Into My Life

Chapter 28

My flight to London was long and thankfully boring. No missed connections, bad weather, or lost luggage. Even better was the fact that I left on surprisingly good terms with my parents. I thought they would be really upset by my going to England unchaperoned to see Paul, but I guess in their eyes it was a trip to meet Paul's family and therefore acceptable. Mom managed to assume that we would be staying in Liverpool with Paul's father and I made no attempt to correct her. We would only spend a couple of days there -- the rest of the week I would be in London with Paul. Alone with him. She probably knew that was going to happen but just didn't want to get into it. She had expressed concern after Paul's last visit that because he was a bit older than me and had been on his own longer, he might "expect" more of me than the boys I had been dating. The nervousness with which she approached that topic told me right away that she wasn't talking about his expecting me to be more mature, knowledgeable, sophisticated or anything like that. I was able to assure her quite honestly that Paul had been a perfect gentleman and never pushed me to do anything, then changed the subject leaving her to interpret that however she wished.

I had left Minneapolis at four in the afternoon and was flying straight through without an overnight stop. I quickly lost track of time as I moved "backwards" through the time zones. Flying west seemed easier on my internal clock than these eastward trips. I managed to sleep a little on the flight but wanting to see Paul, needing him, made the hours go by far too slowly. As I got off the plane, I scanned the crowd for Mal who was to meet me. He was easy to spot and was quickly at my side steering me through the waiting reporters. Somehow they had gotten wind that I was arriving. They probably had heard from their cronies in the States that it was Spring Break and knew Paul would either be on his way to see me or I would be going to him. They snapped away as they asked the usual questions, then hit me with "What do you think of the way fans are responding to the fact that Paul is dating you?"

There was something unsettling in the question. The implication was clear - the English fans were not happy. Mal stepped in abruptly and ended the questions and took me away to pick up my luggage. I wanted to ask Mal what was going on with the fans but decided that hearing about it wouldn't change things. If they didn't like me, there was nothing I could do about it.

Outside, a limo pulled up and Paul got out and we had time for one kiss before someone shrieked his name. Mal pushed him into the limo, and, laughing, Paul pulled me in on top of him. The door shut, and I started to pull myself upright - not easy to do in the middle of a kiss.

And Paul wasn't having it. He dragged me right back down and I didn't resist. I heard the front door open, and Mal got in. "We're off, then," he said to the driver, and the car moved out into traffic.

"And I believe we had best hurry," he added with a laugh.

I made a half-hearted attempt to sit up, but Paul held onto me and reached out and pushed the button that closed the dark glass between us and the front seat. "No need to rush," he said as the window went up.

A couple of minutes later it was clear to me that thrashing around in the back of a moving car was not the thing to do when you are still feeling queasy from flying. Upright again, with the partition down so I could see and the side window open to the cold and damp but full of spring promise air, I felt better. Mal was highly amused.

A group of about ten gatebirds were waiting for us back at Paul's. Paul quickly closed the window as we drove through the gate. Sad faces. Some tearful, some sullen. And hanging on the gate a sign that read "Yankee go home!"

"Looks like they knew I was coming," I said while Paul muttered curses. There was silence from the girls as we got out of the car. When Mal lifted my suitcases out of the car, there was a hiss, a few muttered boos and audible sobs. And as the door closed behind us, someone yelled "Jane was prettier!"

"Do you want me to run them off?" Mal asked.

"They'll just be back," Paul said.

Mal left and Paul and I sat on the living room sofa. Like the last time we had been apart, I felt the need to reconnect with him, be reassured of his love before we had sex and apparently he was prepared for that. I could feel the tension and eagerness in him but he sat with me, talking quietly, kissing me gently, trying hard to act as if getting me into bed was the last thing on his mind. His thoughtfulness alone was enough to absolutely melt me and after about a minute and a half I looked at him and said, "Upstairs?"

We took the stairs two at a time and fell onto the bed laughing and tugging at clothing frantically. It was hot and fast and glorious. The encore was sweet and wonderful and then I fell asleep.

When I awoke it was dark. My suitcases were in the room but Paul was gone. I could hear music - Paul at the piano playing an unfamiliar but beautiful melody. The on again off again way he played told me he was working on the piece. Hating to miss even a moment of the sound, I rushed into the bathroom, did a quick job of washing up and making myself presentable, slipped on my bathrobe and headed for the music room.

I stood in the doorway, watching and listening for a moment before he knew I was there. I wished I could take a picture without disturbing him. The image of him there at the piano, lost in concentration, jotting notes on a piece of paper as he worked, cigarette smoke and music hanging in the softly lit room was just the way I imagined him every time I thought about how he spent his time alone while we were apart. Or maybe it was how I hoped he spent his time!

"That's beautiful," I said. "Is it for the new album?"

He looked up and smiled. "You're up! Thought I'd lost you for the night." He got up and came to me, kissed me, and added, "Thank you and no, not going to be on the album."

"Oh, why not?" I asked, disappointed.

"Sit down and I'll show you."

We ended up curled up on the sofa listening to tapes of working tracks for what Paul was calling the "Sgt. Pepper" album. Some were obviously rough preliminary takes with frequent starts and stops but other sounded complete to my ears. Paul was full of ideas for changes, dissatisfaction with parts, excitement over others. So much for curling up together. As usual, Paul needed his hands to talk!

As he described the plans for the songs, he found himself tutoring me on the basics of recording. How tracks were added and mixed was technical stuff way over my head. Of course to my unmusical knowledge base, a reference to a "chord change" was technical stuff. After just a few minutes of this I was feeling like a musical idiot.

"What's wrong?" Paul asked when I got quiet.

"I don't know anything about music." I said. "It means so much to you and I don't understand any of it. You are so excited about all this and I can't share it with you "

"You'll learn it. I never took lessons, you know that. It just comes as you work with it."

"I suppose. But I'll never have the feel for it you do. I don't have any musical talent at all. I can't sing - I sound awful. I think I'm tone deaf - I just don't hear all that you hear."

"So?" he asked, puzzled by how miserable I was.

"Well it just seems . . . I don't know . . . Wrong somehow. That you of all people ends up with someone who can't appreciate you, can't really be part of that part of your life."

He chuckled at that. "Oh, I see. I need to test all potential girl friends for their musical talents! And here I was just thinking about getting them into bed!"

"No," I sighed, not seeing a lot of humor here. "But maybe you should consider it in a potential wife."

"You're serious!" he said with surprise and dismay.

"Well . . yes."

"Ah, love, come off it. I'm not auditioning for a band member here!"

"But you are auditioning for someone to share your life with! And if that someone can't share your enjoyment of music --"

"Ah, get off! You enjoy music!"

"Of course, but I can't get into the way you can and besides . . ."

"What?"

"What if we have kids like me? You grew up in a musical household. How would you feel if little Paul Jr. couldn't carry a tune in a bucket?!"

He was looking at me open-mouthed with amazement, but I was on a roll. "It would be a horrible thing if your talent didn't get passed on!"

With that he burst out laughing. "Oh, God! Now I am some National Trust that has to be guarded and handed down the generations! Selective breeding to carry the bloodlines!"

Finally embarrassed, I shut up. He put his arms around me and reeled me in for a hug. Grateful, I snuggled up to him. "I didn't mean it that way," I said. "It just seems like you would have to be disappointed if your kids didn't have any talent at all."

"I know, love," he assured me. "But what if all of our kids get sick at the sight of blood, hate hospitals, and just can't deal with sickness and death? That's what you are risking with me. I can't do the things you do. You can learn enough about music to share my life. I don't think I can do the same for you. Maybe it's a talent you have, or maybe it is just a . . . a strength, but I haven't got it. It's just the way I'm made and I can't "learn" that."

"Oh, Paul. You don't even have to try! I saw how hard it was for you, dealing with Debbie. You were incredible but I swore then I would never again put you in that kind of situation!"

Instead of answering, he kissed me, a gentle, grateful kiss. The discussion was abandoned in favor of lots more kisses, then we went back to listening to the Sgt. Pepper tapes. A line in "Lovely Rita" caught my ear and I started to laugh.

"Sandy is going to have hysterics over that! "Sitting on the sofa with a roommate or two." She has been telling me you are over here writing all kinds of love songs about me and here SHE gets mentioned in a song!"

"Oh, I'm afraid she is going to be disappointed then," Paul said. "I might drop that line. It just doesn't seem quite right for some reason. Doesn't fit Rita to share him with the roomies."

"Oh, no, she wouldn't do that!"

"You don't think so?" he asked with a grin.

I laughed. "Well, I don't know Rita as well as you do, but I pictured her as an ordinary girl from a very traditional background out working at her first job until she meets someone nice to settle down with. She would have led a sort of sheltered life and it didn't seem that Rita would have an apartment -- or that this guy would be attracted to a girl that did."

"Oh?" he asked. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, he's a rather shy, proper young man - the kind of guy who would inquire discreetly as to whether she would go with him for tea. He'd be looking for a girl living at home with Mom and Dad, not off on her own."

He nodded, smiling. "Yes, that's Rita. I'll take her back home to the parental sofa." He got up and rewound the tape to ‘Lovely Rita' and we listened to it again. When it got to the line in question Paul listened, rewound again, and this time sang along with it "Sitting on the sofa with a sister or two."

"That's better," he said. "Sounds better with the alliteration. But I'll have to change the next bit. Can't have him nearly make it with the sisters right there!"

"Oh, no! Leave it! I love that image! The guy is so crazy for Rita he nearly embarrasses himself in front of the family!"

Laughing, came back to sit with me. "Now that part is autobiographical. Those weekends with your parents got awfully difficult when you sat next to me on the sofa with your hand on my knee!"

"Am I Rita?" I asked with surprise.

"No, not especially. But you are lovely," he said and we were back to making out or at least had a good start but I had to ask the question looming large in my mind. "So there aren't going to be any love songs on the album?"

"No, it just isn't a love song kind of album. It just wouldn't fit even if I wanted to go back to "I love you, you love me. You are disappointed, aren't you," he asked gently.

"Well, yeah, a little. I thought maybe . . . being apart and all, you'd be thinking about me and it might end up as a song."

"Aha! I didn't say I hadn't written anything about you - I said it wouldn't be on the album," he laughed.

"Was it the song you were working on when I woke up?" I asked hopefully. It was a gorgeous melody, one I would be thrilled to claim as "my" song.

"Yes . . . but it isn't a boy meets girl kind of thing. More of a boy wants to meet that certain girl, knows he will love her forever when he finally does. That is how I was feeling when I met you and I started the song then. It has kind of double meaning. Waiting for you to show up in my life but at the same time it could be about waiting for you to come back to me. But then you left and I didn't want to finish it. I've dusted it off lately, thinking I would use it, but it just doesn't fit on this album and . . . well, I wasn't certain I wanted to share it anyway. People just look for meaning in every song and then they get it all wrong. I shared some personal stuff on the last couple of albums and it makes for good songs but I don't like people thinking they know about me, my feelings, from a single song. It's like giving away a part of yourself."

"Like ‘Yesterday' being written about losing your mother?"

He nodded. "Yeah. That was part of what went into ‘Yesterday' I guess, but not all. Songs are like that - there is something that gets you going but it goes off from there. ‘Yesterday' isn't just about my mother and ‘I'm Looking Through You' isn't just about Jane. It is about every relationship I have had. You think you know someone but when it goes bad you see you didn't know them at all. But people jumped on that and interpreted it as Jane not being honest with me. I guess that is what I was thinking when I started it, but now when I think about it, that song is as much about myself from Jane's point of view as her from mine. And really, it wasn't dishonesty. We both changed - I got a big head and decided I didn't have to be faithful and she decided her career was more important than I was."

With a sigh he said, "But after that I decided then I wasn't putting my life out there like that again. I can't do that -- sit down and intentionally write about myself. I use my feelings but have to turn them sideways a bit or it put them on someone else or it just is too much like parading naked down the street! John does that - like with ‘Nowhere Man' and it works for him - makes everyone say "Oh, that's me!" When I do it, they say, "Oh, there's McCartney."

He gave me a rueful grin. "So between me bein' so shy and retiring, and love songs not being in the repertoire of the Lonely Hearts Club Band, you get cheated out of your love song, I'm afraid. Maybe someday there will be a place I can use it."

My love song! "Can I hear it?" I asked. My heart was in my throat.

He didn't answer, just stretched out an arm and picked up his guitar. "It's not done - haven't got the words for the second part yet, but . . ." He picked out a couple of chords, and started to sing in a soft but strong voice.

                                        Who knows how long I've loved you

                                        You know I love you still.

                                        Will I wait a lonely lifetime?

                                        If you want me to--I will.

I was lost, gone, overboard, overwhelmed with just that opening.

                                        So if I ever meet you,

                                        I'll know just how da dum . . .

                                       Hmm hmm hmm da da da,

                                       I will always feel the same.

He grinned at me over the fillers, then switched to the chorus.

                                       Love you forever and forever

                                       Love you with all my heart

                                       Love you whenever we're together

                                       Love you when we're apart.

That's when I started to cry. Tears leaking down my face and the happiest smile ever on my face.

                                       And when at last I find you

                                       Your song will fill the air

                                       Sing it loud so I can hear you

                                       Make it easy to be near you

                                       For the things you do endear you to me

                                       You know I will

                                        I will.

He didn't have to ask if I liked it. He leaned over to put the guitar on the floor and I launched myself off the sofa and into his arms. I smothered him with tear-wet kisses while I laughed with pure joy. "Don't ever use it on an album," I said. "Just sing it for me. Only for me!"

Sunday slipped by fast even though we did nothing but talk, read the papers, and make love. We had no desire to leave the bed much less the house. The weather was lousy out, but that didn't stop the gatebirds from assembling. From the signs that appeared, they had their dislike for me keeping them warm. Safe inside, the privacy was wonderful. We stayed in bed half the day, then wandered downstairs for food. I puttered around in the kitchen, having no problems with the cooking since Mrs. Grady had prepared meals for the weekend. The freezer was full of frozen casseroles complete with taped on notes to Paul on how to cook them and what vegetable went with them. "She's got a thing about green vegetables," Paul laughed. "If we don't eat the asparagus, I'll have to hide it in the rubbish bin or it'll be a lecture on good nutrition for me."

I felt comfortable in the house, knowing instinctively where to find things. Furnishings were a mixture of styles. Antiques, some of them quite eccentric, modern art on the walls, and very nice traditional furniture. A beautiful cherry dining room set was my favorite. When I said something about the decor, Paul looked a little odd for a moment. "Jane pretty much did it. I would probably be living with packing crates and odd bits."

"It is really nice. She had good taste."

"You can change anything you like. You don't have to live with her stuff."

"I'll be living with packing crates and odd bits at the apartment," I reminded him. "I really can't stay here."

He reached out and pulled me close. "You belong here."

"Paul, I can't. I love it here. It feels like coming home. But I can't."

Instead of arguing he just smiled. "We'll see." I had a feeling I was going to be living here. Paul could be persistent to a fault.

Having spent so much of the weekend in bed, we were up early on Monday morning. A look out the window revealed a small group of gatebirds, but the fact that they had school bags with them told me this was just a stop at the shrine on their way to school. I was fixing breakfast when the intercom rang. Paul went to answer it, and when he didn't come back, I went to see what was going on. He was standing by the door, reading a letter. "Who was it?" I asked.

"Registered letter," he said distractedly. I went back to the kitchen and once I had breakfast ready, I went to get Paul. He was on the telephone.

"I don't want Langley. He can't keep his mouth shut. Get one of the others."

Paul looked up as I walked into the room. He listened to whoever was on the telephone, then said, "All right. I'll be in at noon. If you can't set something up, ring me . . . Come on, Brian, You, know damn well they'll go to the press if I don't just give it to them, and I'll be damned if I'll do that . . . No, I want this done. Tess and I are going up to Liverpool this week. . . . Right. Noon then."

By the time he hung up I knew he was more than angry. He was really upset. He put the phone down and looked at me. "What's wrong?" I asked.

He didn't answer, just looked at me, or, more accurately, through me. I waited, unsure what to do. Finally he came around and said, "I'm going to take Martha out for a bit."

"OK," I said. It was obvious he didn't want company. He picked up the letter, got a coat out of the closet, whistled for Martha, and left. I stood there refusing to give in to the nervous panic that was waiting in the wings. He needed time. Whatever it was, he needed space to think about it and he would tell me when he was ready. I just needed to give him time and trust in him.

I ate breakfast, alone and worried. All I had picked up from the phone call was something about someone going to the press if Paul didn't give them something. Blackmail? About what? Before my mind could conjure up anything awful, the intercom rang again. This time a young female voice said, "Well, I hope you are happy! Paul wouldn't even talk to us! Why don't you just go home? You aren't going to get him anyway!!!" In the background I could hear someone sobbing and another girl yelling "Go home, Yankee!"

I turned off the speaker and stood there feeling shaky. Well, I had expected the fans to be upset. I just hadn't realized they would be so vocal. And I didn't have a clue how to handle it. I thought about going out to talk to them, but there wasn't anything I could say that would help. They didn't hate me, they hated anyone who was with their Paul. All I could do is wait for them to adjust.

I was pretending to read the paper when Paul came back less than thirty minutes later. He looked somber but calmer. "Breakfast cold?" he asked. "I'm starved."

That was a lie. He picked at breakfast while he made small talk about our plans for the rest of the week. As I got up to clear the table, he reached out and took my hand. "Ready to hear about it?"

"If you are ready to tell me."

"I'm not ready. I don't want to have to tell you this at all. Especially now." He pulled me down onto his lap and held me for just a minute before he went on. "The letter is from a law firm in Hamburg. A woman there is filing a paternity suit against me."

Bad Publicity. Real bad. And a child . . . his child. I didn't know what to say but he seemed to be waiting for a response. "Oh, boy," were the profound words I came up with.

"No. A girl. Four years old."

"And you were in Germany four years ago?"

"Yes. We were there several times in the early sixties."

"Do you remember the woman?"

"I'm not sure. There were a lot of girls around. I suppose there could have been an "Anna."

"So . . . it could be your child."

He looked away and I held my breath waiting for his answer. "I don't think so. The girls I went out with, I knew their first names at least. I think there was one named Anna . . ." He sighed. "But it is a common name. We were drunk a lot, especially the first time over. A lot of girls. A lot of . . . well, prostitutes. But they don't get pregnant. Or don't stay that way."

I put my arms around him and leaned against him, trying to imagine what he had been like then. What he had done. With whom. Nineteen, twenty years old. Living in Hamburg's Red Light District. I didn't really want to think about it. "This can't be the first time one of you . . ."

"It is the first time anyone has actually filed suit. There have been a few hysterical birds over the years, but it was either a false alarm or they disappeared the minute they were told they would have to take legal action to get money out of us."

"So you think she is just trying to get money?"

"Yeah. She thinks I will pay up if she threatens to go to the press. But I won't. Not if she can't prove it is mine."

"And you don't think it is?"

"No. I don't," he said firmly, then shifted away from that question. "We might have to delay going up to Liverpool a day or so. Her solicitor is going be arriving tomorrow and I am not talking to him until I have a solicitor with me. Brian is working on it."

"Then what will happen?"

"I'll explain that I have no intention of paying anything, they will produce whatever evidence they have, and then . . . I suppose it goes to court if I still refuse to pay."

"Won't she threaten to go to the press before trying the courts? She must know you don't want publicity like that."

He thought about it for a moment. "No, if she were going to do that, she would have contacted me before she hired a lawyer. Not that solicitors are above that sort of thing. But apparently the solicitor has already filed court papers -- If he was going that route, he wouldn't have done that yet. No, I think she wants to take it to court."

It sounded bad to me. "Paul, why do you think this woman isn't bothering with the publicity angle? I mean, she is spending a lot of money on legal fees. Threatening to go to the press would be cheaper if all she wants is money . . ."

He looked at me and knew right away where I was heading with that line of reasoning. "You think she really believes I am the father and thinks she can prove it?"

"I can't help but think that if she just wanted some money she would be satisfied with what you would pay to shut her up. She wants more than that. Full support for the child until she turns eighteen or . . ."

"Or what?"

"Or maybe she just wants you to acknowledge the child as yours. Maybe that is as important as the money."

"Oh, bloody fucking hell," he sighed. When Paul started talking like John, I knew he was upset. "Maybe that is it. She certainly isn't doing this like the other dolly's have tried. A bloody nut case."

I didn't say anything. She could be some weirdo who just wanted her name linked with Paul's. But I wasn't sure she was crazy. Maybe she did have good reason to believe it was Paul's baby. And if she did, she would do what any mother would do. Fight for her child to have what was rightfully hers.

But Paul was through talking about it. He changed the subject and kept it changed until it was time for him to meet with Brian. I didn't think he would want me with him, but he did. "This is all none of my business, really," I said when he asked me to go along. "It all happened before I ever met you."

"I want you to come. Whatever happens is going to affect you, too. If I get stuck paying support until the child grows up. If the press get wind of this. Lord, if your parents learn of it!"

I was relieved to find there were no gatebirds hanging around outside the house or the offices. At least they didn't hate me enough to warrant playing truant from school to glare at me. Brian looked a little startled when I walked into his office with Paul, but, always a gentleman, he took the time to greet me, tell me it was nice to see me again. "This shouldn't take long. Perhaps you would like to wait in Paul's office. Wendy will bring you --"

"She stays, Brian," Paul said softly. Their eyes met and Brian knew there was no point in arguing. I wondered if that would work as well with the gatebirds. Probably not. The lawyer arrived. Entwhistle was a old, paunchy, jowly man with lower lids that drooped so badly they almost turned inside out. The pinkness exposed accentuated the icy blueness of his eyes. But one look in those eyes and you forgot any notion that this was a laughable old codger. Introductions were made. He looked at me disapprovingly. I wasn't sure if it was because he wondered what I was doing there or just because I was American. Or maybe he was a gatebird at heart.

The first order of business was to show him the letter from the German law firm.

"Well, that is quite to the point," he said in a Winston Churchill voice. His rheumy old eyes focused on Paul. "Is it your child?" he asked bluntly.

"No. I don't think so."

"Please explain."

Paul gave him the same information he had given me.

"So you cannot be sure," Mr. Entwhistle, Esq. summarized brusquely.

"No, but -" Paul started to protest. The lawyer held his hand up.

"Young man, a few legal truths here. The young woman has the upper hand in these situations. She decides whether we settle out of court. If it goes to court, she will probably win. The magistrates tend to favor erring in behalf of a child. And your stature as an idol of the youth of Britain will work against you here. They will recognize the likelihood that you did indeed have relations with many young women and reason that even if this child isn't yours, it could well have been. And . . . they know you can afford it."

"That is ridiculous!" Paul was furious. "She has to prove it. That is what the bloody courts are for!"

"Be that as it may, she doesn't have to prove it. Indeed, she cannot. Unless, perchance the child bears a striking resemblance to you and even that . . . But, more to the point, all she can prove is that the child could be yours. Unfortunately for our side, that may be all that is necessary."

"But Paul may be able to prove that the child can't be his," I said, not liking his assumption that Paul would lose. "Can't we insist on blood tests?"

Mr. Entwhistle's eyes were on me. Evaluating me as much as what I had said. Not approving but at least listening. "Indeed miss. That is a course of action we will most certainly pursue. It presents a degree of risk however. If the tests show Mr. McCartney could not be the father, the case is closed. But they may show he could be. In which case we have just handed the case over to them."

"Wait a moment. Do you mean blood tests cannot prove who the father is?" Brian asked.

"A match only proves the man could be the father, not that he is."

"But they can prove I am not?" Paul persisted.

"Yes."

"Then we do the blood tests. It is the only way to prove anything."

"The easiest way perhaps. Have you ever been tested to see if you are indeed capable of fathering a child?"

Paul looked stunned, then embarrassed. "No."

"Well, we shall save that little medical humiliation for use only if the blood tests do not rule you out. A bit of a long shot at any rate, and many men would prefer paying up rather than have it known they are infertile."

Paul nodded. Which part of all that he was agreeing to was unclear.

"Now then," Entwhistle went on. "You wish to proceed with the blood tests even though they may prove you could have fathered the child?" Entwhistle asked, watching Paul closely.

"Yes. I wouldn't be any worse off really. Not if it is all in her favor anyway."

"Precisely." Entwhistle said. "Should the test results show you may be the father, we will then begin negotiations. They will undoubtedly suggest an out of court settlement. If we can negotiate a reasonable amount, I strongly advise you to agree to it."

"I'm not paying her off! Christ, they would be lined up round the block if word got out! And it isn't my kid!"

"As I stated, whether or not it is yours may be impossible to prove, in which case it becomes an unimportant detail. As to the prospect of others following suit, I believe that a stipulation made in the settlement regarding forfeiture should they discuss the case with the press will dissuade them from telling tales. The purpose of negotiation would be precisely that. To keep the press from learning of it as they most assuredly will if it goes to court."

Brian debated with Entwhistle whether that would keep it out of the press. It would not be a big court case, just a hearing in front of a magistrate. But Paul's name would be on the court roster and the press watched those postings eagerly. Even though they would not be admitted to the hearing, things like this had a way of leaking out regardless. And then there was discussion of how far the press would take it. Would this be the point at which the affection the press had had for the Fab Four would be thrown over in favor of a juicy news story? That discussion went on for a bit until Paul interrupted.

"Look, it doesn't matter. I am not buying her off. We do the blood tests. If that doesn't end it, she can go to court. Any out of court settlement will look like I am admitting the kid is mine. And I want the world to know I am not going to sit back and be a target for every money digging schemer out there. I would be up to my neck in suits. Every young bloke who makes it big would."

Entwhistle pondered a moment. "Yes, that could be used in your favor. Stress the importance of having strong evidence in cases such as this since a settlement would be a red flag to other opportunists. But, consider this carefully: Are you truly prepared for all the events of your goings on while you were in Hamburg to be made public knowledge?" Entwhistle's tone was not argumentative but simply questioning and even sympathetic.

Paul stared at him, and I am sure that visions of prostitutes, easy girls, strip clubs, buckets of beer and little blue pills were passing before his eyes. Caught between indignation at being used and knowing that what went on in Hamburg was not exactly going to be good for their image. Paul glanced at Brian who looked very dismayed.

"Well, Brian," Paul said. "We've never really tried to cover up the things that went on back then. You cleaned us up and got back a few photos. The press knows what went on -- they know what Hamburg is like. They have talked to everyone over there about us. They have got the stories but they have never used them. Hopefully they won't drag them up now but if they do . . . well, we have never tried to pretend we were saints. We drank and screwed around and popped a few pills. Those stories might have hurt us bad at first, but now that is all just colorful Beatle legend."

That made perfect sense to me. There were a lots of stories published about how the Beatles had lived in miserable accommodations while playing a grueling schedule at the clubs and they all hinted at other goings-on. There were stories of strippers and drinking, but it was all, as Paul said, Beatle legend. Reporters had elected to emphasize how Hamburg had matured them musically, not sexually but the fans read between the lines.

Paul looked at me. "I think you need to discuss it with the others before you decide, Paul." I said in answer to the question in his eyes. "It wasn't just you in Hamburg and it won't be just you they write about if they do decide to . . . bash you."

He sighed and muttered, "Bloody fuckin' hell." I had heard more cursing from him in the last few hours than in all the time I had known him. "They are going to love this."

"Actually, I think they will back you. They are tired of pretending to be lovable lads. I don't think they would care if the world knew what they are really like. In fact, I think they would prefer it."

A glint of humor surfaced in Paul's eyes. "You don't think we are sweet, loveable moptops?"

"I think you are sweet and loveable, but I know damn well you are not innocent boys."

He laughed and squeezed my hand. Then softly, "What about you, Tess? How are you going to feel if the press gets hold of this?"

"Miserable just like you will. But you are right. You can't just pay her off. You have to try and find out if the child is yours. If you can't prove she isn't with the blood test, I think you need to hire someone to investigate this woman. I don't think you can keep this quiet if it comes to that, but you can't let her blackmail you. There would be no end to it."

Paul nodded and, turning back to Brian and Entwhistle, he said, "Arrange the meeting with them for tomorrow. I'll talk to the others today and find out how they feel about my fighting it in court. And regardless, I want the blood tests done as soon as you can arrange it."

"I shall arrange for someone to do yours tomorrow," Entwhistle rumbled. "How quickly we can get the woman and her child to submit for testing will tell us how strong a case they think they have. If they agree immediately the woman must feel fairly certain of a match. On the other hand, if they force us to get a court order, it would tend to make one believe they are using the threat of publicity for an out of court settlement."

"Which they won't get," Paul said firmly.

Paul and I spent a couple of hours shopping - more clothes! Then headed home. He disappeared upstairs to call the other Beatles and fill them in on the latest public relations disaster while I fixed us something to eat. When he came down and said, "Well, that's everybody. John says it is nice to see me in the hot seat for a change."

I was disappointed - I had hoped for a chance to talk to John too but hesitated to say so. Paul and I had never talked about what kind of relationship I would have with John in the future. But the tension was there. Whenever any of my friends had mentioned something that had happened the times John had visited us, I had been aware of Paul's eyes on me. Once when we were alone, I had something to Paul about how beautiful the Pacific Coast highway in California was. "I should send some of the pictures I took that day to John. He didn't have his camera," I had said. Paul had gotten up and walked out of the room without saying a word. When he came back a minute later, he hadn't seemed angry or upset, but that was the last time I talked about my trip to California. And during one of our transatlantic phone calls, I had mentioned that John had called me a couple of days before. There was a perceptible pause before Paul responded.

"Oh. Does he keep in touch then?" he had asked casually.

Even though there was no warning note in his voice, some little alarm had buzzed in my head. John didn't call nearly as often as he had when he was in California, but he did call every month or so. "I've talked to him a couple of times," I had said and changed the subject.

Now here I was in the same city with John and unsure if I dared to call him, much less ask to see him.

Paul went on about the paternity suit mess. "Yeah. He's got no problem with me fighting it. I thought if anyone might, it would be him. Because of Cyn. I don't know how much she knew of what went on . . . But he said he would fight this too, if it were him. He says to give you a big kiss from him. I told him to bugger off."

I managed a laugh. "I would have liked to talk to him," I said, trying to say it lightly.

"You'll see him tomorrow night. Maureen wants us to come over for a bit. Everyone will be there. They all want to see you. We can wait and head up to Liverpool on Wednesday."

"Oh, that will be great!" I wasn't as enthusiastic as I sounded though. I wanted to see John but really wasn't sure I could face them all. I was still smarting over the fact that they had all believed I had sampled both John and Paul and went with the one that was willing to come to the States. Seeing Cyn again was going to be uncomfortable, and seeing John again with all of them watching -- oh boy. That was going to be a tense time. Paul would be watching and short of cutting John cold, he wasn't going to be pleased with anything I said or did.

Except for the time he was on the telephone, Paul didn't talk about the paternity situation at all. He was perhaps a little quieter than usual, but he wanted to go out for the evening. I didn't. I really, really didn't want to make my debut in Soho or wherever the hip people hung out. If the gatebirds were any barometer of the reception I was going to get, I wanted to stay home. But that would just delay the inevitable. I smiled at Paul and said "What should I wear?"

"That's my girl," he said with an understanding smile.

One more trip through the gauntlet of stony faced gatebirds, thankfully thinner than it had been on the weekend. We went to a restaurant where everyone stared at us. At me. And whispered commentary to each other. "Don't mind them," Paul said softly as we were seated. "You look great and I love you. It is as simple as that." I relaxed and managed to enjoy dinner.

It was an expensive, classy restaurant, so I didn't think I needed to heed Patti's warning about going to the restroom alone. No one said anything to me as I entered. I passed through the outer lounge area, very much aware of the stares of two of the younger women there. I went in, used the bathroom, and stopped to touch up my hair and lipstick on the way out. There were several more young women in the lounge and their stares were openly rude. As I put my lipstick back in my purse, one of them said loudly, "Unbelievable. I thought he had good taste." The others tittered and I felt my face grow hot.

I could take it from the gatebirds. They were just kids heartbroken over seeing their Paul with someone new. But these were supposedly adults and they were being just plain nasty. I turned to face them and forced a smile. "He does. That is why he's not with any of you," and walked out with as much flare as I could manage.

We went from there to a club. As awful as it was to be on trial for the crime of dating Paul by the gatebirds, the crowd of Paul's contemporaries was worse. The gatebirds would have hated anyone, but these people were more discriminating. A blur of faces peered at me as if I were an object in a specimen container to be scrutinized, evaluated, judged. They were less emotional than the gatebirds but I had found out in the resturaunt ladies room they were capable of incredible cattiness. I clung to Paul's hand, fearing that if he stepped away I would be torn to shreds. We moved through the crowd, and gradually I relaxed. Everyone was polite. Curious, speculative, but apparently witholding judgement on my suitability -- at least until Paul was out of ear shot. Just when I thought the incident in the bathroom was just a fluke, not indicative of the reception I was going to get in London, a woman approached me with a wicked smile on her face. My heart sank. She had a look of tough self confidence and the way people in the crowded club deferred to her as she moved toward me added to the image. Paul was trying to talk over the din to someone on the other side of him. He had his back turned slightly to me and I couldn't get his attention. She sailed up to me. "Well, hello," she said in one of those throaty purrs men find so sexy. "I was hoping to meet the slayer of the bathroom bitches, and here you are!"

"Hello," I said falling back on the scintillating conversation that was my trademark and squeezing Paul's hand as hard as I could in a plea for help.

"Hello, Daphne," I heard Paul say as he came to my rescue.

She looked up at him smiling that wicked smile now laced heavily with a provocative come hither look. "Why Paul, Darling. It is so good to see you again." She moved in to kiss him, and I swear she managed to slip him some tongue. He peeled her off. She was laughing at him and he looked a little flustered.

"Wonderful to see you, Daphne. Now what was that you were saying?"

"Just congratulating Tess. I heard the story of the showdown in the Ladies room at Eldora's."

Now he looked puzzled and turned to me for explanation.

"Just some unpleasant fans who were old enough to have better manners," I told him.

"Paul, your little American sweetheart put them in their place good and proper. I think she will do just fine. And such a lovely name. Tess. Where have I heard that name before?"

"Daphne--" Paul said with a note of warning in his voice.

"Don't worry, luv," she said laughing openly at him. Then she dropped all the pretense and haughty attitude and turned to me. "I am really glad to meet you and hope you enjoy your visit here. Don't let the nasties get to you. They are just jealous." Then she excused herself to catch up with her date. Her tone had been sincere and warm and I felt really good about the encounter. Even if I did have a pretty good idea that she had heard the name Tess from Paul himself one night last fall.

After she was out of earshot, I said to Paul, "She is lovely. And very nice. But she really shouldn't hang out with drunken musicians."

He started laughing and I knew I was right. The rest of the evening was fun. I had feared that I would be left sitting silent and uncomfortable (plain little country mouse) while Paul turned into a rock star and musician, discussing the music scene with other insiders. But he introduced me to everyone and although they talked about who was recording, who was climbing the charts, who was playing where, there was no insider snobbery, just enthusiasm. Most of them treated Paul with a bit of awe and that was funny to watch. But the best part was that Paul was still Paul and still holding my hand and more interested in talking to me than to them.

I curled up next to Paul in bed that night, but even though it was late and I was tired, I had trouble falling asleep. I was thinking about the events of the day and especially about Paul's reaction the one time I had brought up the subject of the paternity suit. I had asked him what he would do if the blood tests didn't rule him out as the father. I guess I was wondering if he would ask to see pictures of the little girl. But his answer was an abrupt and final "It isn't mine" and a change of subject. But now I could feel him lying awake beside me. The fact that he couldn't sleep was somehow reassuring. He wasn't as blind to the possibility that he had a daughter or as immune to any feelings about that as he gave out. I slipped my arm under his neck and pulled his head down onto my shoulder. He snuggled down, legs tangled in mine, hand sliding up under my nightgown and lay quietly in my arms.

"So what will you do if it really is your child?" I asked softly.

He sighed. "The lawyers will set up some kind of payments and the bank will take care of it."

"That's what the lawyers and bankers will do," I said. "I asked what you will do."

He didn't pull away from me, didn't tense up, but he didn't answer either. I decided to let it go, I kissed the top of his head and whispered, "I love you."

He sighed and answered then. "Tess, I can't even bear to think she might be mine . . . Four years old! What the hell was that woman waiting for?"

I had been wondering the same thing, and had a couple of theories. "Well, even if she really is yours, there wasn't much point in her contacting you at the time. A scruffy, broke kid in a rock and roll group from another country."

He laughed a little. "Not exactly likely to be a lot of help to a girl in trouble."

"Right. She probably thought that even if you didn't laugh in her face, you would disappear back into Liverpool and she would never hear from you again. Even if she had the money to track you down, you didn't have any money for support payments anyway."

"I'd have helped. Done what I could . . . I think," he sighed. "I guess I don't really know what I would have done. John married Cyn. He didn't want to, but he felt he had to. But he did love her. This would have been so different . . . So, you think she waited until she heard about us on the news? Until she knew I had money? But that would have been a couple of years ago. Why wait? We might have been just the flash in the pan everyone predicted and she would have missed out."

"If she was doing all right on her own, it may have taken a while for her to realize she should do this for the child's benefit. Who knows - she may have gotten married and her husband might not have known it wasn't his child. Or it just took her a long time to get up the nerve to do this."

"Or she knows damn well it isn't mine, but just realized it is a golden opportunity."

"Yes, it could be as simple as that. Or . . ." I hesitated, unsure if I wanted to present the theory that seemed most logical to me.

"Or what?"

"You won't like this one."

"I don't like any of this. Go ahead."

"Or she wasn't sure herself. She waited to see if the baby looked like you as she got older."

He froze as the logic of that, the likelihood, hit him, then he groaned and buried his face in my neck. "God, Tess." When he spoke again, his voice was husky. "What the hell can I do if she is mine? I can't just ignore her but I can't be her father, either. She won't even speak English. I couldn't even talk to her. I could visit her from time to time, see that she has everything she needs, but . . . that isn't being a father to her."

"But it would let her know you do care. And maybe when she is older . . ."

"She wouldn't hate me?" His laugh was a bitter. "She would tolerate me the way John tolerates Alf Lennon? End up as screwed up as John?"

"No, not like that! John's dad flat out abandoned him. And his mom . . . she did too in a way, leaving him with Mimi. But when she is older she will understand that you couldn't be there with her. That you did the best you could. Maybe she could spend time here with you when she is a little older."

Another sigh. "Yeah, I guess that is better than nothing. But I just don't want my child raised by someone else. All the little things . . ."

In those days, a father getting custody was all but unheard of. In this situation, the only way Paul would get his daughter would be if the mother sold her to him. It would be politely called a settlement, but in effect, it would be a sale of a child. I couldn't imagine any mother doing that, and I didn't want to mention it. But if it appeared during the upcoming legal bargaining that the woman was more interested in money than mothering, maybe . . .

Paul brought me back to the present when he said, "You seem to think there is a good chance I am the father."

"No! I didn't mean to imply that. At least I wouldn't say a "good" chance. But, well . . . I guess I just think it would be pretty remarkable if their weren't at least a few Beatle babies around the world. I've gotten the impression you guys were rather . . . umm . . . free with your favors while on tour."

He chuckled at that. "Yes, well . . . ahem. We did our best to please the fans. But after that first trip to Hamburg, we all learned a thing or two."

"What do you mean?"

"We all came home with "social diseases." And we probably didn't get them from the renowned ladies of the Reiperbaum. Prostitution is legal but the girls have to carry cards verifying the date of their last check-up. Their "ticket to ride," you might say."

I gasped as I realized the possible inspiration for the song. Paul just laughed and ignored the light bulb flashing on over my head. "So we took our penicillin and learned to use rubbers. Not for the girls sake, but for ours. As you once explained to me, they aren't foolproof, but that's another reason I don't think the child is mine."

"She probably isn't and I didn't mean to sound like I doubted you. It's just how I deal with trouble. I have to think through the whole mess, consider what is the worst thing that could happen, and decide how I would handle it. Once I do that, then I can let it go a little. Quit worrying constantly and just worry a lot."

"And if the worst thing happens, do you think you could handle it? Not just the publicity stuff, but dealing with a child who isn't yours?"

"Yes." Young and foolish and with no idea how complicated it can be to deal with another woman and a child who have prior claim on the man you love, I answered confidently. Paul was satisfied.

"I love you," he whispered and soon was snoring softly on my chest.