Into My Life

Chapter 17

     By the time John's plane left, the local rock radio station, WDGY, was beginning to report rumors that John Lennon had been seen in town and I braced myself for reporters. When I tried to leave the hospital Monday afternoon there were several of them hanging around the employee entrance, correctly having guessed that if John really was in town, it would be to see me. I was considering the stupid but still appealing idea of flat-out lying and saying John had never been here, but with a police report on file that they had been called to a disturbance created by his presence, that wasn't going to fly! A delaying tactic was the best I could do. I ducked back inside, called Sandy and had her bring some clothes in to me and left through the front door, mingling with a family of visitors. Morning brought a couple of die-hard reporters to my door. They had finally found out where I lived. I wasn't surprised as much as relieved that they hadn't managed it while John was still there.

     The fact that they weren't sharp enough or interested enough to find an address hundreds of fans had already ferreted out amused Sandy, Brenda, and me.  We decided to make them really work for any further information. We hatched a plan, packed up our books and ventured down the stairs and off the front porch. Brenda and I rushed to her car, Sandy dawdled a little behind. The reporters closed in on her, discovered quickly she wasn't the right one and caught up with me as I tossed my books into the car. After confirming that I was Tess Martin, they asked if it was true that John was in town and I was able to say with complete honesty, "No, he is in California."

       "Lots of reports that he is here. People saw him at a party --"

       "Terry, we are going to be late for school!" Brenda said urgently.

       "Sorry," I said to the reporters as I got into the car. "We have to get to class. We have clinical this morning--"

      "Terry! We have to go!" Brenda repeated with over-acting sending her voice into the hysteria range. She had the car started and I waved at the reporters and pulled the door shut as she pulled away. We left them standing on the sidewalk and laughed all the way to school. Brenda just thought it was fun to get away with it, and was pleased with being able to give John a break from the press. I was just plain relieved. I guess the local media never really believed the rumors in the first place because they never followed up, never learned of the police intervention, and didn't bother me again. Their laxness gave me the courage to go ahead with my plans to see John again.

       Over the next few weeks I planned the trip to California. I knew we had just gotten lucky with his last visit and the worries I'd had about reporters finding out about that visit were laughable compared to the ones I had about them finding out about me visiting him in California. Alone. Secretly. The press would never be so quick to give up a lead on a story like that. A juicy story. But I think part of the reason I was able to go ahead with the plan is that it seemed like a juicy story only if you looked at it from the outside. From the inside we were simply two people who wanted some time alone together. What we did was no one else's business. So I told the necessary lies, more irritated by the need to lie than remorseful about doing so.

       Mom was only mildly disappointed that I wouldn't be home for Thanksgiving but mistaken about the reason. Anne told me that Mom thought I wasn't coming home because I was mad at her because she was upset about my allowing John to visit. I assured her I just wanted to earn some extra money for Christmas. The less Anne knew, the better off she would be. Mom had grilled the poor kid for weeks when I first got back from England, guessing correctly that if I told anyone it would be Anne. She didn't need the burden of anymore information about her sister's descent into carnal depravity.

       Yes, that is about how I viewed it. Carnal depravity. No excuses of being in love, believing it would lead to marriage, or any other illusions. I simply enjoyed being with John and in an odd combination of childish stubbornness and adult self determination about morality, I was going to do this.

       John didn't think there would be a problem with privacy. The house where he was staying was a guest house on a private estate owned by the head of the movie studio. There were two other guest "cottages" in addition to the huge mansion and they were used by VIPs, actors, or writers of whatever project was currently of great importance to the studio. The enclosed estate had its own security staff as well as chauffeurs, cooks, and maids. John simply picked up the phone if he wanted anything. He had nearly complete privacy on the estate and a driver or a car or security any time he wanted them. He would make sure there was plenty of food in the house, tell the maid she wouldn't be needed over the holiday and give Hans and Tom the days off too. If we wanted to go out, there was a car I could drive. The only person who would see me would be the driver who picked me up and took me back to the airport. I wasn't someone who would be recognized by anyone but a die-hard Beatles fan so using a false name and wearing sunglasses and pulling my hair up under a touristy looking sun hat would be sufficient. If ever questioned about who he picked up or delivered to the airport, all he would have would be a fake name and a vague description.

     After the last class on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I rushed home and prayed Brenda and Sandy would head out for their respective family get - togethers quickly. They were taking their time, so I reported that the radio was predicting bad weather later, they should leave soon. That worked. They left, I grabbed the suitcase I had packed and hidden under my bed, and raced to the airport.

       With the time difference it was only early evening in L.A. when I arrived. I claimed my luggage and found my driver was waiting at the assigned spot - far away from the Northwest Airlines gate I arrived at. The sunglasses were a little much that late in the day, but I wore them anyway. I needn't have bothered. The driver barely looked at me as he took my luggage and escorted me to the car. It was nearly an hour's drive to the beach house where John was living. The driver unloaded my suitcase, carried it to the door of John's guest house, accepted a large tip from John, and disappeared wordlessly.

       "Thank God you've gotten here, Agent 00Tess," John greeted me as he closed the door behind us. "Are you certain you weren't followed? The bastards are clever, but we have our ways if we need to take further action."

       "No, I wasn't followed. And I checked everything thoroughly to make sure they haven't planted a tracking device on me," I laughed.

       "Good work, but perhaps I should double check," he said and then proceeded to frisk me. He started with a routine "patting down" but on the way back up, his hands were not just patting.

       I was laughing and didn't bother to pretend to protest. I was here to have fun. He pulled me to him for a kiss and when we finally came up for air, he said, "This is going to have to wait. You might not get another clear evening while you are here and you don't want to miss the sunset. Come 'ead, lets go down to the beach."

       I turned and got my first view of the ocean through the wall of glass that was the back of the beach house. The sun was an orange ball of flame hovering just above the water. The memory of another ocean sunset hit me hard. I gritted my teeth and refused, just flat out refused to let that memory find a foothold. I would not let memories of Paul follow me here.

       John stopped to grab a couple of blankets and took me out across the deck and down the steps to the narrow beach. We bundled up in the blankets and watched the sun go down and the light fade, talking. A few questions about my flight, a few awed comments about the sunset, and some easy kisses. If I had been nervous at all about seeing him again, that was gone in no time. As the stars came out, he went back for wood and started a fire in the shelter of some rocks. I watched him start the fire, snuggled up next to him, and when he kissed me again, I slipped my hand under his shirt and asked just how private the beach was.

       I never got a verbal answer. The air was chilly and damp, and I was already shivering a little, but the sand under the blanket was dry, the stars were coming out and the fire was warm and his hands felt so good. I lay back on the blanket and took him down with me. He pulled the other blanket over us. From then on it was a blur of intoxicating fresh sea air, stars brightening in the darkening sky over his head, the heat of his body, the dancing light of the fire, the sound of the waves. "Welcome to California," he laughed as he lifted my skirt and tugged my panties down. It was over in just a few minutes. I had thought of little else for weeks so it was no wonder that was all it took before I was moving under his hand, breathing so hard and fast, and feeling the climax take over. As easy as that. John wasted no time either and when he was finished and had caught his breath, he lifted his head and looked down at me. This was no look of ongoing passion, undying love, or anything else like that. Just a smile of simple enjoyment. This was so easy! I was just plain happy for the first time in too long. I smiled a big goofy smile at him and we were both laughing.

      "Well, well. You enjoyed that, did you?" John said. "And here I thought you came to California for the sunshine!"

      "I came for you," I said.

      "Because you know I'm easy!"

      I laughed at him. "Well, that is part of it, but I have always liked being with you. The sex is kind of like a bonus."

      "Like getting green stamps with your marketing?"

      "Exactly!" I laughed. "I'm saving up for a toaster."

      "By the end of the weekend, I should think you'll be able to get a new telly! I can tell you really like it!" He eased off of me and rearranged the blanket over us.

      "Yes, I do. Sometimes I think that was the meanest thing Paul did to me -- introduce me to the wonders of sex!" I said in laughing exaggeration. "I never knew what I was missing. Now I am miserable without it!"

      That really got him laughing. "Guys feel like that from the time they are twelve years old. How come girls don't?"

      "I don't know. Maybe because boys have the . . . um . . . equipment right out there and it is easier for them to figure it out, try it out."

       "And if they don't, they wake up wet and sticky!"

       "Yeah! But girls don't have a clue as to what it is all about."

       "So they never get horny until after some guy shows them?'

       "I don't know. I guess they just don't know that is what they are feeling. At least I didn't. . . I dreamt about how good it would feel to hold somebody close, but there wasn't a whole lot of physical detail. Just a lot of feeling. It was as much emotional as physical. I thought I was dreaming about being in love."

       "So now you have x-rated fucking dreams instead?"

       "Now I have the same dreams and wake up wanting both the sex and the love," I answered.

       Something in my voice must have given me away because he hugged me close and said, "Someday you'll find it, Tess. Hang on." What he didn't say was "You won't find it with me." He had said it the last time we were together and knew I understood that. Even so, I felt an odd moment of emptiness. I suppose there was an element of wishing that he and I could somehow make something of this, but I preferred to think of that emptiness as being a recognition that I was going to be alone again in a few days. I quickly found a smile for John. "In the meantime, can I hang on to you?"

       "I thought I was hanging on to you!"

       "Then we are in big trouble!"

       When it got too cold, we headed back to the house for a late dinner, wine in front of the fireplace, and sex on the floor. Slow, thorough sex. Everything I couldn't hold out for on the beach. Afterward when I was exhausted, lying limp in his arms, he started again! I thought perhaps he wasn't satisfied with plain old sex. I slid down and gave it my best effort, doing for him what I had never done to Paul. Graduating to that second level of expertise. I don't know exactly why I had never brought Paul to climax that way. I guess I wasn't ready for that at first, and during our time in Scotland, oral sex was just foreplay for "the real thing." Anyway, I was glad to have something to "give" John that I hadn't given Paul even if John didn't know that. Maybe it was my way of being sort of a virgin again and giving him that.

       When I had finished him off and he caught his breath, John said "I thought you were a virgin just a few months ago. When did you learn to do that?" He sounded a little shocked, and shocking John was something I had not thought possible. For all his talk, he had absorbed a lot of his Aunt Mimi's traditional values. I just didn't think they extended to sexual practices. I was confused and more than a little embarrassed.

       I slid back up into his arms, snuggling against him. "Well, we couldn't do really do it until I was on the pill, so Paul and I . . ." I wasn't totally immune to saying his name, and these memories still hurt. "At first, we just did everything else."

       John was laughing. "You mean he taught you to do that before you even had sex?"

       "I guess so. But he didn't exactly teach me. Not like he said "Do this, now do that." He just encouraged me to do whatever felt good. I just did what he did to me and . . . figured out what he liked."

       He was really laughing now. "Oh, luv. Do you know that some people never do what you two did those first few days?"

       I was blushing furiously. I hadn't known that. Paul had made oral sex seem like just another way of making love. I assumed everyone included that in their bedroom activities. I suddenly felt dirty, cheap, immoral, and all the other bad labels I thought didn't apply to me.

       "But it feels so good," I protested weakly.

       John heard the misery in my voice. He leaned over me, brushing my hair back from my face. "Oh, luv," he said with a little laugh, "There is nothing wrong with giving someone a blow job. Or letting a guy go down on you. How can it be wrong to make someone feel good? Some people are just so tight assed and hung up on sex that anything but a quick poke on Saturday night is against their morals. The human body is made for more than that."

       "Well, at least my body is," I agreed, responding to his humor.

       He laughed and said, "Tess, you aren't abnormal. You just somehow escaped all the crap about sex that some girls have pounded into their brains. All that crap that keeps them from letting go and doing what comes naturally. You might have been inexperienced, but I doubt Paul had to teach you anything - just turn you loose!"

        I guess every girl has to ask the question at some point as she tries her sexual wings and this was my time. "John, am I . . . good?"

       He chuckled. "Only you would ask like that! Straight up, "Am I a good lay?" You are supposed to hint around, fish for compliments!"

       "You would never give me a straight answer if I did that!" I responded, putting the blame for my social faux paux back on him. "And I want to know."

       "Luv, I knew you would be good right from the first. The way you looked at Paul -- dead easy to see. You weren't swooning over a Beatle, you were hot. Definitely had potential. If I hadn't thought that, I never would have hired you."

       I sat straight up in shock and indignation. "That's why you hired me? You were thinking about . . ." I spluttered to a halt.

       "No," he said with a laugh and yanked me back down. "I was just sending you up. I hired you because you cared about me, looked out for me. You didn't look at me and see a Beatle either. You looked right past all that crap and saw me."

       As usual, I found it hard to take a compliment head on. "Well, I saw a patient I was responsible for."

       That got a chuckle from John. "That got to me too. You were so scared but so serious and determined. It was . . . sweet. I usually don't like sweet little things, but you . . . I don't know how, but you just walked right in."

      "No one is more surprised at that than I am," I said. "I think it was just because you were hurt and needed someone. You let down your guard."

       He nodded and nuzzled my ear. "And then you snuck into my bed. That's when I started getting ideas about how good you would be!"

      "You pervert!"

     "Well, I was right!," he said, and finally answered my question.  "You do just fine, girl. You are going to find Prince Charming some day, and he is going to be one lucky bloke."

       "Well, I hope Prince Charming has a bed," I laughed. "Are we ever going to do this in a bed? Lumpy couch, cold beach, hard floor. You really know how to show a girl a good time!"

       John grinned. "We haven't done the kitchen table or the shower or the back of the limo yet!"

      "I don't think I can do it again tonight. I'm beat!"

      "But one good turn deserves another. Let me do you."

      "OK, but in a bed."

      We took my suitcase into his bedroom and I hung up my clothes, went into the bathroom and did my nightly routine, slipped into bed with John, and soon the score was Tess 2, John 4. Even though he had gone down on me and it had felt good, I was just too sleepy and maybe sexually sated to make it. Afterward, I heard him say something about "next time" but I was already half asleep. Worn out from a long day of school, travel, and time change, and sedated by sex, I fell asleep quickly. I woke up in the middle of the night to the touch of his hands. I snuggled into his arms and would have fallen back to sleep immediately but he was persistent. "Now?" I asked in a sleepy haze.

       "You feel so good. I can't just lie here next to you and not want you." I was a pushover for a line like that. Tess 3, John 5.

       When I awoke it was morning and John was already up. I was just lying there looking out the big windows at the ocean trying to imagine what it would be like to live in this incredible house when John came in to see if I was awake. He slowly slid the sheet back and stretched out next to me. Next thing I knew, we were at it again. I think I could have really enjoyed it - there was something very erotic about him being up and dressed and started on his day while I stayed naked in his bed, as though that is where he kept me, a secret pleasure he could come back to any time of the day or night. But somewhere in the back of mind, this was making me very uneasy. Paul and I had managed to spend a lot of time in bed, but it was not like this. Six times in twelve hours? I couldn't help but wonder if John wasn't on something. I had heard of Spanish Fly but understood that the guy didn't take it, the girl did (or had it slipped into her drink). I also understood that it caused frenzied lust. John was not frenzied, in fact, he was sweet and gentle, but I still wondered if there were some other drug that had similar, if somewhat toned down, effects. The idea that he might be using some kind of drug was a little scary and so it was soon Tess 3, John 6.

       "Tess, if there is something else you want me to do . . ." he said.  John knew the score. It never occurred to me to fake it.  

     "No - you are doing just fine."

       He grinned. "I am doing great, but you don't seem to be. Just tell me what you like. I'll do anything except wear your knickers."

       I started laughing and hugged him. "Last night I was too sleepy and this morning I am starved and I just want food more than sex. Fix me breakfast."

       "Fix your own breakfast, woman," he said slapping my bottom. "The offer is limited to sex -- and the sex is unlimited."

       We were finally up and dressed in time to catch the end of the Thanksgiving Day Parade on TV. A huge Thanksgiving dinner was delivered, fully cooked and complete with turkey, stuffing, cranberries and sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie. Afterwards, a long walk on the beach was desperately needed. We walked for hours, talking and sharing.

      He had come a long way in a few months. When I first met him, he was in a tailspin, convinced that his "lifelong" dream - attained before he was twenty five - was over. And even though he had gone further than he had ever imagined, the dream had gone sour somewhere along the way. He had gone home back to London thinking that he could salvage a good life on the edges of the dream, only to find that home was as empty as the dream. Angry, lost, he didn't know what he was supposed to do with the whole rest of his life.

       Now, he was moving again. He didn't know where he was headed, but he was trying. Movies, art, politics, writing, and always music. He knew that there was something more he was meant to do. Something more important than being a Beatle for girls to scream at and money men to get rich off of.  He told me he believed he was either crazy or a genius. I didn't think he was crazy but I didn't think he was a genius either. Eccentric, really bright, but not crazy and probably not a genius. But that statement was pure John Lennon. Incredible ego plagued by raging insecurity. Sometimes he was so obviously a little boy trying anyway he could to prove he was somebody even if neither of his parents wanted him. Exaggerated ego was how he coped. It scared me to think that having been a Beatle was not enough. If that fame, money, and mark on the world of music did not make him worthwhile in his own eyes, what ever could? What would it take to put childhood hurts to rest?   Well, anyway, he was feeling good. His confidence was up and he had the time and money to explore a lot of possibilities. And he was ready to go back to being a Beatle. On his terms this time.

       Back at the beach house we sat in the kitchen picking at leftovers. "I've got to quit eating," I said. "I'll be stuffed again and I don't think I could do that walk again. I'm worn out."

       I was sitting on the counter and John looked up at me with what was becoming a very familiar look on his face. "We could go have a little lie down."

       I didn't know what to say. It wasn't a bad idea, really. After the walk on the beach I felt so close to him. If I hadn't thought there was something abnormal about his wanting me again, I would have enjoyed it. He saw something in my expression and got up and came to me.

       "What is it?" he asked as he took my hands in his.

       I looked at him and realized that if I started holding back, playing games, he would be out of my life as fast as he could. He was lonely and I was here because I was someone he trusted. "Are you taking something?" I asked.

       He was bewildered. "What are you talking about?"

      "You just . . . well, I thought maybe you took something to make you . . . ah . . .want to do it. I mean its not like I'm Bridget Bardot and you just keep on . . ."

      He burst out laughing. "You thought I had discovered some aphrodisiac. Some kind of "Ever Hard Pill?"

      Burning with embarrassment, I nodded.

       He got a great laugh out of that, but apologized anyway. "I'm sorry, luv. I didn't mean to scare you." Lord, he could read me like a book. "It's just me, honest. I've been living like a monk since I last saw you."

       "You have?!? Why??" I certainly had no notion that he had been waiting for me - the idea never occured to me. I was just so surprised that the words popped out. That gave him another laugh.

       "I wasn't being faithful and true to you, you little love obsessed idiot." That was delivered with a hug that took the sting out of the sarcasm. "We've been putting in some long days on the set. And I've really been busy working on some songs. I haven't written anything since Revolver and I was beginning to think . . . Well, anyway, I know you think I am some kind of sex god, but when I get involved in something, everything else just goes out the window. But right now, I am involved in you. Besides, I have to do something to make up for not being Paul."

       "Is that what you thought? That I was thinking of Paul?"

       He shrugged. "Of course you were."

      "Look, I can't say I never think of him. But that didn't stop me last night. Or even the first couple of times we did it at my place. And I thought a lot more about him then. But even when I do think of him, it isn't to wish you were him."

       "Comparing us, are you?" he laughed.

      "Well, yeah," I had to admit.

      "And?"

      "Oh come on! I wasn't comparing you like "Which one is better?" I was comparing how you did it. What was different, what was the same."

       "And who was bigger, harder,--"

       Of course I had, but didn't want to discuss it. "No! Technique!"

       "Who has the best technique, then?"

       "Stop it!"

       "Oh, come ead. You can tell me. Its just one bird's opinion after all, isn't it? And it's not as if you were an expert in the field! Little Miss Proper, you are!"

       "Come on! You don't have to be a . . . a . . . one of them to know good from bad in bed!"

       "So, who is better, me or Paulie?"

       As usual, he had me so exasperated, the only thing left was the truth. "I can't tell you. I don't know! I was so . . . so lost in Paul. It was all mixed up with love and dreams and promises. I can't compare you. It's entirely different And I fully expect that one of these days I am going to meet some guy who will make both of you look like amateurs!"

       "Oh yeah?" he growled. He slid me off the counter and I hung on, arms around his neck and legs around his waist. I thought we were headed for the bedroom but I found myself on my back on the kitchen table with a turkey carcass on one side and a melting cranberry mold on the other. We did it on the table. Tess 4, John 7.

       Friday morning I woke up and lay quietly watching John sleep. When he finally stirred, I said, "Now don't get upset, but I have been lying here thinking and there is something I have to tell you."

       He looked at me, surprised and wary.

      "No, don't worry. It is all right. It is just something I have to say and hope you will understand."

      "Let's have it then, luv."

      "I love you."

      He took it better than I thought he would - I had this vision of him leaping out of bed, grabbing his clothes and suitcases and disappearing. No, it wouldn't happen like that at all. John would toss me, my clothes, and my suitcase out the front door! But instead he just looked at me, shook his head and said, "Tess, no. I told you --"

      "I know. And nothing has changed. It is just that I may never see you again, and I want you to know how much I care about you. Maybe it is just me - maybe I have to justify being here with you by saying I love you. But, John, I don't mean I love you like "I want to marry you and have your baby." You are the best friend I ever had. And the sex is really great. But I'm not "in love" with you. I just love you, that's all, and I wanted you to know."

      He pulled me into the circle of his arm, my head on his shoulder. "I understand," he said softly. We lay quietly for a few minutes, then he turned on his side to face me. "Tess, I told you that sex is just physical. That it doesn't matter who you are with. But that is not true. It is something special with you because you care . . . and so do I. I love you, too."

       "Oh, John," I said, feeling a little overwhelmed. I hadn't expected this. Hoped for it, I suppose, but not really expected it. "Don't tell me that. I am not strong enough to hear it, no matter how you mean it."

        "I mean it just like you do. Maybe if things had been different . . ."

        "What do you mean?"

        "If Paul hadn't taken an interest, if I hadn't still been with Cyn . . ."

        I didn't have to think about that. No "if" about it. "Yes. I would have been yours. But it wouldn't have worked out."

       "Why not?" he asked, surprised.

       "Because I am nothing but an American version of Cyn. We would have ended up the same way."

       He thought about that for a while. "Yeah, in some ways you are a lot alike. But you are not as shy, not as scared of things. You are tougher. Hell, you stood up to me!"

       "I was just doing my job, being your nurse!"

       He laughed. "More than that. Being my friend. And if the cute one hadn't butted in, I would have had you! I saw you first and by rights you were mine!"

      "Oh ho!" I said. "Now it all comes out! This is nothing but you reclaiming stolen goods. One-upsmanship with Paul!"

      "Oh," he countered, "and I thought this was just your little revenge on Paulie for being an asshole!"

      I was startled. "No, that's not true!" I protested. "I never thought of being with you as a way of getting even with him."

      Sobered by my heartfelt objection to his teasing, John observed quietly, "Me thinks she doth protest too much . . ."

      "No, it isn't that way at all. I just don't want you to think for one minute that I am sleeping with you for any reason except that I care about you."

      "Hmmm. I seem to recall the first occaision being a . . . what was it? A sexorcism, I believe was the term."

      As usual, John was winning this battle. "Well, yeah . . . I was having a hard time getting over Paul -- but I wouldn't have slept with you if I didn't care about you!"

       John was grinning at my discomfort. "Now there is the real difference between us, luv. I would have balled you at the drop of a hat. Liking you was purely coincidental! Admit it, girl, we're a good pair, you and I. Petty, spiteful little people and sex maniacs to boot!"

        I couldn't help but laugh at him. "Listen, did you hear that?" I asked.

       "What?"

       "Why I do believe I heard a hat dropping!"

       "Aha!" His hands were sliding my nightgown up.

       "And John -- I love you anyway," I said.

       So the days sped by. We didn't spend all of our time having sex, though it seemed like that was always the intermission between other activities. In those few days we were together, we drove up the coast, out to a desert, up to the mountains and I even found myself driving through Bel Air to gawk at famous people's houses. I drove while John navigated using a map to the stars' homes. John thought that was a riot. I was oohing and ahhing over the homes of the stars while one of the biggest celebrities in the world was sitting beside me.

       And we did a lot of talking. Or at least John did. It was as if he had saved up weeks worth of things waiting for me, waiting for a friend to talk to. Regret at hurting Cyn, guilt at leaving Julian, brave talk and wild plans about what he was going to do with his life, stories of incredible parties and LSD trips at Hollywood mansions. And scattered in between that, he would throw in something about books he had been reading. There were stacks of books piled here and there, half packed for shipping back to England. History, philosophy, sociology, psychology, religion, science fiction. I felt like the village idiot next to this guy who hated school, barely squeaked into an art college, then dropped out to avoid being kicked out.

       As for the sex, I had thought he was kidding, but we did it in the shower and on the couch as well as the bed in those four days. Or more precisely, we did it standing up, bent over the back of the couch, and in a variety of positions on the bed. I don't know exactly why we got into trying different positions. Paul and I hadn't gone much beyond the standard face to face position, maybe because we were so busy gazing into each other's eyes and holding each other close. But sex with John was just so much fun and so . . . so just plain sexual that my thoughts were more on the sensations and the possibilities. John caught on right away that I was curious and willing, and took it from there.

      John liked sex. Often. Fast, but often. It was so different from being with Paul. Paul whispered sweet things. John laughed and teased and the words he used were words I had always thought of as crude and dirty. But his voice and his touch made them intimate and sexy. Paul made love to me like he was composing a song. Building slowly, trying out new moods, new tempos, but always moving toward the end. And always satisfying. John was a dee-jay spinning a song, and if that one didn't work for you, or was over too soon, well, all you had to do was ask and he would be ready and more than willing to play another. You were bound to catch fire with one of them. And I did. Even if I couldn't quite catch up with John on the scoreboard. I found that instead of reaching a point of being totally sexually sated and disinterested in more, I was more easily turned on than ever. Release was slower in coming but that was part of the appeal. I was never really "done." Maybe it was something about the total privacy, or the freedom from emotional turmoil - Does he really love me? Where do we go from here? - or just the simple fact that this weekend was meant for sex, but I enjoyed it. It was just plain fun. Exhausting, but fun.

       With two exceptions, it was a fantastic vacation. The first exception was expected. Letting go of John. For good this time. Sunday morning we slept until nine, did it one last time, a slow and gentle goodbye. I held back the tears but was gratified to see that John seemed a little quiet and sad too. It wasn't that I had ever planned for any future for us. It was obvious we were headed in different directions. I wanted to be a nurse, quietly helping people one at a time. He wanted to stir people up, challenge their views, and do it a million people at a time. I wanted a home, a safe shelter for raising my children. That is what he had just rejected as stifling and boring. Different directions.

       I guess it was possible to say goodbye to him because of that -- and because I was just plain too scared to go on. Being with him was inevitably going to bring on a firestorm. My parents would be furious and humiliated to find I was with him - even if we managed to keep it from them until after the divorce was filed. Catholics could not marry someone who was divorced -- and if I was with him, it sure as hell better be heading toward marriage. Not that they would allow it, anyway! But dealing with my parents might be easier than dealing with the press.

     No matter how much I protested and explained, it was going to look as though this had started while I was in England. "Home-wrecker" would be the nicest thing people would call me. Even if we survived that, it would mean going to England and living with John. His divorce wouldn't be final for a year after Cyn filed. I didn't think I could expect a warm welcome from anyone there.

       And the bottom line was simple: even if John eventually felt ready to try marriage again ( a big "if", I thought) would I want to be married to him? I adored the guy, loved being around him, loved having sex with him, but was I prepared for a lifetime with him? I just didn't know if I could handle his ups and downs, his drug thing, his lifestyle. Contemplating those things when I was with Paul had been a piece of cake compared to the extremes of John's way of going at things. He did nothing by halves. Everything was all or nothing with him. I was too cautious, too inhibited, too careful to deal well with that approach to life. These four days of having his ideas soaring over my head reminded me of what I had always known. I just couldn't keep up with him. But they had also made sure that I would always, always love him. I knew we would keep in touch for a while, but in time we would both have another life. But I would never forget him. We promised that if the other ever needed a friend, we would be there for each other, no matter how many years intervened.

       The second, unexpected exception came right after breakfast. I was starting to pack and John had just stepped into the shower when the phone rang. The staff from the main house called every morning to see if we needed anything and I assumed it was them so I went out to the living room to answer it. A voice said "Is John there, please."

      The room spun and tilted as if California had chosen that moment to slide into the ocean. I sat down hard on the couch. "Hello, Paul," I managed to say. Getting those words out was excruciating. I was amazed to hear myself add, "John can't come to the phone right now."

      There was a long silence on the line. Then Paul said, in a voice so cold I barely recognized it, "Hello, Tess. . . Tell him to ring me. I need to know when he is coming back so I can get studio time arranged."

      "He'll be back in London on Wednesday."

      "Good. We need to get going on this."

      I was fighting tears. I didn't know what to say, I only knew I didn't want him to hang up. "How are you, Paul?"

      Another long silence. "I am just fine. And it looks like you got what you wanted after all."

      I didn't know what the words meant, but the voice was hard and the words hit like bullets. "What I wanted?" I said bewildered.

       "A Beatle. Too bad he is married, but I guess that is just a temporary inconvenience. Congratulations, Tess." The line went dead and I dropped the phone.

       John found me curled up on the couch, beyond tears, numb with pain and shock. Paul hated me! I never expected that.

       "Tess, what the hell. . ." He saw the phone and picked it up and when he found the line dead, he slammed the receiver back onto the cradle. Pulling me up into his arms, he looked scared when he saw my face.

       "What happened, love? Tess, honey, talk to me!"

       "He hates me," I whispered, still reeling from the anger in Paul's voice.

       "Who?"

       "Paul."

       "He was on the phone?"

       "He needed to know when you were coming back. So he could . .. so he . . ." Could what? I couldn't think.

       "Tess, come on, love!" John was shaking me a little. Apparently I was not too coherent.

       "Oh, yeah. Arrange studio time. I told him Wednesday." Zombie secretary.

       I must have sounded awful. John propped me up on the couch and disappeared. Not that I really noticed. He returned a minute later with a glass, and said "Drink this." I did, and coughed and spluttered on the whiskey that burned all the way down.

       "Jesus Christ, John." I croaked when I could finally talk. "That only works in the movies!"

       He laughed in relief and amusement. "Seems to have done you!"

      "Next time just slap me!"

      "I'll slap that bloody bastard! What did he say to you?"

       I had to think for a minute. If his words had made sense, I really didn't get it because all I was really hearing was the anger and biting sarcasm. When I finally came up with the words, the tears that shock had frozen melted down my face. "He said "Congratulations". All I wanted was one of the Beatles and now I have one."

       I thought knowing that he used me to cheat on someone else was painful, but knowing that he thought I was just some kind of ultimate groupie was crushing. I thought I was the one who was angry, but his voice . . . I had thought that if I ever heard his voice again it would be like tearing open an old wound, but this was worse. It tore open the old wound and then stabbed deeper with the new pain of knowing he despised me.

       I thought I was going to lose it, cry myself into exhaustion, but then I looked up and saw the worried look on John's face. I would not give in to the tears. I would not spend my last few hours with John crying over Paul again. I didn't think I could possibly have any more tears to cry on that situation anyway. I wiped my eyes, finding I could be tough if it was important, and John was.

       We went for one last walk along the beach together. When we got back to the beach house we sat on the deck, looking out over the ocean. The grey, overcast day matched the mood that was closing in as it got closer to time for me to leave.

       "This is a little difficult," John commented.

      "What is?"

      "Saying goodbye to you. I don't know why we are together in the first place, but I don't look forward to being alone again."

       That just about summed up my feelings about being with him. I told him my theory, that we were together because we were both alone. Temporary shelter until we felt strong enough to go out and try again. He agreed with the part about being alone but objected to the idea that he would find someone else someday. He didn't believe in love ever after. "I need something bigger than that," he said. "Something more than someone who loves me. I've had that and it just isn't enough."

      "Maybe someday you'll find someone you can love - someone who is enough."

      "God, that sounds like a curse!" he laughed.

       I thought of Paul and thought maybe he was right. But that wasn't a fair comparison to the kind of love I had in mind. "Not if she loves you just as much!" I said.

       "That's just it. It isn't just loving. I have so many empty spots. So much I need."

       "And so much to give," I pointed out.

       He shrugged. "I don't know. She'd have to be strong enough to take it."

       I laughed at that. "Oh, yeah. Strong and smart and a sex machine!"

       He laughed too, and put his arm around me. "Ok, so I am asking for the impossible. Hell, look at you. Perfect material for a wife. And I can't see myself with you. Not like that."

      "I'd be a great wife for a guy who wants a normal, ordinary life. That's not you."

       "No, that's not," he agreed quietly and we both lapsed into silence, wondering if either of us would ever find what we were looking for.

       He asked if I had any message for Paul.

      "No!" That response was emphatic. "There is nothing to say," I explained. "In fact . . . I'd rather you didn't talk to him about me at all." I simply didn't want John saying anything that would reveal to Paul how badly he had hurt me. Let him think I was a gold digger or whatever.

       John hesitated before responding, "He knows you were here this weekend, love. He is bound to have something to say about it."

       It hadn't dawned on me until that moment that our cover was blown. All our careful plans to assure secrecy undone because I had answered the phone. "Oh, John! If he tells anyone . . ."

       John snorted. "Paul? He would never let this out. Bad Publicity. And a nasty little blow to his pride to think that you . . . No, he won't tell anyone."

       I must have looked stricken because he hugged me. "And when I get back, I'll tell him he got it all wrong. I'll tell him he has a filthy mind. We're just good friends and this was just a chance for you to see California. Sightseeing, not a weekend of fucking each other's brain's out."

       "John, you don't have to lie for me--"

       "Not a total lie, we are friends, you did go sightseeing."

       I sighed, more upset at the idea of John having to lie than all the lies I had told to get here.

       "All right then, I'll just tell him to bugger off. It is none of his business what you and I did or didn't do this weekend," John said.

       I had to laugh. That was a typical John Lennon response. "That's more like it," I told him, "But you two have been friends since you were seventeen. I don't want our being together to make things difficult between you."

       "Ah, but that's the beauty of it. He can't go on being pissy about it - he has no proof and if he wants to go on being The Fab Four, he is going to have to let it pass, make friends, play nice again. And that is exactly what our boy will do. Loves the bleedin' Beatles, that one."

      Why had I ever though that what went on between John and me was a simple, private matter? "I'm sorry," I said. "I should never have let this happen."

       "I'm not," he said firmly, and kissed me. Not a friendly kiss, not a let's have sex kiss, not a thanks for the sex kiss. A rather disturbing kiss for someone who thought she had made up her mind that he was the wrong guy for her.

      I was so exhausted from four days of sightseeing and sex that I slept for most of the plane trip home. As the plane circled the Minneapolis airport, I woke up and as we dropped back down to earth the finality of this weekend got to me at last and I cried a few quiet, sad tears. I cried because I was losing my friend, losing a guy that who something special. Wild, maybe crazy, but so special. I cried because an incredible interlude in my life was ending. I would never see him or any of the others again. I couldn't see myself going back to England ever again. Not with the memories that were there. That brought on a few more tears. And, disgusted with myself for it, I cried because I was losing my last link to Paul.

       In an airport restroom I changed into my uniform, carefully packed and brought along so it would appear to my roommates I was coming home from work. After picking up my suitcase, I headed out into the cold Minnesota night to my car. I stashed my suitcase in the trunk where it would have to stay until I could safely sneak it back into the apartment, ransomed my car from the airport parking lot, and drove home. I had planned to kill time so I could arrive home at twelve thirty. It was only ten thirty, but I just wanted to get home. I could tell them work was slow so they let me leave early. I could have saved myself the trouble of changing. Brenda and Sandy were already in bed when I got home.

       I fell into bed and lay staring into the dark for hours. Jumbled thoughts. Scared silly but laughing with John anyway when a small tremor rattled the beach house at just the right moment. Paul laughing as he tried to undress me in a scratchy bed of heather, telling me this was where Jane Eyre liked it best. Arguing for hours with John about religion, politics, drugs. Talking with Paul for hours about music, childhood memories, books. Sex with John. Making love to Paul. Loving them both in different ways and knowing neither of them were right for me.