Into My Life

Chapter 31

Reporters awaited me in New York as I changed planes. A mob of them - a very pushy, demanding mob of them. Feeling defenseless, I tried to answer their questions but they were in a feeding frenzy, pushing one another eagerness. I didn't have a whole lot of time to catch my next flight and had to change airlines. Knowing the gate for that flight could be a long hike away, I kept excusing myself and trying to leave, only to be stopped by reporters in the next tier of the circle that surrounded me. I made a little headway just by continuing to walk as I answered, but I couldn't see past them to look for the signs indicating the direction to my next gate. I wished that Paul or Alistair or Brian or anyone were with me to help me deal with them. Alistair's arranged press reception and his and Paul's "briefing" on how to talk to them had certainly helped me feel more comfortable with the press but none of us had anticipated this kind of problem.

"Please, I have to catch my plane," I told them. They didn't listen - or if they did and backed off, they were quickly replaced by others. I was starting to panic. As it was, it was going to be evening before I got home and tough enough to fight jet lag to be up and off to classes bright and early in the morning. Missing a flight could mean hours of delay and getting home at midnight.

In desperation I grabbed a big burly guy literally by the lapel of his coat. "Listen, I gotta catch my next plane. Get security and get me to the gate and any time I have left before the plane leaves is yours for an exclusive interview."

He lost no time in pulling me through the crowd to a nearby loading gate where he told the boarding personnel to get security "Immediately!"

We were ferried to my gate and the reporter got about 5 minutes of interview for his efforts. Luckily he was neither prepared for an exclusive interview nor particularly good at his job because he came up with little more than the standard questions for me before I was told I could board early.

Chicago was similar but less intense and this time I was prepared. I stayed on the plane until security arrived, gave the reporters a few minutes of smiley poses and standard responses, then holed up in the bathroom until I could board the next plane. Minneapolis and the couple of waiting reporters was small potatoes after all that.

"How did he propose? Was it romantic?" was what Sandy wanted to know the minute we were in the car. I told them about the afternoon at the Cavern and Sandy's eyes filled with tears. At last, something romantic enough to exceed her high expectations!

The fans waiting outside the apartment asked the same questions as their British counterparts, but were a little easier to handle. Fewer of them were crying and none of them seemed really angry with me. As one girl said "If it weren't for Tess, Paul would have never come here and I would never have met him. I don't want him to get married, but it is cool that she is from here."

I called my parents to let them know I was safely home and then fell into bed and tossed and turned until it was too late for a good night's sleep anyway. In the morning, my classmates were eagerly waiting for me to repeat the whole story and by I evening I was stupefied from jet lag and overexposure to fame. I stumbled through the week, trying to get back to some semblance of normal life and normal sleep patterns.

Paul called early in the week to tell me had seen the results of the photo session and that I would be happy with them. "You look wonderful," he said but couldn't resist teasing "Especially the that last one with your nightie pulled up!" He had arranged to have copies of all the pictures sent to me but said he and the photographer and Alistair had already selected those to be given out to reporters - there wasn't time to get my input on that.

Having already seen some yucky shots of myself in the British newspapers along with the story of our engagement, I knew whatever they selected would be an improvement. Overall though, I was relieved at how good most of the photos had been. One or two with my mouth open in mid-reply to reporters, one with my hair blowing across my face as we left the resturaunt, but some nice ones of Paul and I just looking happy. The picture destined to make big news and possibly set some wheels in motion was none of those however.

Late the next afternoon, I was returning home from the laundromat with Sandy. As we got out of the car, juggling laundry baskets and Tide, a small group of fans was waiting. "Would you autograph this for me, Tess?" one of the asked and held out a magazine to me. It was the new issue of Look magazine, just out that day. "Here, sign right next to your picture," she said as she opened the magazine to their photo of the week.

I took it from her, surprised that a magazine, even a weekly had already been able to run anything about the engagement of Beatle Paul.

Well, there we were, Paul and I, but it wasn't taken during my trip to England and wasn't run because of our engagement. It only took a second for me to place the photo as having been taken at the airport in Minneapolis on Paul's arrival there in March. There I was in my white go-go boots, fishnet hose and red crocheted fringed vest. In Paul's embrace and caught in the middle of a kiss. Not a sweet little smooch but a hungry, arms around his neck, bodies plastered together, his hand verging on grabbing my ass kind of a kiss. Not squeezing but definitely located well beyond my hip. It was startling to see - I hadn't realized where his hand was. Too used to it or too glad to see him or too lost in that kiss, I guess.

I wouldn't have been surprised to see the accompanying text discussing our lack of decorum, so "shocking and ill-considered from people who have so much influence on today's youth." But it wasn't about that at all. This photographer had stepped back far enough to end up with the two of us framed by other photographers snapping away. The editors chuckled over Paul who "in the past has squired many a young lady about and "cognizant of the ever-present press" kept his hands to himself and left photographers quite frustrated that they never caught more than an arm about the lady or a bit of hand holding. "And now it appears the last remaining bachelor Beatle has fallen "head over heels." Unfortunately, the international nature of this romance has the young lovers meeting amid throngs of fans and photographers. No privacy for these young lovers. We would refrain from publishing this photo, but the photographer has captured so well what it means to be in the public eye that the shot deserves a place in photojournalism, not some teen magazine."

I stifled the "Oh my God!" that sprang to my lips, signed for the fan, and escaped upstairs. Sandy, of course, had loved the picture and described it to Brenda in terms that made it sound like a Hallmark Valentine's Day card complete with cupids shooting arrows. Her only complaint was that we had been "squashed so tight you really couldn't see their faces."

"Nobody is going to be looking at our faces," I fretted. "His hand was on my butt, for crying out loud! My parents are going to be so embarrassed! And Paul . . . he isn't going to like it either. He never does stuff like that in public! He even asked them to stop taking pictures so he could kiss me that day!"

Brenda had to rush out and buy a copy of Look to see it for herself. "Oh, yeah," she said as we all gazed upon it later. "That's not Paul's usual public kiss. But it is a cool photo. Look at the balance and framing, and yet so obviously spontaneous."

"Photo Monthly and Mike McCartney will love it, and Paul might even appreciate the art but he isn't going to like that invasion of privacy!"

"Well, at least it is a good magazine and they are sympathetic," Sandy said.

"Maybe it will win some photojournalism award," Brenda mused, looking at it again at arms length as if seeing it on a wall in a gallery. "Like that picture of the sailor kissing a girl when WWII ended."

"I don't think he had his hand on her ass," I sighed.

I called Paul that night hoping to break the news to him but he had already heard about the picture. I could tell he was irritated, but since there was nothing to be done about it, he shrugged it off. The next night he called back.

"The magazine hit the shelves here today," he reported. "I took one look and called Alistair and told him to track down that reporter."

"What are you going to do?" I asked in alarm.

"Ask him for a copy of the original, have it blown up and framed and hang it in our bedroom," he said. "I love it. I love you and I love the picture."

The weekend finally arrived, and exhausted and craving sleep, I escaped to Mom and Dads. As I expected, Mom and Dad had seen the picture, gotten comments on it from everyone they knew, but coming to them as it had after the announcement of our engagement, they were not as horrified as I had expected. As for the engagement itself, well, that was no surprise since they had known since Christmas what Paul's intentions were. They still had mixed feelings about the whole business, but Paul's phone call letting them know he planned to propose and apologizing for not waiting longer seemed to have hit the right note with them. They moved from resistance to mere foot dragging. Mom was especially conflicted over our plans. She was relieved I wasn't rushing into marriage, but, still, the idea of me moving to England with Paul but without marrying him was upsetting. In her eyes, marrying him was still a risky, far out thing to do but still more acceptable than living with him. I talked about the apartment I would be living in, how close it was to several hospitals, and generally tried to defuse that issue by talking about a wedding.

Mom was disappointed when I explained that a "real" wedding would be impossible. Church and invitations and caterers and bridesmaids were out unless we wanted a nightmare of security guards, screaming fans, and invasive reporters. Mom and Dad agreed that they just couldn't deal with all that, much less afford the lavish spread that would be expected. So, I went over the idea that Paul and I had.

"We want to get married quickly, quietly, and with as little fuss as possible in a legal ceremony in London." Mom looked horrified, but I held up a hand to stall off the impending fit about it not being a Catholic wedding. "The media will be tipped off at the last minute, given an opportunity for photos, a few words from the happy couple, and that will be it. As far as they know, the McCartney wedding will be history. Fans will cry and get over it, and reporters will stop lurking around afraid of missing the clue that a wedding is imminent. Then a few weeks later, after all the hysteria dies down, you will all fly over and we will have a private ceremony at a church in Liverpool followed by a reception at Paul's father's house. Close to a real wedding, Mom! I can have flowers and a bridesmaid or two, and a priest. And if you don't think it would be too . . . strange, I'd love to have a real bridal gown."

After shocking her Catholic sensibilities by saying we would be married in a civil ceremony she was so relieved to hear that we planned a Catholic ceremony that she probably would have agreed to a wedding in Madagascar. And of course I would have a wedding gown. After all, the civil ceremony was no more than a red herring for the press. It wouldn't count.

I thought I was home free, but she fussed about how she was going to plan a wedding so far away. After all, the bride's family was responsible for the wedding and all the expenses. I said I would do the planning. We would pick out a dress when I came home in July for State Board exams and have it shipped to London and have the fitting done there. Mom could handle the bridesmaids dresses from here. Mom and Dad could give me whatever they felt was a reasonable amount of money to spend for the reception. Paul would pay for flowers, Dezo Hoffman would do the photos if allowed to publish a few. There would be no invitations to send out, and Paul was insisting on paying for the plane tickets and hotel bills for them, my sisters, and Greg's family.

Just when I thought we had it all taken care of, she wanted to know about an engagement announcement for the local newspaper. It hardly seemed necessary after Dave Moore, Tiger Beat, and Newsweek, but "This is the way it is done," said Mom. So we wrote the traditional engagement notice.

"Mr. and Mrs. Carl Martin of Northland announce the engagement of their daughter Theresa Marie to James Paul McCartney of London, England. Mr. McCartney is the son of Mr. James McCartney of Heswall, Cheshire, England. Miss Martin is a student at St.Vincent's Hospital School of Nursing in Minneapolis and will graduate in June as a registered nurse. Mr. McCartney is . . ."

This required a bit of thought. Neither of us wanted it to say "a Beatle." She because she was embarrassed enough by that fact, me because it made it sound like he didn't work for a living. We agreed to say "musician" but she refused to allow the words "rock n roll" to be used. We ended up with the dignified "Mr. McCartney is a musician in the field of popular music. No wedding date has been set."

I called Paul before I would let Mom send it to the paper, unsure of how he would react. He just laughed. "That's me. A musician. I like that. But leave off the "popular music" bit. John always says I am more Cliff Richard than Little Richard and I hate that!"

Things settled down a bit but still it seemed there was no time to just sit back and enjoy being engaged to Paul. There was a constant background of cameras and reporters and even autograph seekers - a never ending source of surprise to me that anyone would want my signature. School work was heavy with the final countdown to graduation beginning. Eight weeks with the last week being final exams and rehearsals for the graduation ceremonies. Paul would be coming over in about four weeks, depending on the wrap up of Sgt. Pepper, and he would stay until after graduation. I started hunting for an apartment for him, but the choices for rental without at least a six month lease were limited to some sleazy little kitchenettes behind sleazy little hotels or apartment complexes way out in the suburbs. When I told him that, he said to go ahead and find something with a year's lease - he could sub-let after we left for England. "Sub-let" was another word landlords didn't like to hear, so that narrowed the possibilities down. All in all it took weeks before I had found a couple of possibilities for him. He said he would send someone, possibly Mal, ahead the next week to set up security and a driver for him, take care of the lease on the apartment, and set up an arrangement with a bank for transfer of money. I was relieved not to have to deal with the international finances!

Before that could happen however, a secretary from the Dean of Nursing's office interrupted class one day to inform me that I was to report to the dean's office after classes. That had the whole class buzzing. A summons to Sister Ignatius's office was not common. Brenda turned around to look at me and I could see the concern on her face. The only thing I could come up with was the possibility that my nemesis, Mrs. Berghoff, had decided to make trouble after all. My grade average was a high B and it was only weeks until the end of classes so she couldn't flunk me even if I did poorly on the two remaining tests. If she wanted to make an issue of my clinical performance, I still had my notebook, but I had a feeling that this was something different. She had pretty much quit riding me in clinical, choosing to pointedly ignore me. That had changed right after Paul's visit to Debbie and I suspected it was because she had realized then that it was not only the students but also the hospital staff who were on my side in our little war. Anyway, it seemed strange that she would bring up issues from the first part of the semester now. Maybe it was something totally different. I was on the planning committee for the graduation ceremonies, now just five weeks away. It could just be something related to that. They wanted Paul to speak or sing or write a class song or something.

After class I hurried to the dean's office. I was shown in immediately and found her and a man in a suit waiting for me. The Sister Ignatius introduced him as Mr. Richards, the Vice President of the Hospital. They both looked grim and my first thought was that somehow I had killed a patient.

"Miss Martin," the dean began, "It has come to our attention that there may be things going on in your personal life which are not consistent with the image of a St. Vincent's nurse."

Well, that was better than killing someone, but I felt the sweat prickling under my arms anyway. She went on in a non-threatening but firm tone, " We do not make a habit of prying into our students personal affairs, but when those affairs become public knowledge, it reflects badly on St.Vincents. As you were informed when you were accepted at St.Vincent's, you can be dismissed for immoral behavior."

She stopped, giving me an opportunity to respond, but I simply sat there, unsure of what she was talking about and afraid to say anything for fear of telling them something they didn't know. Just which rumors had she heard? The one about the orgy at our apartment on New Year's Eve, the one about the drug bust the cops made at the Halloween party, or was it something that held a lot more truth than that? If so, it had to be Paul - no one knew the real truth about John and me. I knew there was plenty of talk about his visiting me, and lots of speculation about why he had left Cyn, but with Paul and me now engaged and John and Cyn back together, those rumors were dying out. And no one knew about California. At least I didn't think so. As far as what went on between Paul and me . . . No one outside of Brenda, Sandy, and Mark knew for certain that we were sleeping together, but everyone knew that he stayed with us while he was here. And that I had gone to England with him, unchaperoned. The fact that there was talk was certainly not surprising.

The silence hung on, and I let it hang. The only other time I had ever talked to the dean was when she questioned me about my dropping grades. In spite of her stern expression, she had seemed very concerned and wanted to help if possible. I was pretty sure that she would at least listen to whatever I had to say, but I didn't dare answer until I knew exactly what the charges were. She finally went on.

"As I said, we do not monitor our students. Dating someone is certainly not grounds for dismissal. But because you are dating a . . . celebrity, there is a lot of talk." She hesitated again, and I waited, relieved that this was only about Paul. She looked at the man from administration, handing the gauntlet to him.

"I understand that you spent your break in England with your friend. Is that true?" he said in a peevish voice that irritated me. That and the fact that I couldn't ignore a direct question finally got me talking.

"Fiancé," I corrected firmly and let the distinction between boyfriend and husband-to-be sink in for a moment. "Yes, I did. He wanted me to meet his family."

"Yes, well . . ." He looked and sounded irritated that I had turned his scandalous escapade into a very traditional and therefore respectable journey. But he pushed on anyway. "Be that as it may, that incident and the fact that you allowed him to cohabit with you for several weeks has left you wide open for speculation that you have . . . ahem . . .have a sexual relationship with him."

"He stayed at the apartment with me and my roommates because he just can't wander around on his own or he gets mobbed. My roommates were there. We weren't alone."

"None the less, there is widespread belief that you are involved in an illicit affair with him.

I couldn't deny it and wouldn't admit it. I sat silently, trying to keep my face expressionless, wishing I could manage an impression of regal, haughty disdain.

"More importantly," he went on, " there is talk of drug use among the Beatles. Associating with known drug users is grounds for dismissal."

There was a note of triumph in his voice. "And . . ." He was practically crowing. "There is also a rumor . . ." I knew what was coming. " . . . of a relationship with one of the others. A married man." There was a roaring sound in my ears. He went on talking and I sat silently, really scared now. They can't possibly know about that, we were careful. Please don't let them know about that!

"Of course we will not take action on the basis of rumors and speculation," the dean started to say, but Mr. Peevish cut her off.

"Your behavior reflects badly on the school. St. Vincent's has a reputation for producing excellent nurses of good moral character. That is a reputation we value highly." His tone was one of indignation that anyone would smudge that sterling image.

The Dean was silent, looking down at her hands as if whatever she had been about to say had just been overruled. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet and resigned and she wouldn't meet my eyes. "I have been Dean here for eight years and in that time several girls have been asked to leave. Most because of poor scholastic performance, a few for pregnancy. In each of those situations, the girls left school quietly as soon as they were informed that dismissal was probable. That made it easier for them to get into other schools later if they so desired. And that is always our recommendation. That the student withdraw before we are forced to officially dismiss her." There was compassion in her voice and that, more than the administrators witch-hunting attitude scared me. She thought I didn't have a chance.

I stammered. "You want me to quit school?"

She looked relieved that I was getting the message clearly. "That would be best in the long run, Miss Martin. You have until Friday to decide. If you do not resign, there will be a hearing on Friday to discuss whether to dismiss you." She hesitated, glancing at the administrator before going on. And this time she looked me right in the eyes. "Terry, I feel I have to tell you that there are several Board Members who are quite concerned. They do not take it lightly when the reputation of St. Vincent's School of Nursing is endangered."

That told me all I needed to know. If it went to a hearing, I would be dismissed. I couldn't deny all of the charges because that would be a lie. But they didn't care about what I had done anyway. All they cared about was what people were saying about me. The truth was unimportant - all that mattered to them was that having me as a student was reflecting badly on the school. My stomach lurched sickeningly and I thought I was going to throw up. I mumbled "Excuse me," and bolted out of the office.

By the time I got to the bathroom, the urge to throw up was gone and I simply crumpled up in the corner crying. The tears were short lived however. As soon as I thought of telling Paul what had happened, I realized that now there was no reason to stay here. I could be in England in a week. I latched onto that thought, using it to stay afloat. As awful as this was, I still had Paul. I picked up the books and notebooks I had dropped on the floor and headed out.

Outside on the steps, Brenda was waiting for me. So were several of my classmates, all curious about why I had been called to see the dean. I looked at them, and suddenly heard Paul's voice saying , "And then there are the ones who want something from you. Try to get inside your life and then turn around and use you." I had always considered my classmates to be friends. They had certainly been a help when I didn't want reporters to find me. But as I looked at their curious stares, heard their whispers when they noted that I had been crying, I realized that I was really close to only a few of them. They were just classmates, acquaintances. Surely they weren't here to find out what had happened so they could go to the press. But . . . it would certainly be a great story to tell friends. "I was there the day they kicked her out of school." I was used to people wanting to get to know me, hang out with me, have me come to their parties simply because of my association with the Beatles, but this felt different. They didn't just want people to know that they knew me, they wanted to know about me. Personal stuff they could impress their friends with. It was a bad feeling, something I didn't want to think, but I knew he was right. I suddenly felt a world apart from them. Alone, isolated. I wanted to be with Paul. "Let's go home, Brenda," I said and started for the parking lot.

As we drove home I gave Brenda a word for word rundown on the meeting. Her silence told me she agreed with my assessment of my chances for staying in school. "I'm sorry, Terry," was all she could say.

As soon as we got home, I went to the phone to call Paul. It was already late evening in England and I didn't want to wait until tomorrow to talk to him. As much as I was dreading telling him, I needed to hear his voice. He would be upset, angry on my behalf, but he would tell me it was all right. And he would be happy that I was going to be with him soon. Just holding on to that thought was what kept me from falling apart. I could tell myself I wasn't giving up and running away, I was running to Paul. If I resigned, I could start school again in the fall in England. It would add a year, maybe more, but I wouldn't have to scrimp and save and work two jobs to do it. I had to laugh a little at the memory of the night in Paul's garden. I should have just accepted his offer to give me whatever I needed to finish school then -- he was going to end up paying for it anyway!

There was no answer to my call, and I tried again several times before Sandy got home. When she heard, our soft-hearted little romantic was furious. She ranted and raved about how unfair it was, they had no right, my personal life was none of their business, they were hanging me without a trial, they couldn't prove anything, and didn't they have any idea of what it was like to be in love??? She volunteered to talk to the dean and lie like crazy and say Paul slept on the couch every night, or that she was the one sleeping with him or whatever lie was necessary.  When she finally ran out of steam, she asked "What are you going to do, Terry?"

"I'm going to quit school and leave for England as soon as I can get packed."

They were both appalled. "You have to at least try and fight it!" Sandy said.

"You can't just walk away -- you are only five weeks from graduating. Five weeks!" Brenda said.

"You have to go to that hearing and tell them they can't do this!"

"Everyone will back you. We could get the students to threaten a protest march or something!"

"You put three years into this. You can't give up your chance to be a nurse. You've worked too hard for it.!"

"That's why I have to withdraw!" I said. "If it goes to a hearing, they are going to throw me out. The dean told me it would be better to resign before it comes to that. If I get kicked out, it will be really hard to ever get accepted into another school. If I just say I had to quit because I couldn't afford it anymore, then I can get into a school in England in a year or so."

Brenda was shaking her head. "That won't work Terry. They'll check your records and find out you were just a month from graduating. Your fees are all paid. They'll know it wasn't a money problem."

"And they'll know who you are," Sandy added. "They'll know it had something to do with Paul."

We went over and over the situation, but I still couldn't see where I had any choice about quitting. Every thing that had been said at the meeting, verbal and non-verbal, told me the administration wanted me out and they held all the cards. It was their school and their decision and that was that.

I thought about calling my parents that evening but realized suddenly that I had no reason to attend classes anymore and no job to go to either. I could go to see my parents the next day and break it to them in person. After calling the school and officially resigning tomorrow afternoon, I would drive down.

Paul finally answered my call. "Hi Paul," I said. "How would you like it if I showed up on your doorstep next week?"

"Tess?"

"How many other girls do you have calling you at midnight?"

"Far too many," he laughed, "But none I'd rather hear from. How are you, love? Missing me desperately, I hope."

"Well, I won't be missing you much longer."

He heard the quaver in my voice. "Tess, what's wrong?"

"They are going to kick me out of school."

"What?!?"

"There are a lot of rumors flying around about me and they seem to believe them. They have a morals clause in the admission policy."

"Morals clause? Just what kind of rumors have they heard?"

"Stuff about drugs and sex."

He was quiet for a second as that sunk in. "Oh, baby. I am sorry. I know how bad you wanted to be a nurse, but . . . Oh, Tess, I am sorry I got you into this."

We talked for a long time, me explaining what had been said and Paul alternately swearing at them and apologizing to me while I insisted it wasn't his fault. "Just tell them that the stories aren't true," he urged me.

"I can't lie to them. I'm a terrible liar. My face gets all red and I stutter. And whether the rumors are true or not isn't the issue. All they really care about is the school's reputation. They don't want people thinking they accept just anybody. Nurses are supposed to be good people."

"You are a good person. I love you and what we have done isn't wrong. It is no one else's business. And that stuff about drugs is crap. You've never so much as touched marijuana. What they are doing is wrong!"

"No, it isn't. Not really. I was told up front that students could be dismissed for immoral conduct. I knew the rules and I broke them. Drugs are illegal and the student handbook does say that associating with lawbreakers is grounds for dismissal. And the morals stuff . . . it isn't just us. They mentioned John."

"They know about that!?!"

"No. Just the same rumors you heard in England were floating around here." I had to choose my words carefully. Brenda and Sandy were in earshot.

He was quiet for a minute. "You are sure they don't know anything? That it is just rumors? If they can't prove anything . . ."

"Paul, they don't have to prove anything. It is their school and they can do what they like. They don't want a student that people are talking about even if every bit of it is false."

We talked a bit longer, discussing how soon I could leave for England. I anticipated flak from my parents, but I was beyond caring about that. I just wanted to put all this behind me.

"If you think it would help, you could tell your parents we are getting married as soon as you get here. If you want to, I mean."

"Do you want to?" I asked, taken off guard by his offer.

He laughed a little and avoided a straight answer. "Well, now you won't have to worry about starting a new job right away. Maybe you could adjust to being married before you go back to school."

"Or maybe I could just forget about school, marry you and live happily ever after."

There was a long silence from Paul before he said softly, "Honey, don't give up on school. I would love to have you at home, just being my wife, having my kids, but . . . I don't want to think that you missed out on being a nurse because of me."

I felt better after talking to Paul. I was really in no hurry to get married - just being in the same country with him for more than a week at a time was going to be wonderful. And I had to admit, being engaged to a Beatle was exciting and I kind of wanted to savor it for a bit longer.  Even so, when the realization hit me that within two weeks I could be his wife, I had to sit down. That thought was exiting, comforting, and a little scary.

That night I crawled into bed and reached for the alarm clock to set it for 6 AM out of habit. That's when it all really hit me. I had no reason to get up in the morning. Three years of living for days when I could sleep in, three years of struggling, all for nothing. By that point, worn out from the day's trauma, I couldn't even envision going back to school in England. I was going to marry Paul. I didn't need to be a nurse to support myself. Being tied to a job was going to be a nuisance anyway. And if today was a sample of what I would be up against just because of Paul, it wasn't worth it. Being married to Paul, having a family, that was more than enough for me. I cried for a long time and finally fell asleep after I got up and got a shirt of Paul's out of the closet to hold onto.

Brenda shook me awake the next morning. Groggy, I looked at the clock. 6:30. I had overslept! I jerked awake only to have my memory lurch back into place and dig its claws in. Yesterday had not been a bad dream. Brenda's voice broke through the fog.

"Terry, Paul's on the phone."

"Tess," he said, "I want you to wait a day or so before you resign. I've been on the phone all morning and think I have got a guy who may be able to help you. He'll be contacting you today and once he has time to go over everything, maybe he'll see a way to handle this."

The incongruity of Paul working to see that I stayed in school instead of going to him didn't hit me at that point. All I was thinking is that it would be so much easier to just give up.

"Tess?"

I swallowed hard to keep the tears out of my voice but I couldn't hide the dismay. "Oh, Paul, that means I have to go to clinical today and class tomorrow." The thought of walking into that building was daunting. Seeing the curious stares, hearing the whispers, knowing even though my classmates might feel bad for me they were also soaking up every minute of this, excited to have been tangentally involved with a Beatle related event. "I don't know if I can face everyone. I can't just pretend nothing is going on. Everyone knows something is up."

"Sag off," he suggested.

That didn't sound as appealing as taking the next plane to London, but I forced myself to consider whether I could do that and still stay in school. I couldn't. "If I am going to try to make them let me stay in school, I can't miss a clinical day -- Mrs. Berghoff would see to it that I couldn't make it up and that would keep me from graduating. And we have tests tomorrow." I groaned. I didn't want to go. Didn't want to prolong this. I just wanted out.

"I thought you would be glad I was going to be with you sooner," I protested.

"Come on, love," he said, sounding hurt. "You know I want nothing more."

"I know. I'm sorry. I know you are just trying to help."

"And kicking myself for it already," he said, trying to joke. "I have trying for months to get you here with me and now I am blowing my big chance!"

"Then let it go," I said. "I just want to get out of here. I want to be there with you. It is better this way anyway --- If I drop out I can get back into another school, but if they kick me out . . . They are at least giving me that chance."

"All they are doing is giving themselves a way to keep their hands clean!" Paul argued. "You quit and they don't have to officially give you the boot. They aren't trying to help you, love, they just want you to make it easy for them. And if we can't force them to let you stay . . . well, there are a lot of nursing schools. Someone will care more about your qualifications than all that crap."

I considered that, my mind just not wanting to even contemplate the uphill battle ahead if I decided to fight them.

When I didn't answer, Paul said softly, "Come on, I got you in this mess, let me try to help. Do it for me, love?"

"Okay," I said weakly. "I'll go to school."

"Just hang in there another day or two. We've got until Friday morning. If he doesn't come up with something, you can resign on Thursday afternoon."

"How am I going to meet with him? I'll be in school all day."

"I'll arrange for him to see you late this afternoon or tonight."

"Who is he?"

"I don't know," he laughed. "But he'll be the best money can buy!"

I sighed, wondering if money could possibly fix this.

 "Love, I'll be there as soon as I can," he said. "I think I can get out of here tomorrow morning."

"You are coming?"

"Of course I am! You wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for me."

"Paul, it isn't your fault --"

"Yeah, well it certainly isn't yours. And I won't let you face it alone. Now get off to school, you are going to be late as it is."

"I love you."

"I love you, too," he said softly. "And Tess . . . I'll marry you whenever you are ready. Crisis or no crisis."

On those words alone, I made it through the day. The look of surprise on Mrs. Berghoff's face when I showed up for clinical told me she knew what was going on, and her obvious displeasure at seeing me indicated she not only knew, but had a hand in it. The other students held their questions until lunch time when she was not around. There was no point in being evasive with them -- if things went the way I thought they would, they would know soon enough that I had been kicked out.

"The administration has been hearing all kinds of rumors about me, and they think that it makes the school look bad, having a person like me for a student. If I don't drop out by then, there will be a hearing on Friday to decide whether to let me finish."

They were gratifyingly appalled. It was interesting that none of them questioned exactly what the rumors were. They knew. They had heard them all.

"They can't believe all that crap about you!" one girl said. "You just aren't that kind of a person!" They all agreed and focused on their belief that I would be a really good nurse and that was all that the school needed to know. They all felt that students should be judged solely on their performance and private lives left out of it. I got the impression that not only had they already sorted out the bald-faced lies from the possible truths, but that some of them felt their private lives wouldn't hold up to close scrutiny either. They were indignant on their own behalf, not just mine. My paranoid suspicions of the afternoon before faded into the background and the rest of the day went much better.

After school, I got a call from a man who introduced himself as "Harold Weinberger of Whitney, Carlisle, and Fromm." Sounded impressive even if I had no idea of who Whitney et al were. He stated that he had been asked to review my "situation," made an appointment to see me that evening and got my address. He said very little on the phone and when I told Brenda and Sandy about it, they were full of speculation.

"He must be a lawyer. Geez, Terry, a lawyer!" This was way back in the days when lawyers were for divorces and murders and fights over big money. People didn't sue over lost jobs or spilled coffee.

I waited tensely for him to show up. Paul called and there was little I could tell him. He was leaving London early in the morning and would arrive here at 5 P.M.

When Harold Weinberger rang the bell, I answered the door to find a short man with a shock of black hair that made a Beatle cut look as tidy as a crew cut. He wore baggy pants, poorly matched shirt and a totally uncoordinated tie that resisted hanging straight no matter how often he tugged at it. And he did so repeatedly as he introduced himself, dispelling any hope that he was a door to door salesman. He didn't look nervous, just intense. His handshake was jerky, almost impatient. If all that weren't enough, he was young, late twenties at best. After dealing with the esteemed Solicitor Entwhistle, Mr. Weinberge looked like a kid just out of school. If this was the best money could buy, I was in big trouble and would probably end up not only out of school, but in jail!

I invited him upstairs and introduced him to my roommates. "Very nice to meet you," he said as he jerked at their hands. Brenda asked the question I wanted to ask but was hesitant to because I just didn't think I could keep the incredulous note out of my voice as I asked it.

"Are you a lawyer, Mr. Weinberger?" Even though I thought she asked it without a hint of implying that he sure didn't look like a lawyer, he seemed to be used to being asked that question in that way. His face lit up in a grin that abruptly turned him into the kind of guy you would accept a date with even if he was shorter than you and not even remotely good looking.

"Harry, please. Yes, I am a lawyer, but not one of the Perry Mason type. I don't do jury trials. In fact, I seldom do court cases. I work behind the scenes, advising clients on how to stay out of court. Sort of "preventive law" if you will."

"Oh," we all said relieved.

"In fact, I don't work for a law firm," he went on. "Whitney, Carlisle, and Fromm are a Public Relations firm. Although we work primarily with businesses, we do have a large clientele of people in the entertainment business in our New York and L.A. offices. We are not agents. We simply apply public relations methods to personal situations. Celebrities are a business in and of themselves in that they market their name. We help them keep that name marketable. We guide them through divorces and other tough situations, try to turn around bad publicity, and so on. It certainly isn't the company's main interest, but we find it a profitable sideline, Miss Martin."

"Terry, please," I said.

He looked puzzled. "I thought your name was Tess."

"It is - sort of." I explained how I had come by the nickname.

"So that is how you met Paul McCartney and got involved in all this!"

"Yes."

"How did you get involved?" Sandy asked him. "Do you know Paul?"

"No, not really. I met him when I met John Lennon, but I doubt either of them remember me. My firm was called in to evaluate the situation that resulted from John's comments about the Beatles being bigger than Christ. The New York office handled it, but since the press conference was held in Chicago, I was involved. So, when Alistair Taylor got a call from Paul requesting help for you, he called New York and they called me and . . . here I am."

While he talked, Harry opened his briefcase, took out a yellow note pad and pen and settled on the couch. Introductions and explanations out of the way, he proceeded to rapid fire questions at me concerning my school records, incidents with Mrs. Berghoff, the precise wording of my meeting with Sister Ignatius and Mr. Richards. He asked to see the school handbook and my notebook on Mrs. Berghoff. He listened to me and skimmed the pages of both books while speed writing notes in a pointy scrawl. When he finished, he opened the briefcase again, replaced the yellow pad and pen and snapped it shut.

"That's it??" I asked in amazement.

"No," he said with that warm smile breaking through the intense scowl he had been wearing. "That is just the end of the note taking. From here on out, nothing goes in writing. We have found that our clients are reluctant to discuss personal matters while someone is taking notes. And we are going to get personal, Miss Martin. First, I need to hear all the rumors going around about you. I suspect your roommates will be more helpful in this than you can be. Celebrities tend to be the last to hear the stories."

Celebrity? Me? Paul was, but me?? A few autograph requests did not a celebrity make. Celebrity by association perhaps, but . . .

Harry brought me back from my wander thoughts upbruptly.

"After that you and I will need to discuss those rumors in private."

I had been worrying all day about whether I should explain about John. I couldn't think how to tell Brenda and Sandy they had to leave the room so I could discuss it, and Harry had just given me a way to do that without it appearing obvious I needed them gone. But getting rid of Brenda and Sandy was only part of the problem. Telling even one person - even one whose professional career depended on discretion - was risky. But If I didn't tell Harry and it turned out that one of the rumors was that I had spent Thanksgiving in California, he would be caught off guard and without defense. It hadn't taken long to realize that was a moot point -- if the subject of California did come up, I was dead anyway. I could get away with saying John's visits to Minneapolis were simply because we were friends, but if someone had found out about California, no one would believe it was innocent. Especially not the roommates I had lied to.

In the last twenty four hours I had found myself wishing I had never allowed anything to happen with John, and felt bad for thinking that. Somehow my relationship with John had gone from being something I wanted to keep quiet simply because no one would understand to a secret that I prayed would never come out. It started out as something sweet and a lot of fun but socially unacceptable. Then, when Paul showed up at the airport, it became something to put away, remember fondly and hope Paul would forgive. When John went back to Cyn, it changed colors again. It was uncomfortable, a little scary because now if it got out, it would not be seen as something done when his marriage ended, but as an affair during his marriage. But even when I went to England and found how upset Paul really was about it, I still couldn't regret doing it. Not really, not down deep inside where it counted. Not when John was around. He was by turns a clown, obnoxious, sweet, nasty, weak, strong, but no matter what he was doing, it was still there. That sex appeal that had grabbed me when I was sixteen and he was standing at the microphone on Ed Sullivan's stage. I couldn't regret having a weekend to explore that to its fullest.

Oh, but now. Now it wasn't going to be just an embarrassment to me - it was a real threat to me. If this came out, I wouldn't have a prayer of staying in school. Any hopes I had of getting into a school in England would be endangered. The fans would hate me in a way that would make their jealousy over Paul seem trivial. Cyn would be hurt. And Paul . . . He had been hurt, jealous, angry before but this would go way beyond that. He would be humiliated. He might forgive the fact that I had been with John, deal with the fact that we were still friends, but to have the whole world know, the whole world laughing at him? I didn't think we could survive that. That fact alone made the decision easy. I wasn't going to tell Harry, and if it came out, I was going to deny it. Even if that California cab driver had somehow made the connection and was spreading it around, it was his word against John's and mine.

"There is no need for them to leave," I told Harry firmly. "Go ahead with the questions."

"All right," he said.

Sandy and Brenda went through the list of rumors: I got to go to England with John because I slept with him, (or with all of them, according to some sources). I tried to break up John's marriage and convinced him to leave Cyn and come back to the States with me.

"That is the one we heard most often." Sandy said. "No one seemed to believe that John and Terry were just friends. But Brenda and I were here both times John visited. They weren't doing anything."

I had to change the subject or my face would give everything away. "Except of course during the Halloween orgy!" I put in with a laugh.

Brenda and Sandy burst out laughing. "That is my favorite rumor!" Brenda laughed. "We all got drunk--"

"Or high on drugs," Sandy put in.

"And after the party Mark and Chuck and John had their way with all of us!"

"Are there other rumors about drugs?" Harry asked.

"I supposedly tried drugs while I was in England," I said.

"And there is another one," Sandy said. "She got John hooked on drugs she stole from the hospital and that is why he followed her back to Minneapolis - to be near his dealer."

"I am insulted by that one," I said. "Like the only appeal I could possibly have is access to drugs!"

Harry smiled but said, "Well, I can see where the hospital would not be amused at all."

"Ah . . . there is another one . . ." Brenda said hesitantly, looking at me apologetically. I knew right off this was going to be one she hadn't told me about and it would be nasty.

"When Terry came back from England, she . . . well, she was really miserable. She cried a lot and didn't want to go out. She didn't eat much and lost weight. She just looked . . . lousy. Some people started saying that it was because she had gotten hooked on drugs and was going through withdrawal."

That wasn't a rumor started by some demented Beatle fan or anti Beatle crusader. It was something that people who knew me, were around me at the time, had discussed. Actually thought might be true. Hell, I would have probably wondered the same thing if it had been a friend of mine. And all Brenda and Sandy could have done to squelch the speculation is tell them that I had gotten my heart broken by some mystery man I wouldn't talk about. Before I could really react to it, Sandy spoke up.

"Then there is the other story to explain it. The one that says she got pregnant while she was in England. She came home and got an abortion."

"Who was the alleged father?" Harry asked.

"I guess most people thought it was John - especially after he showed up here."

"Oh, God," I said, realizing how believable either of those stories were. I had looked like crap and avoided everyone that first month.

There was an awkward silence and then Harry said gently. "Any other rumors?"

They shook their heads. I breathed a sigh of relief. In all the rumors about John and me, the locale was England or Minneapolis. California was never mentioned. But there was one "rumor" that hadn't been discussed.

"There is one more," I told him. "That Paul and I are sleeping together."

Harry nodded in acknowledgment of the addition, not reacting to it any differently than he had to any of the others, even though the body English of my roommates would have told even a casual observer that this rumor stood apart from the others.

He looked at each of us in turn as if giving us each one more chance to contribute to the bonfire, then said, "Alright, Tess. The heart of this problem is finding a way to convince the school that it is not in their best interests to dismiss you. Battling them over whether there is truth to the rumors won't help because, true or not, the rumors are there and that is their concern. I have no intention of bringing up the rumors - that isn't going to be my focus at all - but they will focus on them. All we can do is emphasize the point that they are just rumors, that celebrities have always been the victims of rumors, and it is unreasonable to expel you on that basis, then move on to other things. I sincerely doubt that they have gone to the extent of investigating the stories." With a grin he said, "Religious institutions simply don't do that. They have God on their side and don't need to prove anything."

We laughed, but Sandy said, "That is the whole problem. They don't have to prove anything."

Harry shrugged. "We can't disprove the stories anyway. You can never "prove" a rumor out of existence. They persist in the face of facts to the contrary. Rumors create a public image and that is what the celebrity or company has to deal with, not the facts. But, even so, we can't walk into this unprepared to deal with the rumors. Tess, I need to know where the truth ends and rumor begins."

"None of it is true!" Sandy protested hotly.

I looked squarely at Harry. "I went to England because the doctor wouldn't let John go without a nurse along. I was able to stay in England because Brian Epstein had arranged for me to write some articles for their fan magazine in order to earn money to finish school."

"All that can be proven easily, I assume?"

"The doctor and Brian can confirm that. And I have the magazines with the stories in them."

"How long did you stay in England?"

"About five weeks."

"Why so long?"

"Well, getting the magazine articles done took about four weeks. And during that time I started seeing Paul. I stayed to be with him but I actually came back a week earlier than I was going to. We had a . . . a misunderstanding and I came home. I was really hurt because I loved him and I had thought he loved me and . . . well . . . it looked like he had lied to me. I did have a really bad time at first, but I wasn't going through drug withdrawal and I was never pregnant."

"And is there any way to corroborate that?"

"That I wasn't on drugs or pregnant? I don't know. Anyone in England would say that I never used drugs, but you would have a hard time getting anyone to talk to you. None of the people close to the Beatles are going to sit down and discuss drugs with you."

Harry nodded in ready acknowledgment of that.

"Sandy and I were with her when she got back," Brenda said firmly. "She wasn't in withdrawal. She had none of the signs of that. She was just plain miserable. Hurt and sad."

"And not pregnant?"

I realized I could prove that. "I went to the student clinic at the U. of M. just a couple of weeks after I got home. The records there will prove that I was not pregnant and had not just had an abortion."

Harry accepted that without questioning why I had gone there and went on. "What about the stories about your relationship with John?"

"The only drugs I gave him were the prescribed pain pills and he didn't need them after the first couple of weeks. I didn't break up John's marriage, I didn't leave England with him, and he came here to see me because we are friends." That was true. I couldn't say the same about my trip to California, but that was not on the list of rumors under discussion. "I don't know how to prove any of that. John would tell you the same, but if they don't believe me, they won't believe him either. Oh, and there was no orgy after the Halloween party or any other night!"

Harry nodded and waited. I took a breath and finished. "As for the last one . . . yes, Paul and I are sleeping together. They can kick me out on that point alone."

"Then deny it, Terry!" Sandy pleaded. "Brenda and I are the only ones who know for certain that it's true and I'll tell them whatever you want me to."

"No, Sandy. If they don't ask me point blank, I won't say anything, but if they do, I have to tell the truth."

"They aren't going to make you swear on a Bible are they? I mean it isn't like a real trial."

"No, I don't think so, but I am so bad at lying. I get all red and stutter. And I just don't think I want to deny anything about my relationship with Paul. I am not ashamed of it."

Harry held up a hand. "Hold on, hold on. In the first place, Terry won't be at the hearing, I will. If they insist that you attend, Sandy is right, you won't be under oath. If it were going to be sworn testimony, I would have to instruct you in the penalty for perjury. But public relations is a different story. You haven't been accused of a crime. Someone is trying to hold your private life against you. It is all personal, a matter of image and viewpoint, not law. In these situations, I tell my clients that what they have to consider is what will happen if they lie and the truth comes out later. They have to weigh that carefully. And if they feel that, to protect themselves and others, they need to keep the truth to themselves, so be it. When that happens, I advise them to refuse to answer any and all accusations."

By this point, Harry was up pacing back and forth. We watched him, almost hearing the wheels turning in his head. "All right," he said finally. "I'll spend tomorrow talking to people. Some of your classmates, teachers. And the dean. I need to find out what I can about the board members and just who will have a say in the decision to expel you. And about enrollment at St. Vincents."

All that made sense to me until the last line. "Enrollment?" I said.

Harry was smiling. "Enrollments. Money. Continued reputation as a leading school. Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I have a busy day tomorrow. Terry, go to school tomorrow but don't discuss this with anyone. Just tell anyone who asks that you have been instructed by your lawyer not to discuss the case with anyone. Use the words "lawyer" and "case". Let that get back to whoever is running the show. If you get called in to see the dean or anyone, say the same thing. Don't answer any questions. Tell them I will be in contact with them." With those words, Harry picked up his coat and briefcase. "I'll be here tomorrow evening and we'll go over the plan."

"Paul is flying in -- we have to pick him up at five."

"Great! Maybe I'll get his autograph this time!" Harry turned to go and then had a second thought. "I'll get him a room at my hotel. This is not the time to add fuel to the fire, Terry."

I nodded and he made his exit. There was nothing to do but go to bed. I slept better just knowing that something was being done and that Paul would be with me the next day.

Wednesday went by quietly. No summons from the dean. Quiet support from my friends. After school we headed for the airport and the now familiar routine of checking to make sure his flight was on time, checking in with security to make sure they would be there, waiting for the plane to land. This time Paul came through the gate and I went into his arms and, trying hard not to cry, just held onto him. He held me tight until Sandy and Brenda took my arm and led us to the waiting security transport. "Tess, are you all right?" he asked softly as we rode through the sparse crowd of traveling businessmen.

I smiled at him and squeezed his hand. "I am now."

Alone in the waiting room, I kissed him, forgetting about everything else with the feel of his mouth, the taste of his kiss, the rising heat of his touch. Whispered words of love turned into sighs and murmurs. But in the middle of that, I remembered. I told him that Harry had said he shouldn't stay at the apartment and was getting him a room at the hotel. It probably wasn't the best time to tell him that considering his current state. "Christ, Tess," he groaned. "If I can't stay at the apartment, I sure as hell can't bring you to my hotel room!"

"We'll think of something," I said, feeling like it had been three months since we had made love, not three weeks. Trying to make light of what was, after all, not a life threatening situations, I teased, "There is a lock on the door . . ."

"Security has the key."

"The bathroom then. They won't barge in there."

He started to laugh then. "No, love. Not nearly enough time."

"Don't bet on it," I said sliding my hand down his chest and past his belt.

"This is precisely the kind of behavior that got you into so much trouble. You little sex maniac! God, I love you." A few more kisses and then he took my hands in his. "But we do have to be careful. If you have any chance of staying in school, we are going to have to forget about sex until this blows over."

I took a step back to look at him. "You think you can do that?"

"For you, yes."

On the way home, we filled him in on our meeting with Harry and Harry himself was waiting for us back at the apartment. Greetings were exchanged. ("Of course I remember you, Harry. You're the bloke who stood there in jeans and sandals and a wrinkled shirt and told John he needed to put on a jacket and tie for the press conference!") I made tea for Paul and coffee for Harry and we settled at the kitchen table to hear Harry's solution to my problem.

"I spoke with the dean today," he reported. "The committee who makes these decision includes two instructors, the dean herself, the hospital V.P., and three board members - she didn't know which ones because it rotates members each time they have to meet. But I was able to get the names of all of them from the hospital. I made phone calls to their secretaries saying it was necessary to change the time of their meeting at St. Vincent's on Friday and found out which ones actually had such a meeting scheduled."

We commented in appreciation of Harry's resourceful sleuthing, and he went on. "We have one banker, one priest, one businessman. Now how will they and the instructors vote? That is the question."

"Which instructors?" I asked.

"Berghoff and Hawkins."

I groaned. "That's two votes against me then. Berghoff will love kicking me out. Hawkins is nice, but she won't stand up against the others."

"But if Sister Ignatius votes in your favor?"

"If she does, Hawkins will go along with her. But I don't think she will."

"I wouldn't be too certain of that," Harry said. "She was very professional and refused to discuss who was stirring up the board, but that cagey woman deliberately tipped her hand when she volunteered the information that you have been an excellent student, well liked by your teachers and all of your end of semester reports by clinical instructors indicate that you will make a first rate nurse. I sensed a real distaste in her for what is going on and she confirmed it a little later when she said that in her investigation of your case in the last few days she found out about the situation between you and Mrs. Berghoff. She said that such misuse of authority was unacceptable and that she was following up with Mrs. Berghoff on the matter. So, that leaves the four gentlemen. With the exception of the priest, they are businessmen and I think I can convince them that you should stay on as a matter of good business management. If the hospital V.P. and the priest hold out, I call it five to two in your favor."

I shook my head. "Four to three at best. Sister Ignatius may be in my corner, but Berghoff won't back down."

"No, I am quite certain we have Sister Ignatius and Sister Ignatius has Mrs. Berghoff. Her parting words to me were "By the way, Mr. Weinberger. I do not listen to rumors but I do find notebooks about misuse of authority very interesting reading. As I plan to mention to Mrs. Berghoff, such things have a way of getting people fired unless amends are made." Not only will she vote in your favor, she will pressure Berghoff to do the same. And even if Berghoff decides to be a martyr for her cause, I am still confident of both the banker and businessman. Odds are we won't lose both Bergman and one of those two gentlemen. I call it four to three at the worst and think we even have a chance at five to two."

Paul spoke up. "So the dean will take care of Berghoff, but how do you plan to deal with the businessmen?"

"Public opinion is what they are afraid of, and public opinion is a two edged sword. It can work for us as well as against us. All we have to do is let them see the other side of the blade. See how they will appear in the eyes of the public when we tell the world what they have done. I start off by saying that, like them, I deal in the business world. I know little about schools and nothing of nursing. But I know finance. I know that a school's product is its students and it can't produce them without enrollments. Then I bring it around to your situation. First I point out that they are acting on rumor. Unproven, unsubstantiated rumor. Not opinion polls, not market sampling, but rumor. That is bad business practice, and for them it is especially bad. It is uncharitable, unchristian, etc. And if they act on these rumors, they not only leave themselves open for a defamation of character suit, but their respectable organization suddenly becomes a hypocritical, unfeeling, unfair, rigid, institution that no parent would submit his daughter to. Not when there are seven other well respected nursing schools in the city as well as a university offering one of the best Bachelor's programs in nursing in the country."

Suddenly his comment about enrollment made sense.

"Second, I point out that even though parents may write out the checks for their daughters education, girls these days will not be forced to attend a school not of their choosing. Not with eight other nursing schools in the metropolitan area. I will invite them to do what I did today. Talk to high school girls. Find out how they feel about Tess Martin. Oh, yes, they have heard the rumors, discussed them at length, even passed them on. But believe them? No, not really. They may be jealous, but they love the idea that a nice, ordinary girl just like them can get Prince Charming."

Paul looked at me with a grin at the reference to Prince Charming as Harry finished. "How many of these girls will agree to go to the school that kicked a girl out because she was in love with Paul McCartney? Regardless of the rumors, that is what they will remember about St. Vincents."

"Ah, but Mr. Weinberger, St. Vincent's will be around long after the Beatles are replaced by some other noisy screamers," Paul said playing the businessman.

"St. Vincent's yes. The school? Your new dormitory was built on predictions of increasing enrollment by thirty percent in the next three years. What happens if that enrollment does not materialize? And I fear it won't if you go ahead with this. Your potential students of the next three years are out there buying Tiger Beat and Beatles records today."

"Excuse me, Mr. Weinberger," I put in. "But you are overlooking the basic fact that Miss Martin violated the rules. Sexual activity and associating with drug users."

"Why Mrs. Berghoff, you have proof of these accusations? Hearsay is not proof. Speculation is not proof. Those statements are not as bizarre as some of the stories going around about Miss Martin, but they are still only rumor. And as I have pointed out to your colleagues, it is not wise for an institution to act on rumor. Very unwise when it could trigger a defamation of character suit."

"Harry," I protested. I am not going to sue them for defamation of character! I'd lose!"

"They don't know that! All they need to know is that it is going to cost them to get rid of you. These are businessmen, Terry. They won't touch it."

"You are underestimating how unreasonable people can be when it comes to the Beatles."

Paul answered me with a rueful laugh, "Bankers excluded, Tess. They only see the money."

I was still unsure, and Harry went on. "In summary, ladies and gentlemen, you were called here to make a decision about a student, a student whose record is excellent and who is considered by her instructors to have the makings of the kind of nurse St.Vincent's is proud of, A student whose only "fault" is that she is the victim of vicious rumors because she is about to marry a celebrity. But I am here to tell you that the decision you are making is not only about the student, but about St. Vincent's. Expelling her will assure that St. Vincent's has a reputation for tolerating only the highest morals. It will also give you a reputation for unfairness, unreasonableness and a lack of caring about your students among the very age group your school's financial future depends on. It will expose you to a costly lawsuit for defamation of character. Is it worth it? To ruin the career of a promising nurse, subject the hospital to financial loss and legal costs rather than allow her to continue for four more weeks? And all because celebrities always have been and always will be the subjects of gossip. It doesn't make sense, morally or financially."

Brenda and Sandy broke into applause and cries of "Bravo, bravo," and "Stand back Perry Mason!"

When it was quiet again, Paul turned to me and asked, "What do you want to do, Tess? You can resign tomorrow or let Harry give it a try."

I couldn't resist. I smiled up at him. "If I resign tomorrow, you can stay here tonight, otherwise . . ."

He looked at me for no more than a couple of seconds, then got up, picked up Harry's coat and brief case and made as if to hustle him out the door. "Thanks for your time, Harry, but I guess we won't be needing you after all. Ta."

Brenda grabbed Harry's other arm and pulled him back. "Stay put, Harry. Cold shower, Paul!"

"I've taken so damn many cold showers the last few months, I've got frostbite on my--"

"Enough!" Sandy shrieked. "I don't want to hear what is frostbitten!"

"Toes," Paul said with that look of angelic innocence that came so naturally to him. "Whatever were you thinking, luv?"

While we laughed and Sandy blushed, Harry said, "I say we go have dinner and give Terry some time to think things over."

Just as Paul had in London, we had found a good restaurant nearby where the manager would let us use the private dining room as long as it wasn't reserved for a party. Harry wouldn't tell us about other celebrities he had worked with, but enthusiastically talked about the work he did as a volunteer for the Civil Liberties Union and with the Civil Rights movement. He laughingly waved away our notions that he had marched in Selma or been an activists in that sense. "I admire those people who go out and take the risks, but without the law, they can't win. When the freedom rides and riots are over, the future of segregation in the country will be settled in the courts."

He was a fascinating guy but my mind was elsewhere, going over and over the decision I had to make. Our dinners were served, but I wasn't hungry. Not for food anyway. It was sweet torture to sit next to Paul, his hand either in mine or on my knee. But even that appetite was diminished by uneasy thoughts. I wasn't sure why, but I had a nagging feeling that fighting this would somehow be wrong. I wasn't paying much attention to the dinner conversation or dinner and Paul noticed.

"Are you all right, love?" he asked.

"Fine. I'm fine," I said. "Just thinking."

"You've got a great lawyer here," Brenda said. "You have to give this a try!"

"I agree about the lawyer," I said with a smile for Harry, "but, I don't know. I just don't feel really good about going ahead with this. I feel . . . dishonest."

"Come on, Terry," Sandy coaxed. "You won't even have to be there, so you won't have to lie."

I knew then why I was uncomfortable with this. "I don't have to be there to make it a lie. Even if Harry does all the talking, even if he doesn't deny the rumors . . . It's a lie. I did break the rules. I might not agree with the rules, with their requirements for morality, but they are within their rights to throw me out."

There was an awkward silence. Harry reached across the table and gave my hand a squeeze. "Terry, the stuff about associating with drug users is crap. None of the Beatles has ever been arrested for drug use, and that is the only thing that would make that part of the morals clause hold water. And as for the other . . . unless they are planning to subject every student to physical exams and expel everyone who isn't a virgin, then they shouldn't be expelling you."

I turned to look at Paul. He knew what rules I had broken. He just looked at me, looking unhappy as he did with any reminder of me with John. "Let it go, love," he said softly.

Brenda spoke up. "Harry is right. They aren't doing this because of what you have done. It is only because of who you did it with! And that isn't fair." Something about the way she said made me wonder if she and Mark had broken down and had sex. She sounded like she was thinking that she was another rule breaker and no one was even thinking of expelling her.

They were both right. I was feeling bad because of what I had done with John, not because of my relationship with Paul, and it was time to get over it. I couldn't undo it and it was time to move on. And I was certain I was not the only non-virgin who had ever passed through St. Vincent's hallowed halls.

"They shouldn't be expelling me anyway," I declared firmly. "I am a good nurse! I want to fight this, Harry."

It was after eight when we left the restaurant. We returned to the apartment and as Harry's big car unloaded us, Harry said, "I can give you a ride to the hotel if you like, Paul."

"Fine," he said, to my dismay. "Let me get my bags out of Tess's car."

I followed him to my car, dug out my keys and opened the trunk for him. "I don't want you to go," was all I could think to say.

Instead of picking up his suitcase he put his arms around me. "And I don't want to go. But there is a car down the street with someone watching us."

As if on cue, a man with the unmistakable big camera of a reporter got out of a car and headed toward us. My argument that it would be a day or so before anyone knew he was in town died unspoken. "Just a little while? At least let me drive you to the motel," I pleaded.

He grinned. "Got a cemetery in mind, love?"

"No," I sighed. "I just want some time alone with you even if we can't . . .."

He bent to kiss me, a quick little kiss because the reporter was closing in fast. He whispered in my ear. "Five minutes alone with you and I'll have blue balls for sure. It's been way too long for anything except getting you into bed. Besides, I'm dead on my feet. Let me get some sleep. We'll figure out something tomorrow." He let go of me and lifted his suitcases out of the trunk as the reporter snapped the first photo then greeted him.

Paul talked to him and I lifted Paul's guitar case out of the trunk. The reporter tried to get information on how long Paul planned to say but Paul easily slid away from the question as he went to put his things in Harry's trunk. I just smiled because the presence of the guitar case told me Paul was staying for a while. Harry closed the trunk, and Paul opened the car door to get in. The damn reporter stood there and all I could do is give Paul a chaste little goodnight kiss.