow up in small town America in the sixties, I don't know if
you can appreciate how bizarre I felt. Nice girls didn't have sex, at least
not with someone they hardly knew and hadn't the slightest notion of
marrying. I was not a rebel, not a wild child. I played by the rules. I
even understood and appreciated the reasons behind them most of the time.
Even so, I wanted to have sex with Paul and I was going to do it, so there
I was, premeditating, preplanning, preparing for something that I had
never, ever imagined I would want to do.
Once I got through the preliminaries of explaining that, no, I didn't mean
a refill, I wasn't on them yet, she refrained from asking the obvious
question. “You'll need to make an appointment. I may be able to get you in
to see my doctor. He's private pay and it will cost about 30 pounds—”
I gasped. “30 pounds!”
“If you can get in. It often takes weeks.”
“Oh, no!”
“Tess, if you like I can give you a couple of month's supply of mine. I
just got a year's supply.”
“But what will you do? You will be short on your prescription."
She laughed. “Maybe I'll just chance it for a bit. I've always fancied
having a little girl. Either way, Julian could use a playmate. Maybe that's
just what we need."
A baby to hold a marriage together. I cringed at the thought. John was
already cheating on her. Being pregnant wouldn't solve that and a newborn
in the house wouldn't keep him home nights either. If sweet, adorable
Julian couldn't do it, no screaming baby would. I struggled to control the
expression on my face, but it was too late.
“I know,” she said softly, “but sometimes I wonder if it is only a matter
of time anyway. He'll move on and that will be it, but at least I'll have
his children.”
“Maybe now that they aren't touring... "
She shrugged. “Maybe. Things are so crazy out there for them. I have always
tried to give him a quiet, safe place to come home to. Someplace he can
just be himself with no one demanding he keep up the image. Lately though,
he just ... I don't know. He doesn't like it out there, but I don't think
he is happy here either.”
When she first started to talk about her marriage, I had been surprised
that she would discuss it with me, but as she went on I realized she was as
much a victim of their fame as any of the Beatles. Who could she talk to?
She was trapped rattling around in a big house in the suburbs far from all
her old friends in Liverpool. John had Paul, George, and Ringo and their
friendship went back years. She didn't have three old girlfriends around
much less a Brian, Neil, or a Mal for companionship as John did. Pattie was
a Londoner to begin with and had family and friends here. Maureen was
wrapped up in the joy of a new baby and a husband who was thrilled by that
baby's arrival. Although the other wives would understand the pressures of
marriage to an idol, perhaps she hated to admit to them that her marriage
was in trouble. Of course, Cyn had her mother, but these are not the sort
of confidences one shares with a mother who's apt to say “I told you so!”
Who
else could she trust to keep what she said confidential? John seemed to
trust me and perhaps that was enough for her.
“I used to think that if he could just stay here, things would settle down,
we could finally be an ordinary family,” she told me, “but I am not sure
that is enough for him. I've never questioned him about what goes on when
they are gone. I thought if I held him too close, demanded too much, I
would end up losing him anyway. But lately, I don't think... " She stopped
and pulled herself together and I thought she would change the subject, but
she went on in a voice that told me she was every bit as unhappy as John.
“Sometimes I think I should be the one to leave.” She laughed a sad little
laugh. “Lord knows he has given me plenty of reasons.”
“But you still love him!” I said, amazed to hear her say that.
“Oh, yes. You don't ever stop loving someone like John, but, sometimes I
think I should just go and get on with my life, try to find someone else
while I'm still young." She stopped, tears in her eyes. “But I won't. I
won't just give up.” She laughed shakily. “Maybe if I had been as careful
as you, and not gotten preggers." She pulled herself together abruptly and
changed the subject. “OK, I have to know. Is it Paul, or is Terry back in
town?”
If things worked out as I hoped, she would know anyway. “Paul,” I said.
Cyn was laughing. “I can't blame you at all. Paul can turn a girl's head.
Come on. I'll get you the pills. I can get more for myself when I run out.”
We went upstairs and she got a packet of pills from her bathroom. In those
early days of birth control pills, there was less variability in brands and
dosages and few warnings about the risks of taking someone else's
prescribed medication, so I had no concerns about taking them. My being a
nurse no doubt gave Cyn a false sense of security in giving them to me,
too. Cyn explained how to take them; three weeks on, one week off, and that
I should take the first one on the first day of my next period.
“You mean I have to wait until then!?” Quick mental calculation. Not due
for another five or six days, lasting about five days. At least a week and
a half, even two weeks before we could risk it.
She laughed at the look on my face. “So it's that way, is it? How long has
this been going on?”
I told her about Paul's effect on me from the moment I met him. How we
seemed to be able to talk for hours—or had until he found out about the
deal for the stories. How he had kissed me the night of the party at his
house and ignored me after. Then today…
She looked as puzzled as I felt. “That's not like Paul,” she said. “He
doesn't play games. When he wants a girl... "
I didn't want to hear that. Cyn saw the look on my face. “He's just being
careful. He'll read your article, he'll see it's OK. Then he'll relax.”
That afternoon, I wanted to go into the office and see Paul, or at least
see what he had red-inked on the stories. If they were OK, I could turn
them into Tony. John wasn't up yet and Cyn assured me he wouldn't be
wanting to go anywhere when he did get up. She said Les could take me, and
I rushed to change clothes. It was really hot and humid, so I put on a
short skirt and cotton blouse that tied in front. I debated on pantyhose
and dress shoes, but it was just too hot to dress up so I just slipped on
sandals.
When I got to the office, I asked if Paul was in. “He's up in his office.
He said to tell you to go on up if you came in today.”
I went on upstairs, heart pounding. Paul got up when he saw me in the
doorway. He wasn't smiling. He barely looked at me as he shut the door
behind me. My heart sank and at the same time, a flame of anger sparked. I
was tired of this on-again, off-again game.
He sat back down behind the desk and gestured to a chair. I felt like an
employee being called into the boss's office. I remained standing. The
article was lying on the desk in front of him, no red ink on the first page
at least. He picked up a pencil and fiddled with it for a minute and still
without looking at me, he said. “I was hoping it would be awful.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
He looked up at me then, surprised at the sarcasm in my voice and the look
on his face caught me by surprise. He looked just plain sad. He got up and
came around the desk to me, reaching out for me.
I meant to step back, I really did, but somehow he had his arms around me.
“I thought if it was not good enough to publish, you would just give it up
but it is good. Tony will love it. The fans will be lined up waiting for
the second part. And the third. Then the reporters will be back wanting
interviews. I am asking you one last time. Drop it, Tess. I'll pay your
school costs, whatever you need, just—”
“I can't, Paul,” I said miserably, ready to give up anything he asked me to
give up. “I would, but I have an agreement with them. I can't back out
now.”
“Did you sign anything?”
“No”
“Then it isn't binding.”
“I can't go back on my word!”
He sighed and let go of me. “OK, Tess. OK.” He turned his back to me and
stared out the window.
I picked up the article and flipped through the pages, seeing no red ink
anywhere. “Paul, I don't understand,” I said. “There is not a red mark on
any of this, nothing in this you seem to want out and you know I'll let you
edit the other articles, too. Why don't you trust what I'll write? ”
After a long silence, he turned back to me. “And six months from now, when
your car breaks down and the rent is due, and you need money, what then?
When this whole thing is nothing more than a wild summer holiday, what will
you tell the reporters then?”
I was stunned. How could he think I would do that? I would never ... but
someone had, and not even for money. How could I make him believe me? In
the icy silence, my mind was spinning. An idea came to me.
“I don't have a contract with Tony, but I will make one with you.”
I found a piece of paper and a pen on the desk, sat down and started
writing. “I, Theresa Marie Martin, do make this solemn, binding promise to
James Paul McCartney, that I will complete the series of three articles
already promised to Tony Barrow, and that after the completion of said
articles will cease and desist—”
Paul came over to read what I was writing. I got that far before he took
the pen out of my hand and pulled me up off the chair. “Enough. Tess,
enough.” He led me over to the big leather sofa across the small room. When
he pulled me down on his lap, I didn't wait. I put my arms around his neck
and kissed him. When I finally let him up for air, he pulled me right back
for another kiss.
“I'll have it notarized,” I murmured somewhere between kisses. He laughed
softly and tipped me back until we were lying together on the sofa. A few
minutes later, as he undid my blouse, I said, “I'll sign it in blood.” My
bra was expertly unhooked and his warm hand was caressing me. His kisses
moved down my neck and the warmth of his mouth replaced the touch of his
hand.
“I'll sign anything,” I sighed.
I ran my fingers through his hair and when he eventually moved back up to
kiss my lips, his hand was on my thigh. He pulled me close against him and
his hand slid up under my skirt caressing my thigh before wandering on to
my backside. My body reacted by pressing closer to him and I made a little
sound that certainly wasn't a protest. I could feel him respond, not a
sound, not a movement exactly, but a power surge, like a car shifting
gears.
A little voice in my head warned me this was getting out of control. The
old virginity monitor was kicking in but I ignored it. It wasn't enough to
be held tight against him, to hold him, to kiss him so I reached up and
tugged his shirt out of his waistband so I could touch his bare skin. When
his bare chest touched my breasts, I knew that I was in real trouble. I
would have to stop him soon. Stop myself soon. But not yet. I couldn't.
Nothing had ever felt so good. Once again I found that even though I had
gone this far before, it never felt like this!
His hand was stroking and squeezing and caressing its way up to my waist,
then down over my hip. He shifted slightly and slid it between my knees,
moving upward slowly. If he intended to give me time to say “No” it didn't
work. The fire he had started there yesterday was rekindled and all I
wanted was to feel his touch. I sighed, half pleasure, half despair because
I knew I couldn't let this go any further, I needed to stop him. This is
where I had to draw the line.
Too late. His hand was there, touching me, fingers stroking me ever so
lightly through the silky nylon of my underwear. I gasped and he stopped.
He lifted his mouth from mine and moved his lips to my ear. “Ah, Tess,” he
said with a little teasing laugh in his soft voice. “Think of what you
could have if you just forgot about playing reporter altogether.”
It didn't register for a moment then, through the haze of pleasure, a
thought intruded. “He is rewarding you!”
I froze, and other thoughts piled in through the crack created by the
first. That night in the garden was for agreeing to let him read the
articles. Yesterday in the broom closet was for following through and
bringing the papers to him. Today I offered him a contract agreeing not to
write anything else, and in between the rewards, he ignored me.
“Oh, no. Please, no,” I said, somewhere between a moan and whimper.
“It's OK Luv, the door—”
“No!” I pushed his hand away and struggled to get untangled from him.
He heard the anger in my voice and knew I wasn't simply saying "No!" to his
touching me. “Tess! What—?”
“That's what it was all along, wasn't it? Rewards for doing what you
wanted!” I pushed free of him and jumped to my feet, clutching my blouse
shut and suddenly feeling naked and embarrassed.
“What are you talking about?”
I turned my back to him and choked out the words as I tugged at my clothes.
“Promise you that you could edit them first and get a kiss!”
“Tess—”
“Bring you the first pages and get groped in a broom closet!” I was shaking
with fury and humiliation as I struggled to get my bra hooked.
“I didn't—”
I wasn't done. “Promise you no more articles ever and get screwed!”
“Tess! It’s not like that at all!” He was on his feet, reaching for me. I
couldn't push him away, my hands were trying to tie my blouse. I spun away
from him.
“Listen to me!”
“Leave me alone!” I yelled at him. I grabbed the papers and my purse off
the desk and ran for the door. After a brief struggle with the door, I
realized it was locked. Good planning, Paul! Wouldn't want anyone walking
in during the behavior modification session! I found the button to unlock
it, turned the knob, and escaped into the hall, slamming the door behind
me. I stood there for a moment, realizing I couldn't go through the lobby
like this. I needed a place to pull myself together. I headed for the
enclosed stairway at the back of the building. Down at the turn of the
first landing, I stopped and collapsed on the top step sobbing.
“Stupid, Stupid, Stupid!” I screamed at myself as the tears poured. “You
are in so far over your head with this guy!” Nothing had ever taught me to
play this kind of game, to use sex as a method of control. I dug in my
purse for a Kleenex and got the tears under control easily enough because I
simply had to. I couldn't walk out of here looking like this. I was
scrubbing at the mascara smears under my eyes when I heard the door above
me open. Footsteps came down the stairs and I looked up. Of course, it was
Paul.
I froze. I couldn't face the secretaries downstairs and didn't know where
to run. He came halfway down and when I didn't get up and run, he sat down
on the upper staircase. I watched him warily. He ran his hand through his
hair and then couldn't seem to look at me as he sat with his elbows on his
knees, staring down at his hands clasped in front of him. He looked upset,
uncertain and most definitely unhappy. As he sat there, the image of that
night at the park by the lake came back to me: Weight of the world on his
shoulders, not knowing what to do. The knot of anger in my chest began to
melt. Time ticked by in the hot stairwell. Finally, he sighed, straightened
up and looked at me. His voice was low, quiet, not persuasive, not charming
me, just telling me something he wanted me to understand.
“When I found out you were writing for Tony I knew I should stay away from
you but I couldn't. Then I thought maybe I could talk you out of it so that
we... " He stopped for a moment, then looked away. My heart was pounding.
“I knew I shouldn't kiss you,” he went on softly, leaving his last comment
unfinished. He laughed a short, self-mocking laugh that touched and
thrilled me at the same time. “I knew it, but I did anyway and the next day
I swore it wouldn't happen again. If I wouldn't talk to you, I had no
business kissing you but yesterday... " He shrugged, hands in a gesture of
surrender.
He tried again. “Tess, I wasn't trying to... " He stopped again, frustrated
at not finding the words. He sighed. “Look, Tess, all I want is to be able
to be with you and not worry about what could end up in some fan magazine.”
As I listened, I heard more than just the words. I heard Mr. P.R., the guy
who always seemed to know the right words to say to please the fans and
satisfy the press, searching, fumbling for the words to explain, to
apologize. I heard the real Paul McCartney, the one that usually hid behind
the smile and kept his feelings to himself. I heard in his voice the same
desire I had. To go back, make it the way it was before. To go on and make
it more.
“I'm sorry Luv,” he said. “I never wanted to hurt you. I just... I'm
sorry.”
I couldn't say anything. I reached for the railing between us to pull
myself up, knowing my knees wouldn't hold me. He looked up at me as I
reached out across the railing to touch his face. He reached for my hand,
kissing my fingers as his hand closed around mine.
“What do we do now, Tess?” he asked as he stood up. “You have to finish the
articles, and I... " He trailed off, not wanting to say again that he
didn't want me to write them.
“And you'll never be comfortable with that,” I ended for him. Ellen had
really done a job on him.
Another silence, our hands together on the railing. Then Paul said, “How
long will it take for you to finish it?”
“I don't know. I've got the second part almost done. I did the interviews
with the others for the last one, but I was thinking about talking to some
of the gatebirds for it, too.”
“What is it going to be about?”
I took a deep breath. I didn't know how he would take this. “It's going to
be about what it is like for you on tour, how your music has changed, where
you want to go—and on what the fans mean to you. Tony wants to make it
clear that they are important so that when they find out there won't be any
more tours, they'll understand why and they'll know you are just trying to
give them your best.”
He listened carefully. “The interviews with the others, you asked how they
felt about touring, about the fans?”
“Yes.”
“And George actually said something printable?”
I had to laugh, even though he asked it in all seriousness. “With a little
editing, yes. He talked about how great he thought it was at first until it
became something that had to be done because it was good business for
everyone that had become involved. He just wants the music to be good and
the fans to be reasonable about his privacy.”
“What are you planning to say about how I feel? ‘Paul declined to be
interviewed'?”
“I haven't quite figured out what to do about that,” I admitted, “but I can
say I was there when you were trying to decide whether to go ahead with the
Minneapolis concert. That you were concerned about the fans getting what
they paid for.”
He looked at me, considering. Finally, he asked, “Would it make it a little
easier, a little faster, if I agreed to an interview?”
“Yes.”
“Day after tomorrow at four. My house. I'll give you the interview.”
“You don't have to do that.”
“If I want to spend time with you, I do,” he said quietly. “and I do.”
I reached up for him and we met across the railing in a kiss that felt like
a promise. “Write fast, Tess,” he murmured as he held me for a moment
before letting me go. “Now let's get out here before I melt.”
I picked up my purse and the papers and we headed down the stairs out into
the cool air of the first floor. Les was across from the receptionist's
desk, reading a newspaper while he waited. Paul took the papers from me and
handed them over to the receptionist. “See that Tony gets these, would you,
Luv?”
“Saturday at four,” he said to me as I headed out the door.