Into My Life

Chapter 10

I woke up late Sunday morning, disoriented as usual in the unfamiliar bedroom. With consciousness came a thump of all my insides, that shock wave you feel when you wake up and realize that you aren't dreaming. I was in London, in John Lennon's house! Double thump!! I had made love to Paul!!! Sort of. Or had sex. Or sort of. He was going to call me and we would spend the day together. Tonight we would do it again. Or sort of do it. Or whatever. Thump, thump, thumpety thump!

Downstairs, Julian was building a fortress under the dining room table with his building blocks and Cyn and Mrs. Powell were in the sun room reading the paper, waiting for John to wake up and want breakfast. "How did the interview with Paul go?" Cyn asked as I joined them.

Interview? Was that just yesterday? "Great! I'll be able to finish up the rest of the articles in a few days."

"And Paul?"

She had to ask? The sensation of Paul's hands on me was so fresh, I thought his fingerprints must be all over me, glowing fluorescently. I felt like I was sending out a message to the world in glaring neon. "THIS GIRL IS NOW A VIRGIN ONLY IN A TECHNICAL SENSE."

"Paul is . . . incredible."

Cyn started laughing. "Mum says he was here with you last night and you two looked cozy. You have resolved your differences, I take it."

"You could say that," I said, grinning at her. "He hasn't called has he?"

He hadn't and I went to the kitchen for tea and then joined Julian under the table. John showed up and began his morning ritual of reading the paper front to back while Cyn fixed breakfast. I left Julian in his cave and joined John in the sunroom, picking up newspaper sections as he finished them, knowing I would need ammo for argument if we were going to get through morning exercises. When the phone rang and Cyn called from the kitchen to say "It's for you, Tess," I raced to answer it.

"Martha and I are going for a drive in the country today. Can I talk you into coming along?"

"You could talk me into about anything."

He chuckled. "I don't recall having to persuade you. Saved a lot of time trying to figure out how to get you into bed."

"Save more time and come and get me right away. I haven't seen you for ten hours."

"Is that all its been? Feels like days. I'll be there in forty-five minutes."

"Breakfast is nearly ready," Cyn said as I hung up. "How soon will Paul be here? Maybe we should wait for him."

John was just coming into the kitchen and heard her question. "Paul is coming out?" he asked.

"Yes," I said to him and to Cyn I answered, "He said forty-five minutes."

John laughed. "Let's eat," he said as he took his place at the table. "If he said forty-five it will be ninety. Macca is only on time when it means missing a plane. Or when he wants something."

Cyn grinned at me and checked her watch. "We'll see," she said.

We finished breakfast and moved to the sun room for the exercises and I found myself, unbelievably, defending the accuracy of the North Vietnamese death counts published by the Pentagon. It was indefensible. The kill ratio was always something like twenty to one, and it was impossible to believe that a country the size of North Vietnam could have that many men left after twenty years of war, first with the French, then the Americans. I could not concentrate anyway, knowing Paul would be here any time, so I resorted to some insanity about the breeding capabilities of orientals (as proven by the Chinese population problem) allowing them to keep up a supply of soldiers. John started laughing and said, "Tess, you can do better than that."

"OK. They all look alike in their little black pajamas, so we sometimes mistakenly count them twice!"

He was roaring with laughter when Cyn walked into the room with Paul who was carrying a giggling Julian upside down under one arm. Martha was enthusiastically giving Julian's face slurpy licks as he squirmed and laughed.

It was kind of odd, but I realized just then that John didn't play with Julian. It wasn't just that he hadn't been able to roughhouse with him because of his shoulder. He simply didn't play with Julian. He talked to him, smiled at the silly games Julian and I played, kissed him goodnight and all that, but he didn't play with him. Didn't seem to know quite what to do with him, actually. It wasn't just not knowing how to play with him. If Julian acted up, John told Cyn to "do something" with him. He just didn't seem to know how to interact with him.

Paul spun Julian right side up and put him down. He looked at John, still laughing at me.

"What's he on about?" he asked.

"News. They fight over the papers every morning," Cyn explained to Paul.

"She's losing again this morning!" John said, laughing at me again.

"My mind is elsewhere," I said looking at Paul, as always, physically moved and now trying to ignore that the tugging feeling in my heart was stronger than ever.

Paul reached out to me. I took his hand, moved into his arms and tilted my face up to him. He kissed me gently and in the background I could hear John say "Whoa! What's this?"

"This is why Paul was here in forty-two minutes," Cyn clarified for him.

Paul and I ignored them and as we kissed again we could hear John putting on a plumy British voice. "I say! Well, and well again! Tut, tut and all!" he said in classic meaningless British old geezer commentary.

The kiss ended, and while Paul nuzzled my neck, I said, "John, you can do better than that."

"So can I," Paul murmured, and proved it even though one hand was devoted to keeping Martha down.

As I was drowning in the kiss, sinking into that warm, endless space where only Paul and I existed, I heard John switch from upper crust to Liverpudlian. "Cor, 'e's goin' for it. Right here in me livin' room. Finger pie for breakfast, I'd say. And she's lovin' it. Got 'er tongue down 'is throat and givin' him everything she's got. She'll be going for his privates next."

That got Paul laughing, putting an end to what was, relatively speaking, a very innocent kiss.

"That must have been some interview yesterday," Cyn observed.

"In-depth," John said. "Probing, driving, hard--"

"Shut yer gob, John," Paul said with a grin. "Can I have a cuppa, Cyn?"

Paul hadn't had breakfast, so we adjourned to the kitchen where Mrs. Powell was cleaning up the breakfast things. The cats, sunning themselves on the floor in front of the window, took one look at Martha and were on their feet, fur on end, bodies spring loaded. Martha wiggled and wagged her way happily over to greet them and they evaporated leaving only a yowl and a hiss hanging in the air. Paul grabbed Martha to prevent a hot pursuit, and managed to convince her to stay put with a bit of bacon.

Cyn and her mother fixed Paul breakfast while Julian clamored for Paul's attention and, in deference to the presence of Mrs. Powell, John made only oblique comments about how Paul needed his nourishment. Had to keep up his strength. I blushed, Cyn gave him wifely nudges, and Paul gave him naughty school boy grins that only encouraged him. When Mrs. Powell left the room, John took off the kid gloves.

"So how was she, mate? Was it good? Tess, you didn't wear that blue robe with the little ribbons did you? You look about five years old in that get up!"

By this point I had my hands over my face, Paul was laughing, and Cyn was giggling.

"Come, on, Paulie. Do tell. I know I enjoyed slee--"

"John!!" I protested cutting him off. "We did not . . . well, we did -- but we didn't!"

"You did what?" Paul asked, confused.

"Sleep together."

His eyes widened.

"No! I mean sleep! At the hotel. He could hardly move and I knew he would need pain pills and I didn't think I would be able to hear him, I was so tired, and it was just easier to sleep in his room and . . ." I ran out of steam.

"And she wore that damnable blue robe all night. Drove me nuts wondering what was under it. If she hadn't drugged me, I wouldn't have slept a wink. So, having been tortured night after night, I have a right to know. Is she a screamer? I had her pegged for a screamer. It's always the quiet ones. Or maybe a scratcher. Show us your back, Paul!"

Paul was laughing at John -- we all were, you couldn't help it -- but obviously had no intention of answering.

"John, stop!" Cyn scolded but she was laughing too as she said it.

Paul finally put an end to it. "I don't kiss and tell, mate. Are you ready to go, Tess? You'd best bring a mac."

"You can take mine," Cyn offered, apparently knowing I didn't have one. That was more than I knew because I was trying to figure out what a "mack" was. I followed Cyn out to the closet in the front hallway and found out it was a raincoat. I ran upstairs to grab my camera and when I came down, John and Paul were standing out on the terrace talking. Paul whistled for Martha and when they came back in, Paul had an amused look on his face. We went out to his car and Martha jumped in, filling up the whole backseat with fur and anticipation. As we drove away, Paul was still chuckling over whatever he and John had talked about.

"What incredible witticism did John have left to share with you? And if it is really disgusting, I don't want to hear it," I said.

Paul reached over to take my hand and said, bemused, "I'm not sure, but I think what he was trying to say was that if I hurt you, he would see to me."

The soft spot I had in my heart for John Lennon doubled in size.

It was a beautiful day. The rain that had threatened that morning moved on and the sun came out, warm and bright. We found an open field and let Martha out to run while we sat in the shade of a grove of trees. "Good Day Sunshine" ran over and over through my mind. "I'm in love and it's a sunny day." I shoved any doubts about the wisdom of what I was doing aside and just went with the sunshine and Paul's smile. We spent hours just driving and talking and stopping often to get out wander down an interesting lane or explore a field.

"I wouldn't walk through there," he warned me as I spotted some wildflowers tumbling down a hillside and started up across a weedy patch toward them. "Nettles. Itch like blazes, too. You have to wear long pants and tuck them in your socks to walk through this stuff."

I stopped dead in my tracks, a little too far into the weeds to retreat with anything but the utmost care. I turned around gingerly, thinking it quite ironic that this city boy was standing down there safely amid the grass and clover at the edge of the road while I, country girl, was up in the nettle patch.

"Boy Scout?" I asked him with amusement.

His answer surprised me in more ways than one. "Michael and I were only half juvenile delinquent city boys," he said as he stepped into the weeds and reached up to offer me a steadying hand. I took it and was looking down, watching where I put my too vulnerable bare leg and sandal clad foot so I couldn't see his face as he said, "The other half was barefoot woodsprite."

I stopped, looking down at him, surprised at the idea of a Liverpool boy considering himself a woodsprite and even more surprised that he had remembered our conversation that day on the airplane. There was something in his voice, a seriousness, a thoughtfulness that seemed to say more than "I remember." He reached out then and used both hands to pick me up and set me down safely on the grass. I looked up at him, saw that same seriousness on his face for just a moment and then it was gone with flash of that impish grin.

"The stuff about growing up on the tough streets of a port city, that's great for the Beatle legend. But we always lived out on the edge of town. Turn one way out the door and catch a city bus, turn the other and go wading for frogs in the creek," he said, and went on tell me about days spent wandering the countryside with his little brother. Later, we sat on a stone wall at the edge of a field and watched a father and son work on the training of a border collie. Paul hung tightly to Martha's collar as she whined and lunged, eager to go chase the sheep too. He sat there with her, explaining the purpose of the exercise to her, pointing out each move of the dog as if Martha understood every word.

"Listen! One whistle and you move them to the right. Watch his hand signals. Over to the far corner. See, girl! You could do that!" Martha rewarded his faith in her with an excited leap into his lap and lots of slurpy kisses. She was careful to make sure she was the only one doing that though. She was tireless in interrupting anything that went beyond hand holding. Jealous woman.

As we drove back that evening, it was a forgone conclusion that we would end up in bed together. We didn't discuss it, but we couldn't keep our hands off each other. Martha had finally grown tired of trying to play chaperone and had fallen asleep in the back seat. Paul warned me there would be a big group of gatebirds waiting at Cavendish Avenue. I hadn't thought of that. Being outside of London, John had fewer gatebirds hanging around. They were often there in the afternoons, and weekends were the busiest, but they couldn't stay late. The last bus into London was at five p.m. But Paul's girls had late night buses since he was in the city.

"They'll be there 'til midnight, and unless I take you home at the crack of dawn, they'll be there in the morning," he said.

"So where can we go?" I asked, wanting to be alone with him. Alone someplace a little larger than an Austin Mini with a jealous sheepdog in the back seat.

"John's," Paul said. "We'll wait til Cyn's Mom goes to bed, then sneak up to your room."

"She isn't going to be there. She was going back to her place this afternoon." I told him.

He grinned. "Good. Then I needn't climb down the drain pipe in the morning!"

Back at John and Cyn's, I felt a little funny about what we were planning so I got Cyn into the kitchen and, blushing, explained that I really didn't want the whole world knowing that Paul and I were "ah . . . um . . ."

"Involved?"

"Yeah! He's got gatebirds watching his house all the time, so would it be all right if he . . .ah. . . spent the night here. With me. In my room?"

She looked at me, startled. "I thought you needed to wait another week or so!"

Now I was really blushing. "We are! I mean . . . sort of."

"I hope you are being careful, Tess," she said, genuinely concerned.

"We are. Paul knows I have to wait so we aren't doing it. I don't trust condoms, so we just . . . sort of . . ."

That made her laugh. "Well, you can let him "sort of" here if you want. Just keep Martha with you. I don't want to wake up in the night with her chasing the cats through the house."

I promised we would and we started back out to the other room where John and Paul were watching TV. "Do you think John will mind?" I asked without really thinking first.

Cyn looked at me, so astonished at the question it took her a moment to start laughing again. We both were in the middle of a bad case of the giggles over the idea of John objecting to anyone else's morals as we walked into the den. John and Paul looked up.

"What are you two on about?" John asked.

"Just girl talk," Cyn answered.

"Sex," John interpreted for Paul.

Paul raised an eyebrow at me and I simply reached for his hand and said, "Come on," and called Martha too. Paul looked a little puzzled until I started up the steps. He beat me up the stairs.

Once in my room, I shut the door behind me as Paul reached for me. He pressed me up against the door and started with soft kisses. After the experience of one night of sex, I was relaxed. After a day of being with him, touching him, kissing him -- and being stopped by Martha -- I was eager. I led him to the bed and let him undress me. He did it gently but without stopping for more than a kiss or two until I was standing naked in his arms. Martha, refreshed after her nap and recognizing an escalation of the activities she had tried so valiantly to prevent all day, resumed her duties and tried to push between us.

"We could put her in the bathroom," I suggested, envisioning her joining us on the bed. Martha, not yet a year old, was trained when it came to "sit" and "stay" but only for short periods of time, and only when she could restrain her enthusiasm. Joining her beloved Paul for what looked like a fun romp on the bed would be as irresistible to her as it was to me.

"No need," Paul said. "She knows to stay off the bed."

I doubted it. Her training obviously had not included staying off the furniture, since she made herself at home on any chair or sofa, but Paul pulled back the covers and I slid between the cool sheets. He sat down and pulled off his shoes, and Martha, with a little doggy sigh, trotted over and flopped down in front of the window, resigned. She might not be the best trained dog around, but he had seen to it that she knew to leave him alone when he had a girl in bed! I pushed that reminder of his social life out of my mind. Not hard to do with the distraction of watching him undress. As he unzipped his jeans, something else occurred to me though and it was distracting too.

"Ah, Paul. Can I ask you something?" I asked him.

He froze, half way out of his pants. Lord knows what question he was expecting!

"Sure," he said, not sounding sure at all.

"Uhm . . . well . . ."

"What is it?"

"It is kind of embarrassing."

"Is it about sex?"

"Yeah --"

"Luv, there is nothing to be embarrassed about," he said sounding relieved. "Everyone does it. Now what is the question?" He was out of his jeans and getting into bed with me. Warm and strong arms around me. Bare chest against mine. Sliding one long leg between my knees . . . and already hard. The question was fading fast, but I needed to know before it was too late.

"Will this stain the sheets?" I blurted out. "Dot does the laundry and . . . well . . ."

He pulled back to look at me in surprise. "I thought we were waiting until you are on the pill."

"We are!"

"Well, there might be a little spot the first time, but not now."

"Oh, geez." I pulled the sheet up over my face, too embarrassed to look at him. "I didn't mean me. I mean . . . ah . . . well, you wiped us off with the sheet last night. If that leaves a stain, Dot will notice when she folds the clean laundry or when she puts that sheet on the bed again."

Having said it, I was able to lower the sheet to look at him. He was trying really hard not to laugh. Again! I seemed to have a knack for amusing him in bed -- in the usual sense of the word "amuse," not in the way novelists mean it when they write "He found her bedroom behavior amused him satisfactorily."

"No, luv. Nothing to tell the world I was here with you."

"She wouldn't know it was you," I blurted out. "She might think it was John!"

He collapsed on top of me, laughing out loud.

Paul left late. When I asked sleepily why he was leaving, he said "Gatebirds don't talk as much as the help does. If I fall asleep, I might not get out of here before Dot arrives." Prying eyes didn't keep us from spending the first half of the night together though.

On Monday, Paul had meetings and I finished up the second article for Tony and worked on the interview one, suddenly in a hurry to get them behind me. Les drove me into London where I had an appointment with someone from the fan magazine to go over the first one. Liz quickly typed up the second while I went to meet the fan mag editor. We spent only a half hour together. She had some suggestions for revisions but overall was very satisfied with it and I was relieved and rather proud of my work.

Paul called after his meeting and said the rain was keeping the gatebirds away and suggested that I come into London for the evening. I didn't want to impose by asking if Les could drive me again, but when I said I was taking a taxi into London, John laughed at me. "I have a chauffeur sitting on his can hour after hour collecting pay, luv. He ought to be kept busy! He'll take you!"

Tuesday Paul and I spent the day at Stonehenge with George and Pattie. It was a hot day, at least by English standards. Not ninety five degrees with humidity nearly as high, as we sometimes got in Minnesota, but it was an exceptionally hot week in London. John was really aggravated. "The only decent weather we've seen all summer and I can't even get in the pool!" Paul and I sneaked back out later for a little skinny dipping just to make sure the pool got well used.

Wednesday we went shopping in the trendy London shops -- if you could call moving that fast shopping! In late afternoon we snuck into a movie theater after the show started. It was a lousy, completely forgettable art film as far as I was concerned, though Paul found a few things of interest in it, but going to a movie with Paul was an unforgettable event. There was something of a James Bond feel to it, waiting with Paul slouched down in the car, hurrying in at the last minute, trying to find seats near the back. I was intensely aware of the people around us and waited for a scream of recognition but the matinee crowd at an art film showing is pretty sparse. Several people did a double take, showing they recognized Paul and you could see them telling the people around them, but no one disturbed us -- unless you count being watched as much as they watched the movie disturbing. We bolted out the second the movie ended.

Every day that first week ended in Paul's arms. Spending the day with him was wonderful, but I was so caught up in the excitement of sex, that seemed to be the whole point of being with him. Everything about him made me want to touch him, hold him. Talking about Martha's habit of chewing up shoes, watching him sign autographs, laughing as he belly flopped into the pool, it all got to me. By the time we got back to John's it was hard not to go straight to bed. Paul would catch my eye, raise an eyebrow questioningly and grin at me, and we would slip away. If I was surprised at my own behavior, I was astounded at how I felt about what I was doing. I was a wanton woman and loved it! No shame, no guilt, just absolute joy in what we did to each other. Maybe it was more a matter of simply refusing to consider the morality of what I was doing than actually having changed ideas on morality, but I just didn't have guilty thoughts. Not even after Monday night when I learned about things somehow more intimate than the one thing we could not do.

Monday was the night it rained and I went to his place. Things were not as desperate as the first couple of nights. We took our time, slowly moving toward the end, enjoying the trip as much as the destination and I was finding it all the more intense for that reason. When we got close, it was so hard to not do it. After just two nights of incredible discovery, I was ready. All I wanted was to do it. I wanted to know what it felt like, I wanted to give myself to him all the way, I wanted to take him all the way. As we reached the point of no return, I wouldn't have stopped him. He knew it because I was moving under him, not stopping even when he was right there, right on the verge of penetration. I lifted up again, beginning the movement that would make me his and in the same instant let me possess him, however briefly. He pulled away. "No, luv. We can't," he said in a whispered gasp that said his control was only marginally better than mine. He rolled off of me.

I lay there, trying to get back into control of myself, aching with wanting him, moved by the fact that he cared enough to keep his word even when I lost control. When I could breathe and think again, I sat up and opened the drawer of the bedside table. Silently I handed him the little packet. He took it from me and pulled me down beside him. Lying there in the circle of his arm, I waited, unsure of how to proceed. I knew how the thing was used, I just didn't know the etiquette.

He was facing me, up on one elbow, looking down at the packet in his hand for what seemed an eternity, then he said, "No, Tess." I stared at him in bewildered amazement as he reached across me to toss it back in the drawer. "Not yet. You'll wake up in the morning terrified it might have failed. Besides, when I make love to you, I don't want that thing between us. I want to be in you, feel you. I want your first time to be . . . real."

"Real." That was the one thing I couldn't let this be. Thinking of this as a dream, a fairy tale was what was allowing me to enjoy it free of self-moralizing, free of thoughts about what I was doing and free of thoughts about what I was feeling about Paul. But here he was, wanting it to be real. I couldn't say anything because if I did, the words that would come out would be "I love you." Words I couldn't say after promising him all I wanted was a couple weeks of being with him, no commitments, no deep involvement. So I kissed him. When I let him go, he smiled at me.

"Now then, luv. We can't do that, but we could try something else."

Oh boy. Other Things. I had exhausted my scant knowledge of other things with the hand job. Whatever he had in mind, I wasn't sure I could do it. As far as I knew, the options were oral sex or anal. Anal sounded painful and embarrassing and unsanitary. Oral sounded . . . oh geez! From my experiences of the last few nights, it didn't sound as far out as I had once thought, but still . . . oh geez! All I knew about it was gleaned from a few broad hints in dirty jokes and from some memorable graffiti scratched on a wall in a bathroom stall of a bar. "Barb sucks 8-4639" was etched for all the world to see. I never could figure out what interest that bit of information might have for the patrons of the ladies room, but it told me that fellatio (Of course I knew the technical terms. Couldn't pronounce them because I had never heard them spoken, but I knew them!) was not a passive activity on behalf of the female. The response added by another vandal was much more informative to those of us seeking sex education on the streets: "Yes, but does she swallow?" That was the real eye-opener. Sucking was only part of the process and apparently not as valued as the other part. Separating the amateur from the pro, so to speak.

"Like what?" I asked, that bathroom wall clearly in my mind. My voice was shaky.

"This," he said and began kissing me, kisses that moved down to my breasts, my stomach, and kept on going. It took a few minutes for the shock to wear off and the incongruity of finding pleasure in being kissed there to slip away. When he had taken me up to the clouds and turned me loose in a soaring free fall, I wanted to do the same for him. "You don't have to do that, luv," he said as I moved down, kissing my way across his stomach.

"I know," I said. "And I don't know if I really can." But I was going to try. I believed him when he said I didn't have to. I didn't fear that he would stop spending time with me, all I was thinking was that I wanted to please him. Whatever it took, I wanted to make him feel as good as he did me. I moved on.

"It's all right, baby," he started to say. "Just -- ooohh! Just do that!" I decided right then that this was not going to be terribly difficult. All I had done was tentatively kiss the shaft and he was pleased. Very pleased judging from the reaction a few more lingering kisses got. Awkwardly I am sure, but more than willingly, I gave him back the pleasure he had given me. When it became obvious that it was nearing the moment when I would have to decide how far I could really go, Paul stopped me.

"You don't want to do that anymore, luv," he gasped and took matters in his own hands. Literally. I slid back up next to him and did it for him.

So those first few days went by in a rush of growing sexual confidence but equally increasing emotional confusion. Five days of what seemed like non-stop sex. The hours we weren't in bed, we were engaged in foreplay. Holding hands was erotic, a hug was nearly impossible to break away from, and every touch wanted to wander to forbidden places. When Paul was busy, I simply waited, drifting in a sea of sexual anticipation. I was like a kid with a new toy and the new toy wasn't just his body, it was mine, too. Paul told me I was beautiful and made me believe it as he touched me. Other boys had complimented me, awkward teenage type compliments, but Paul's soft whispered words were so sweet. I knew this was just another example of how experienced he was, but I really wanted to believe he meant the things he said. My breasts were "perfect," my ass was "fantastic." That kind of thing I could almost dismiss as another line, but there were other things: "You are so soft, but so strong," he said seemingly amazed at the combination. "The way you move, you drive me crazy. You lift up against me, move with me and I can feel how strong you are, but at the same time you are so soft, you just melt in my arms."

Another night, he turned the bedside light. "I just want to look at you again. I keep thinking of how you looked that first afternoon in the sunlight, and I have to see you again."

Something in the way he said those things made me believe he really meant it. Besides, there was no need for sweet talk and flattery. I was willing. Even a little demanding -- much to his amusement.

I might have been a little aggressive physically, but verbally I was a non-player. I just didn't know what to say. I didn't know if men liked to be told they were beautiful and that was the one thing I wanted to say when I looked at him. "Handsome" just wasn't right. That was for a certain type of face or a well made suit, not for a naked male body. As for talk about sex itself, I was absolutely tongue-tied when it came to discussing his . . . err, equipment. I wasn't about to say "penis" and I just couldn't say the other words. I suppose if Paul had said those words, I would have found it easier to, but he wasn't discussing male anatomy. But talking was too dangerous anyway. If I said the things I wanted to say, the things I was feeling, I was afraid I wouldn't stop with how good he felt, how good he made me feel and all that. No, I was better off not getting started.

In those five days, I learned the sensations, the variations, the moods of sex. Paul obviously enjoyed teaching me. I learned how a man felt, what he liked, what I could do to drive him to the edge, and learned the same about my own body. Just as he had told me, it was never the same twice. Naked and sweaty and wild. Laughing and teasing. Tender and achingly sweet. Sex without intercourse. I never imagined it could be like that. Of course, I never imagined anything but good old garden variety screwing. Through it all, I loved him for the gentle way he showed me, never rushing me, never forcing me. And loved him for waiting.

I moved through those first few days in a rush of sexual clarity and emotional confusion. I didn't know what I was feeling. Was this love? It sure felt like it to me! But was I seeing things clearly? A phrase from an old song kept coming back to me. "Falling in love with love." Maybe that's what I was doing, falling in love with the idea of being in love. Was this just one of those sudden storms of infatuation that you wake up from after a few weeks and wonder what ever possessed you? That happened easily enough with mere mortals and Paul was . . . well, Paul was PAUL. Infatuation plus fan adoration? Infatuation with the idea of PAUL and not the real man? Or maybe I was making the oldest mistake in the book, mistaking sex for love. I certainly loved the sex. Paul recognized that right away, and teased me every night about being such a dedicated student. That embarrassed me, and he somehow seemed to like that as much as my enthusiasm.

I thought about staying in England. Dump school, ignore Mom and Dad's warnings, threats, pleadings, and take a chance that this might be love. But I didn't know if Paul was thinking or feeling anything along those lines. It seemed like it at times. The odd look he gave me once when I said I wished school wasn't starting in just a few weeks could have been "Me too!" But it could just as easily have been "Oh, I hope she isn't getting ideas!" It was replaced so quickly with a smile and change of subject, I couldn't be sure. We may have left behind the notion of "just sex" but it wasn't far behind. I had made a promise to him not to demand more and I didn't, but there were quiet moments when I would catch him looking at me, times when I thought, "Maybe . . ." Then he was back to being funny and casual. I told myself to just give it time, but time was slipping away. I had already written to my parents, extending my stay another week, but I would be leaving in less than three weeks.

Paul was seriously considering accepting the offer to write a movie score, so he had meetings every day that week with either the movie people or with record company executives and lawyers as they tried to untangle the legal red tape that could prevent him from working for any one else. I spent some time with a couple of the nursing students I had met, still keeping my real reason for being in England secret. With my involvement with Paul, I was less inclined than ever to want to talk about the Beatles.

Thursday Paul was tied up with the lawyers and EMI people all day and the movie company, wanting to "wine and dine" him, wanted him for the evening. He came out to John's late in the afternoon saying he couldn't stay long.

"Let's go upstairs," he said softly in my ear while Julian clamored for his attention.

I shook my head. In spite of all the intimacy of the last five days, I was still embarrassed about telling him my period had started. I had never discussed that with a guy before. I was happy; in a few days we would finally be able to go ahead. But that was also several nights without doing anything. Five of the seventeen days I had left with him.

"We can't do that," I said, trying to think how to tell him.

He grinned. "Yes, I suppose that would be a bit much, sneaking off in the middle of the day. I suppose we should try to be sociable for a bit."

We joined John and Cyn on the patio and, after what seemed a reasonable interval, I suggested to Paul that we take a walk around the garden. I needed a few minutes alone with him.

"Not upstairs?" he asked as we walked down the steps from the terrace.

"No. Not now." I didn't know how to say it. I took his hand and we walked across the lawn.

"How are the meetings going?" I asked him.

"Well, they have made up their minds they want me to do it -- had from the start really. Now I have to give them an answer."

"What's the problem? Money? Your contract with EMI?"

"No, that's all settled."

"John and the others? Are you worried what they'll think about you doing it?"

That got a big smile. "No. No problem there. John says to go for it. "Take the money and run, mate!" he says!"

"Are you worried you can't do it?"

"No. Not really. That sounds awful doesn't it? Big headed! But I really think I could do a movie score."

"So why the indecision?"

There was a ghost of that "unsure if I should be saying this to you" look but then he answered. ""Well, if I can't do a good job of it, I can't. That would be fine if I were doing it on my own. I wouldn't be all that embarrassed to have tried and come up short if it were just my project, just me out there putting my name on it. But to promise someone else something I am not sure I can deliver . . . that's different. That's the problem, doing something I haven't really tried my hand at and having someone else needing it, depending on me."

I shook my head and smiled at him. "What I know about writing music is zilch. But I've heard a piece or two of your work and I suspect you could do it with one hand tied behind your back!"

He laughed but then said seriously, "Oh, I know I can throw together a song to fill out an album, but that is just off the top. You don't have to fit it to anything." He sighed and said "I don't know if you write movie scores the same way, so I don't know for absolute dead certain that I can do a decent job of it."

"Close your eyes, I said on a sudden hunch.

"What?"

"Close your eyes and listen to me."

He complied and stood there beside me, eyes closed. I took a moment to think about what I was going to say -- a moment too long for him. He said, "Well, what then?"

"Quiet, I'm thinking!"

"I have to close my eyes so you can think?"

The near truth of that made me laugh. "Yes! Shhh!" His grin was so distracting, but finally I was ready. I described a scene we had used for a school exercise on relaxation. "You are looking down a view of a beach, a long stretch of sand warmed by the sun and cooled by the breeze. Waves roll in, slide up onto the shore and stretch out there, melting into the sand. Over and over . . ." I spent a minute describing the scene and then added a man and woman walking hand in hand up the beach. "Now just stay there and watch for a minute," I told him. He did as he was told, eyes closed. "OK," I said after a bit, "What do you hear?"

His eyes popped open and he looked at me with surprise. "Hear?"

"Yes. Listen again."

Obediently, he closed his eyes, listened and answered slowly as if from that far away beach. "The waves . . . Wind . . . Birds . . ." and then he hummed a little melody.

"What song is that?"

He shrugged. "Dunno. It's just a little melody rolling around in my head, not a real song."

I just smiled at him and watched the understanding of what I was asking wash over him.

"See?" I said. "I think you can do it."

He burst out laughing. "How did you know that would happen? Do you hear music like that?"

"No. Never." I said truthfully. "But I had a feeling you did."

Head tipped to the side, he was giving me a bemused look. "Now you close your eyes," he said after a moment. I did as told and was rewarded with the feel of his mouth on mine in a soft kiss.

When he stopped, I opened my eyes and asked, "What are your plans for next week? About, ah -- Tuesday?"

I wasn't the only one who could read thoughts. He looked at me closely before he answered. "I think I'll make love to you. All the way," he said softly. "Can we go away for a few days? Some place where we can be alone. I'll take you to Scotland to see the heather and moors."

We made plans to disappear for four days. No one would know we were together except John, Cyn, and Mal, who, as always, made arrangements. Paul had to be in Liverpool for a charity thing on Friday evening, so he let people think he was going to Liverpool for the whole week. We would leave for Scotland on Tuesday morning, spend the week there, and on Friday morning he would go on to Liverpool for the weekend and I would return to London. I didn't really need a cover story, but if anyone noted that I was not around, they would be told I had gone off on a sightseeing trip for a few days.

I was able to spend some time with Paul the next few days, but it was sandwiched around more meetings on Friday and Monday and a big party thrown by the movie company on Sunday. I had plenty of time to finish the last article and met with the fan mag editor on Monday to review it. She was very pleased and although she wanted to run it by Tony, it looked like my days as girl reporter were done.

Meanwhile, Paul and I couldn't spend as much time together, and when we did, we couldn't go to bed. Well, we didn't, even though Paul mentioned "You couldn't get pregnant now, you know." He grinned at the appalled look on my face, and I had no idea if he was kidding. Even if that was possible -- I certainly never thought anyone did it then! -- I simply couldn't have even though after just a couple of days, I was already missing having sex. I was embarrassed by how I felt. It was supposed to be guys who couldn't go without! Paul was handling this better than I was.

The worst part of not ending every day in his arms was that it gave me time to think. When the end of the day meant sex, the entire day was foreplay. Now, I was only too aware that there was more to what I was feeling. I wanted to be with him, sex or not. I wanted to talk for hours. I wanted to tell him everything about me, boring as it was. And I wanted to know everything about him but I couldn't ask. I was afraid he would think I was digging for info, playing reporter again. So I just listened, and slowly he opened up. It was everything that those first few hours at the hotel and on the plane had promised. We talked about everything. Nothing intellectual like John and his Kant, Kafka, and Kerouac (which I, fellow American, hadn't even read), politics and religion. Just simple things. Movies, music, families, growing up, do you believe in ghosts? Comparing his school days of head masters and corporal punishment to my parochial life among the nuns.

It's funny, but I can't remember all that well the things we did talk about or specific conversations Paul and I had, but I certainly recall discussions with John. Maybe because talking with John was a roller coaster ride. Thoughtful musings and strongly held viewpoints, sarcasm and startling sweetness. But talking with Paul was like breathing. Essential, natural, and effortless. Being with him was the same. Effortless. There was none of the usual game playing of the early stages of most relationships. Paul had absolutely no reason to try to impress me. If he had wanted to, the best way would have been to simply show me that he was just an ordinary guy, not a sophisticated, hip, with-it trendsetter. And that is what he did. Blue jeans and T-shirts, near total ignorance of American geography, a decided preference for bread and jam and milk rather than caviar and champagne, a tendency to bite his nails, and self confessed ignorance of a car's mechanical working. As for my trying to impress him . . . fat chance. I figured I had gotten this far just being myself and there was no point trying to pretend I was sophisticated or anything else, so being with him was just plain easy.

I had already taken a lot of pictures of tourist things, but I don't need photos to bring back those days between that first time with Paul and the trip to Scotland. I just close my eyes and the pictures are there.

Paul and I in John's pool. Holding Julian between us while he "swam". Watching Paul with him, thinking how good he would be someday with a little one of his own. And later that night, just the two of us in the pool. No swim suits, just cold air above, warm water and the heat of his body below. The sudden sound of the patio door opening sent me down in the water up to my chin and John yelled out at us, "Not in the pool, you animals!"

Martha in the back seat of Paul's Austin-Martin Mini. We took her with us on trips out into the country. We would drive until we got lost and then stop for something to eat. I think Paul always hoped that if he got thoroughly lost he would find a part of England that had never heard of the Beatles. That never happened, but at least little country inns were quiet and we generally ate in peace. Martha liked to get out and run around in circles, and she especially liked to find a creek or pond to jump in. We drove back to London with Neil's "sopping wet monster of a dog" a couple of times. He'd forgotten to add "reeking."

The shopping trip in London. Park out front. Dash into a shop. A quick look at clothes, and when he saw something he liked he bought it. He bought clothes for me the same way. At first I protested, saying I didn't want him to buy me stuff, and if I did buy anything, I had to try things on. He just laughed. "I am buying it, and we can't stay here long enough for try ons, luv. What size?" I told him and we were back in the car in minutes. When I tried them on, I loved them. He had great taste in clothes. Not so flashy that they would end up in the back of the closet, out of style, in a few months, but still very stylish. He bought me two dresses that day, one a Mary Quant. It was a princess-seamed skimmer of a deep cobalt blue calico-type print with tiny red and white flowers on the blue. The sleeves were long and slightly puffed at the shoulders and ended in crisp white French cuffs that matched the white collar. The other was a dressy black crepe with a little stand up collar. It was a simple straight chemise with sheer sleeves. Perfect for a special night out in London.

The wild day-trip to Stonehenge with Pattie and George. George wanted us to ride with him so Paul and I wedged ourselves into the passenger seat of his Jaguar and Pattie rode with Mal and the other security man who followed us. Or tried to. I found out George was the car buff of the Fab Four. Not just any car, though. Fast cars at high speeds making race car turns. Behind us, Mal tried to keep up. By the time we stopped for a late breakfast, I was just about paralyzed with fear and contorted from trying to sit on Paul's lap in the tiny car. We went into a small country inn to eat. Halfway through the meal, a tour bus of teenage girls in girls camp uniforms pulled in and thirty girls came in the front door. Mal rushed us all out the back door, went back in and paid the bill, and then he and the other guy brought the cars around the back to pick up their passengers who were hiding amid the rubbish bins!

Once at Stonehenge, they put on disguises so they could join the tour group. They had decided to dress as old age pensioners and their interpretation of that was dirty old men. They carried on, asking outrageous questions of the guide about sexual rituals among the Druids, and they got more stares than if they had been recognized as the Beatles. I don't remember much of what the guide said about the history behind Stonehenge, but I certainly remember being pulled behind one of the huge monoliths and being kissed and groped by an old geezer with a scraggly beard, scruffy coat and really awful pipe.

Not all the memories were quite so happy. There were times when I was jolted back to reality. When it was just the two of us, he seemed so down to earth, so normal it was easy to forget the kind of life he lived, but other times I felt so out of place in his world. We stopped at the office one afternoon and I listened to him talk to Brian casually about record contracts, personal appearances, press releases, and money. Money so big I couldn't imagine being responsible for it. "I'm the tax man and you're working for no one but me." He didn't even need money to spend it.  He just walked into a shop and signed for things. In those days when only high level executives had credit cards, the idea of shopping that way was unreal to me.

Paul's interest in arty movies, far out experimental music and other "happening" things was an interest I didn't share. I could see the point of them when he explained them, but even understanding what the artist was going for didn't begin to make them something I enjoyed. I was definitely a square. Although I liked some of the paintings he liked, that was about it. I appreciated the free thinking that went into the avant garde aspect of things, but I just couldn't say I liked them.

Then there was the drug stuff. I was worried about John, but when I told Paul about the night Mal brought John home and stayed the night, he had laughed. "He was tripping, luv. Mal was there to keep an eye on him". He had laughed even harder at the horrified look on my face when I realized that John had been taking LSD that night. On the evening after going to Stonehenge, George and Pattie stayed at John's for a while that evening. After we cooled off in the pool, there were funny cigarettes being passed around. Paul casually offered me a drag. I felt so uncomfortable, so out of it, so inexperienced, so young. He didn't pressure me, and Cyn never used anything either. It was nice to have a companion in abstinence, but even that had a down side. Cyn told me that John was forever trying to convince her to join him, but she had tried pot and got nothing out of it and her one LSD trip scared the hell out of her. It was another gap between them, a big one. Even though Paul was cautious about trying other things, he made no pretenses about liking marijuana and using it regularly, and I couldn't help but think of that as one more way I was out of place with him.

He made me feel young and inexperienced in other ways too. He wasn't conceited (well, maybe a little when it came to music, but how could he not be??) but he was self confident. He was investing his money, making contacts in the business and art world as well as in music. He was doing grown up stuff the guys I had dated had no ideas about. He was only five years older than me, but his experiences and the opportunities open to him combined with his natural talents, ambition and drive left them -- and me -- in the dust. We had so little time left together it hardly mattered, but still, I worried that he would begin to notice the multitude of ways I wasn't sophisticated, smart, with-it.  Just not . . . well . . . good enough for him.  I would never have had a thought like that with any guy back home, but here, hobnobbing with the rich and famous made my self esteem more than a little shaky. Alone with Paul, I was fine. In his arms I felt beautiful, sexy. But out of them I was an average looking girl. With him I was funny, interesting. Without him I reverted to being a backwards kid from down on the farm. I just couldn't believe that I stood a chance there in his world. "I said, ‘Even though you know what you know, I know that I'm ready to leave ‘cause you're making me feel like I've never been born.'" No, I didn't belong in his world.

In spite of those uncomfortable thoughts, I walked through those days on a cloud. No matter what happened, I had this time with Paul and intended to make the most of it.

Meanwhile, I watched John and Cyn falling apart. John didn't come home one night and still wasn't home by late afternoon. Cyn was miserable but didn't say much.

"Shouldn't you call the police?" I finally asked.

She just smiled sadly. "He's alright. Les is with him and Mal or Neil know where he is. . . Besides, if he were in trouble, or hurt or . . . anything, I would be notified."

Having a husband with a famous face had its advantages, I guess. He would never be a 'John Doe' at a hospital.

"He's probably drunk and it is just as well. He gets . . . difficult when he drinks." Knowing how cutting and difficult he could be when irritated, I could imagine that a drunken John Lennon would be really unpleasant. When he did show up, nothing was said, as if he had gone for a newspaper and been back in fifteen minutes. Cyn never really said anything about John and other women and I began to get the impression that she thought he was simply off smoking pot and tripping out with friends. I wondered.

When he was home he was quiet, spending hours watching TV, reading, listening to music, or just staring out the window. He was smoking more and many of the ciggies were joints. "Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream." He went out a couple nights later with Pete Shotton and when he came home at dawn the next morning he was roaring drunk. I woke up to the sound of him swearing at Cyn as she helped him upstairs. Relieved that he was legally drunk rather than illegally high, I wondered whether I should get up and see if she needed help, or pretend to have slept through it. But the bedroom door slammed and all was quiet. Other than that one incident, he was not really nasty to Cyn. That was the only time and he seemed to regret it after. Paul and I were gone off to shop on Carnaby Street before he got up the next day, but when we came back late that afternoon, he was quiet and still looked like the morning after, but he was being very attentive to Cyn, hugging her, even kissing her -- something I had seen little of since the first day or two. He seemed to be trying to make up to her. It certainly worked. She was looking at him adoringly. Most of the time though, he just ignored Cyn. Maybe ignore is too strong a word. It implies he intentionally shut her out and it wasn't quite like that. He just seemed detached, off in his thoughts. But when Cyn tried to coax him out of his mood, he cut her off. "Just leave it alone, Cyn," he said and walked away, leaving her with such a hurt look I felt tears in my eyes for her. As he grew more withdrawn, I wondered why I ever had thought he was so wonderful. If I had come into his life at this point, I don't know that I could have even liked him. There were still flashes of the warm, outrageous guy I was so crazy about, but he just seemed to be miserable, unsure of what he wanted to do, could do.

When I said something to Paul about all of it, he brushed it off with "He gets this way sometimes. He'll settle down when we get back to work."

"I hope so!," I said with a mixture of a mixture of sympathetic concern for John and outrage on Cyn's behalf. "It isn't much of a marriage. Poor Cyn . . ." I stopped, not wanting to betray Cyn's confidences.

That got Paul's attention however. He looked worried. "He's not--" He stopped abruptly and rephrased the question in a more unconcerned tone. "Are they fighting that much, then?" I wondered what he had started to say and had the distinct feeling I was suddenly an outsider, a reporter again, something I hadn't felt for a while.

"No." I tried to explain how miserable John seemed and Paul just snorted in disgust.

"What?" I asked, not sure what that implied.

He sighed. "Look, Tess. Cyn is the sweetest woman any man could find. If John can't see that . . ." He still looked reluctant to discuss it.

"I know. And so does John. That's the problem. He is unhappy and takes it out on her. Then he feels like crap for treating her bad. He is being a real bastard and knows it, but he is so miserable . . . I almost feel worse for him than for Cyn. They would both be happier if they just got a divorce."

He shook his head in grim disagreement. "I don't believe in that kind of thing."

"Divorce?"

"Sometimes divorce is better, but it a couple needs to at least try first. John isn't trying. He is bored and wants to blame it on Cyn. He should be glad to have someone like Cyn. And maybe Cyn needs to lighten up a little. She doesn't need to keep a low profile anymore. She could go out and have some fun with him."

"Drugs?"

He shrugged. "Hell, I don't know. It just seems like they aren't trying. But they have a child and they ought to at least try to work it out for Julian's sake."

He changed the subject, plainly uncomfortable discussing it with me, and we didn't discuss it again. I never brought the subject up with Cyn again either. The one time I said something to John about it, he got up and walked out on me. One afternoon as I was doing his exercises I had said something to him about Cyn being worried when he was gone so long. He looked at me, and for a moment I thought I was going to be on the receiving end of one of his famous cutting remarks. Instead he got up and walked away. The disgusted, angry look he gave me was enough though. I decided the Lennon marriage was none of my business. Besides, I had my own problems to worry about.

By this time I was so in love with Paul that it hurt, physically hurt, to think about leaving. I had no doubts about my feelings anymore. All my attempts to partition these few weeks of my life off into some never-never land were dismal failures. All my notions about doing this without getting emotionally in over my head were long gone. It wasn't just physical. I had fallen, plummeted, nose-dived, cascaded, plunged into love. Impossible, improbable, fairy tale love. It was wonderful. But it was awful.

Paul and I never really talked about my leaving. I made a point of mentioning it regularly because I was constantly aware of the bargain that we had made and I wanted him to know I was keeping that bargain. He had let me into his life because I had told him there were no strings attached. A couple weeks of fun together and then I would disappear from his life. No interviews, no stories, and no guilt, demands, tears. No wanting more. I got my dream vacation, he got a worry free, one-way trip to bed.

When someone else mentioned it or asked how much longer I was staying, I repeated that I needed to get back in time for school. Paul never commented when I mentioned leaving. He listened intently, and I wasn't sure what I was seeing on his face. I wanted to believe that there was a flash of regret there, but all I could do is guess and my best guess was that he was a little surprised. I doubted he had ever encountered a girl who was so obviously crazy about him but didn't want something more.

Did I want more? Hell yes. I wanted it all. I wanted him to say he loved me, to beg me to stay with him, ask me to marry him, have his children. It was crazy to be thinking that way. I had only known him for a couple of weeks. I knew that, knew it was crazy to think that way about anyone after such a short period of time, much less someone I had been a little irrational about for years before meeting. But I also knew that I had never had those kind of futuristic thoughts about anyone else. I had never thought what kind of husband or father they might be, just whether they would be a good date for the dance. I wanted this one for keeps, not for the prom.

"Got To Get You Into My Life" and "Here, There, And Everywhere" competed for air time in my mind. When we were alone and he was holding me and saying sweet things, oh such sweet things, anything seemed possible. Then it was back to the real world with girls screaming at him, sobbing and throwing themselves on his car at the gate. Women throwing themselves at him with less hysteria but a lot more blatant sexuality -- and he didn't discourage them. Not at all. He was an appreciative observer of every good looking woman who came in sight. Not so blatantly so that it was insulting to me, just a glance, a little smile in an unguarded moment. He never was more than politely friendly to them, though they came on strong at times. Although we never went to clubs or fancy restaurants, we still managed to run into women who knew him, once at a little pub out near John's and once while we were shopping. The way they looked at him, touched him as they leaned close for a kiss, I got the feeling they knew him in the biblical sense. Afterward he said nothing, offered no explanation or excuses. All that was part of his life. It had been before I showed up and would be after I was gone.

In the meantime, there were no signs of the pink robe or makeup the one night we went back to his place, but I didn't have the guts to open a closet door to be sure. I pushed all that into a mental closet of my own and refused to open that door, because hidden at the back of that closet was something else. I had called him late Friday afternoon and a female voice, not Mrs. Grady's, told me he was out. I never said anything to him, never asked if he was seeing someone else. That was not part of the deal. I was getting everything I had bargained for. Besides, none of that was a surprise to me. He was a man of the world with a reputation for being a womanizer and I was just the femme du jour. How would he react if I told him how I really felt? As much as I wanted to read love into his words and his touch, I had to admit I didn't have any real evidence that he was feeling the same way I did. He certainly seemed to enjoy being with me even when we weren't having sex, and I would have said he liked me a lot, but that didn't necessarily translate into love. If I told him I loved him and he didn't feel the same, he would be gone. The deal would be off. I wasn't willing to risk that. I wanted every day I could have with him regardless of how he felt about me. That wasn't the only thing holding me back though. What if I blurted out "I love you!" and he didn't say it back? A very simple, very real fear. Besides, sixties girl that I was, I had learned that guys ask girls out, guys make the first move for the first kiss, and guys were supposed to say those words first. Stupid? Of course, but that was just how I thought it was supposed to be.

So, I went through the days waiting for him to say something, show me what he was feeling. I had originally planned to leave England on Friday, September 2. That would give me a week and a half at home before school started. After the day I had interviewed Paul and ended up in his bed, I had written to Mom and Dad and told them that I would probably stay a little longer. As expected, I got a transatlantic phone call from them as soon as they received it. I told them I was having such a great time, talked of all the sights I had seen, the nursing students I had met, and said that I had a chance to join a tour group going to Scotland if I stayed another week. I presented it as something I had already arranged and paid for, "because it was just an opportunity I couldn't pass up while I was here." (Well, it did turn out to be a trip to Scotland and it was an opportunity I was not about to pass up!) They were not thrilled, but reassured that I was all right and not being brain-washed, drugged, or held against my will, they agreed that I could stay. So, I had my extra week. Another week to take the final step, another week to make sure it would really, really hurt when I left.

The days went by and the idea of leaving him, of saying goodbye and getting on a plane grew more impossible to think about. The only thing that made it bearable was my growing belief that Paul wasn't in love with me. The words I wanted so much to hear never came. I knew that some guys have a hard time saying those words, but Paul had no problem with words. He told me I was beautiful, that my eyes were in his dreams, that I fit in his arms like no one ever had before, that he enjoyed every minute we were together. He talked about how he wanted to make love to me, to make me his completely, but he never said "I love you." And I never told him. I was glad we couldn't have sex right now. I was having trouble holding back the words as it was. If he had taken me to bed, sent me off to that physical and emotional high with his hands and his touch, I would have blurted it out. Now I kissed him one more time as we said goodnight instead of whispering the words.

I tried to lighten up when I was with him and simply enjoy the moment. It worked pretty well, right up until I slipped into my bed at night alone with nothing but cool sheets and cold reality. Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen days left. Mom had told me once there was no point in worrying at night. The situation always looked worse in the dark. You couldn't change anything then, and besides, things would look better in the morning. So, with Mom's advice and Scarlet O'Hara's "I can't think about this now, I'll think about it tomorrow" attitude, I would fall asleep.

Saturday night at Ringo's, things changed and neither Mom nor Scarlet could help me. Ringo had a game room, actually a separate building, that had its own tavern, with pool table, darts, TV, a movie theater, and a music room. It was one place they could go and not be bothered so they gathered there regularly. Just like any normal bunch of young couples, it usually ended up with the guys playing pool and the girls in another room talking, and the kids running back and forth pestering everyone. Zak was eleven months, and of course, adorable. Big, drooly baby grins, that look of surprised delight that babies always have. Ringo showed him off, beaming with pride. He was just learning to walk and frequently had to grab onto the nearest pair of legs for support. John, although he hadn't been around much when Julian was learning to walk, was experienced enough to just automatically stabilize his teetering and send him off again without paying a lot of attention. George, blessed with an ample supply of nephews and nieces, still looked apprehensive, but who could resist that drooling grin? Paul just grinned back at Zak, picked him up, held him up in the air and sent him into giggles with an "airplane ride -- the kind Tess loves!" Ringo informed Paul that if he kept that up, he would be wearing Zak's dinner. Maureen not being close at hand, Paul turned to me. "Nappy change," he instructed, and handed me a dizzy baby with a wet diaper.

At one point, Maureen asked how much longer I would be staying. I told her, and there was a funny silence in the room. Everyone looked sideways at Paul who went on racking up the balls on the pool table nonchalantly. John looked across the room at me and I looked at him, knowing right away that even though he had been acting indifferent, off in a world of his own, he was well aware of how I felt about Paul. He rescued the awkward moment. "Can't expect her to waste her life hanging about here. Everyone knows the Beatles are a flash in the pan. Won't last more than a year." We all laughed at the old joke, and that soft spot I had in my heart for John took over the entire left ventricle. A moment later, my whole heart went into meltdown.

I was sitting on a bar stool near the pool table. As Paul stepped back to let Ringo take his shot, he looked at me. The look on his face was anything but nonchalant. He held my eyes for a long moment, then he smiled a sad little smile and reached out and touched my cheek. Ringo made his shot and Paul turned back to watch. Just like that, the moment was over. The moment I had waited for, longed for, hardly dared to hope for. He didn't want me to go. Maybe it wasn't a declaration of love, but he didn't want me to go. My heart soared.

We stayed late at Ringo's and when Paul drove me back to John's, he was very quiet. He parked the car and turned to me, touching my face again, that same look on his face. "We have to talk," he said.

Heart pounding, I nodded.

"We only have fourteen more days together," he said.

I had been counting the days, but didn't realize he had. I couldn't say anything, I just nodded again.

"Look, I've been thinking," he said, sounding uncomfortable. "Why don't you take some time out from school? Stay here with me." He blurted it out as if he was afraid to ask.

I couldn't breathe. The world stood still and I felt the first crack in my heart. It might not break when I leave. It might not last that long. Finally, I managed to say, "The classes are only offered once a year. I have to stay in sequence." I couldn't look at him as I spoke. "If I stay out this fall semester, I can't go back until next fall. And there is no guarantee I would be accepted back in."

He was quiet for a minute, absorbing that. Then he said, again with an uncharacteristic lack of self confidence, "I know how important being a nurse is to you. I know you have to finish school, but you could finish here . . . and we could be together."

I didn't have to think about it. I had thought about it already and even done a little checking on admission requirements in conversations with the English nursing students. They thought that although I might have to pass some type of placement tests or retake a few classes, I would be accepted. But usually the admission process began a year in advance, and most schools had a waiting list for admission. Even if I found a school that had an opening this year, there was no way all the paperwork of applications, transcripts and God knows what international legal red tape could be done in the few weeks left before classes began.

There were tears in my eyes as I explained all that and I could see something change in Paul's expression as he saw the tears. He put his arms around me. "But if it could be done, you would do it?" Excitement, hope in his voice.

I realized suddenly that he didn't know how badly I wanted to stay. All I had ever told him was that I wanted to be with him but I was leaving when school started. And every time I had found myself on the brink of just giving in and saying "Paul, I love you," I had reinforced my shaky resolve by bringing up some crap about how I was looking forward to getting back to school. I had been trying so hard to tell myself that this was just a summer fling, to keep my cool, and somehow he took what I said more seriously than my heart ever did. No wonder he was having trouble asking me to stay!

I pulled back so I could look into his eyes. The look of wanting I saw there was more than the sexual desire I had seen before. I could barely talk to answer him and the tears were running down my cheeks.

"It can't be done. And my parents would never. . ." I stumbled, tears choking off the words. No matter what I could arrange, my parents would never allow it anyway, but at that moment nothing else mattered except the fact that he wanted me to stay and the look in his eyes was tearing me apart. "But, yes. Oh, yes!" I said.

"Then I'll have Brian look into it," he said as he pulled me into his arms. I remembered Brian saying he would do the best money could buy. I would be twenty-one in a couple of months. I wouldn't need permission. Maybe, just maybe . . .

Monday seemed an impossibly long way away as he kissed me. Kissed me with what I would have sworn was a new level of desire, affection, and feeling. Kissed me until I had to beg him to stop because we couldn't take this any farther. We sat in the car for a while longer just holding each other, kissing gently, and talking a little about my staying. Paul seemed optimistic, confident that it could be arranged. I was rather quiet, not believing it would happen.

Paul sensed my feelings and stopped talking and we listened in silence to the rain drumming on the roof of the car as the rain tapered off.

"I should go in before the rain starts again," I said.

He nodded but instead of moving to get out, he lifted me away from him then turned to face me, holding both my hands in his. "I want you here with me," he said simply.

"And I want to stay here with you!"

"But you don't think that is going to be possible, do you?"

"No," I admitted softly, reluctantly.

He looked at me and what I thought I saw on his face made me catch my breath. I thought, "Now. Now he is going to say it." But he didn't. He just looked at me, then pulled me back against him and buried his face in my hair. When he pulled away, the look was gone and that familiar cheerful expression was back.

"Come 'ed. It's getting late. Let's take Martha out to the country again tomorrow, shall we?"

I lay awake for hours that night. Questions about school and my parents tumbled through my whirling thoughts but they took a backseat to another issue. Did he love me? Why didn't he say it? I had been so sure that was what he was leading up to tonight, but he hadn't said it. Was he waiting for the moment that would come in Scotland? Would he tell me he did when he finally made love to me? And if he did, what then? The answer should have been simple; if he says he loves me, I stay. It wasn't that simple at all though. I wasn't the level-headed realist that Brenda was, but neither was I a starry-eyed romantic like Sandy. I was caught in the middle wanting to believe in love but seeing clearly that staying here was a huge decision.

If I stayed, my parents would be shocked, horrified. Worse, they would be frightened for me. They would question whether I was really staying of my own free will, suspect drugs or brain washing, and they would come up with money for a plane ticket somewhere and Dad would come after me. Confrontation, tears, accusations, pleading, -- all done with the media waiting in the wings for a scrap of scandal. Since I was not yet twenty-one, I would have no choice to go home with him anyway.

It would take a miracle to get past that hurdle and the only thing I could possibly offer that would make a dent in my parents resistance would be if I could tell my parents I was going to finish school here. In all probability, Brian would never be able to get a school here to accept me anyway. It would be another year before I could get in, and the thought of changing schools was pretty scary. If I went home, I could be finished before I could even get started here. That thought brought me back to the beginning. Did Paul love me? If I went home, would he wait for me? Nine months apart. If he did love me, did he love me enough to even begin to tolerate that?

Who was I kidding? Paul McCartney waiting for me for the better part of a year? Maybe I should just drop everything and stay here. Waiting a year to go back to school was better than losing Paul. We could be together. But could I fit in here? Fit in with his friends, his lifestyle, the life in the public eye? Could I adjust to nursing school in a foreign country? Would I even be able to get into a school here? Well, even if I never got back into nursing, I would have Paul. But would I? What would happen after our trip to Scotland, after we finally had sex? My innocence amused him, in bed and out. Once that innocence was gone and the prize of my virginity with it, would he still be interested? I knew my virgin status probably meant a lot more to me than it did to him and I also knew he had been interested in me before I had told him I was a virgin, but still I worried that once I gave that to him, it would be the beginning of the end for us. Lots of newlyweds hit rough times when the honeymoon was over and I didn't even have the safety net of legal entanglement to hold us together and give us time to adjust to a new stage of being together. What would happen when the newness wore off? Did I have anything to offer that would hold him? Would he get tired of me? Did he love me??????