Into My Life

Chapter 8

I had a great time with the English students. We laughed at the differences in their schooling and mine, and laughed even harder at the similarities; the horrors of the first injection, watching the first surgery and praying you wouldn't faint, the fact that all psych instructors are truly weird. We had lunch in the hospital cafeteria and another laugh about the similarities in hospital food. It was late afternoon before I got back to John's.

"Did anyone call for me?" I asked as I joined John and Cyn on the terrace. I said it as if I had all kinds of friends in England likely to ring me up at any time. There was only one person who would conceivably call me and I wasn't at all sure how likely that was.

"And just which ‘anyone' did you have in mind, luv?" John teased. "Neil isn't back from Liverpool. Or could you be thinking, just perhaps, of Paul? The list of possibilities seems to grow daily!"

I blushed. Obviously Pattie had passed on what she had observed in Paul's kitchen last night. Rather than acknowledge that I had been really hoping he had called, I made light of it. "Well, Mal really is darling, and if it weren't for Pattie, I would go after George. Ringo has already said he won't leave Maureen for me. And then there's Brian. He is so sophisticated, so classy--"

John burst out laughing and Cyn giggled. "Scratch that one off your list, luv," John said. "He's not for you."

"Brian is married?" I asked in surprise.

"Not married. Just out of your league."

Thinking he meant Brian was from a better social class, I replied "You're just jealous because you aren't on my list at all." Big fat lie, but Cyn was sitting right there.

"No, I wouldn't show up on the same list as Brian," John said with amusement. "Or the same clubs. Or the same back alleys!"

I was bewildered. "Because he is Jewish?" I asked, my naivete hanging out all over the place. He laughed even harder, making his ribs and back hurt.

I ignored his discomfort. "Well??" I demanded.

"Brian's first choice is not a girl," he said as if clarifying the matter for me.

I didn't get it and it showed. Cyn leaned over and said quietly, "Brian is a, um, well, homosexual."

"Queer. A faggot." John added as if assuming I still wouldn't get it.

I was taken totally by surprise. Brian wasn't a flirt, or at least he talked to girls on a little higher level than the others, but I had just thought it was upper class upbringing. He didn't act like a . . . a fairy.

"Oh, come on," I started to say, but Cyn wouldn't kid around about that. "Really??"

"You didn't have any idea?" John asked.

"No! He seems so . . . normal!" The sixties were not the most enlightened of times.

"Flippin' faggot," John assured me. "Lots of them around. Nice enough guys otherwise, most of them. Just fucked up when it comes to who to fuck."

I sat down to contemplate this revelation. I didn't exactly have a lot of homosexual acquaintances. Didn't know any personally, for that matter, but had been told that one of the orderlies at the hospital was. That I could believe because the orderly was very effeminate, but Brian?

"Wow. He sure doesn't act like . . . that way," I said.

"Oh, they don't always," John informed me. "Not unless they are in the theatre. You would be surprised to find out how many of them there are in the music business."

That certainly piqued my curiosity. "Who!?!"

"Why none other than our Paulie!"

Cyn gasped. "John, don't go telling her that!"

"He is not!" I said hotly, making him laugh again. I didn't know much about the subject -- two sentences in my nursing textbook, a few dirty jokes -- but some things you knew instinctively, and even before last night, I knew that was not possible.

"He's having you on, Tess," Cyn said. "Paul is definitely not a . . . like that."

"You are impossible!!" I said to John. Hadn't I said that to him at least once before?

Julian had been blowing soap bubbles out on the lawn and when he saw me, he came to show me. Soon he and I were busy taking turns blowing bubbles, then escalting to creating streams of bubbles by spinning around as we held the bubble wand. Julian wanted bigger bubbles so I got a coat hanger and a pie tin and we sat out on the lawn perfecting bigger and better bubbles. When Cyn went in to check on dinner, John limped out to join us. Soon we were speculating on how many bottles of bubble stuff it would take to dip a hula hoop so he could make bubble big enough to stand in. Julian loved the idea and John promised we would try it someday. Julian satisfied himself by trying to stick his head inside one of the big bubbles and we watched as he chased after them. After a bit Cyn came out and got Julian to get him washed up before dinner. I started to pick up the bubble making things but John took the small bubble wand and blew a stream of bubbles at me. I caught one gently on my hand and held it as the evening sun shimmered rainbows through it. I held it out for John to see. "Look at the sunset, John."

John looked at it and then at me. He asked, "So I'm not on your list at all?"

I couldn't look at him. It was like the question about what I had on under the bathrobe. He already had a good idea of the answer. The question he was really asking hadn't been about clothes then, and it wasn't about lists now. I could evade the issue and joke around or I could tell him the truth. He probably knew it anyway. I adored him. Had since the first moment I had laid eyes on him on the Ed Sullivan show in 1964. That was the moment that the word "sexy" had suddenly had real meaning for me. Now, having met him, he excited me, intrigued me, and was more fascinating than ever. Even more appealing was the fact that, improbable at it seemed, there was something special between us. Paul might be fogging my mind at the moment, but even so I wondered how differently I would be feeling if John weren't married.

The bubble quivered, giving away the fact that my hand was shaking. I blew the bubble away and watched until it settled to the grass and burst, letting it carry my thoughts about an unmarried John Lennon with it. That was just not an area that I could or should allow myself to explore. Maybe he was just teasing anyway.

I snuck a sideways glance at him. He was looking at me and looked away quickly as if embarrassed to have asked the question yet hoping for an answer. Something about the basic insecurity of that, the shyness in the way he had used a joke to ask me how I felt about him showed a vulnerability that got to me. I didn't know if I could put into words how I felt about John, much less say it to his face, but I wanted to somehow try.

"John," I said, not even trying to sound light and joking, "If you could be on it, I don't think there would even be a list." I hesitated, hoping he understood because I didn't know if I dared tell him any more plainly how very much I was attracted to him. That if he were not married things would be very different. "But you can't and you aren't."

He was silent for a long moment, then reached out and touched my arm. "Sorry, luv. I was just teasing."

"No, you weren't." As I said, some things you just know instinctively.

He hesitated, about to object, but then he sighed instead. "No. . . But I don't belong on that list any way. You are looking for someone to fall in love with--"

I opened my mouth to object, but he wouldn't let me.

"You are, and I sure as hell am not what you want. What you are looking for doesn't exist anyway." He didn't say it with bitterness, just conviction.

"That's not true," I said -- or asked. I'm not sure which it sounded more like.

He smiled and put his casted arm across my shoulders and pulled me to him for an apologetic hug. "You go right ahead and believe in Love Forever True and Happy Ever After. I'll shut me gob."

We walked together in silence back to the house. As he reached to open the door he smiled at me and it was one of his best lecherous old geezer looks. "Wouldn't have a list for guys for guys who just want to get in your knickers, would you, luv?"

I laughed. "You are --"

"Impossible. You told me. Repeatedly."

"Right. And you are also at the top of that list!"

Sunday was a hot, lazy day. I borrowed a swimsuit from Cyn and Julian and I played in the pool after lunch while John groused continually about not being able to get in the pool because of his cast. By mid-afternoon, Julian was worn out and he conked out on the sofa. After changing out of my swimsuit, I settled down to work on the articles. I decided I would finish the first one and turn it in so I could get some idea of whether it was what Tony wanted before I spent any more time and the others. I made a few changes on it, undid some of them. When I found myself contemplating changing them back, I knew I was done. I re-read it, trying to see it freshly, subjectively, but it didn't do any good. One minute I was impressed and the next I thought it was overdone, too fan mag icky. Too clever here, too sappy there. John had said it was better than it needed to be for its target audience to appreciate it, but I didn't want to turn in something mediocre just because the fans would devour anything. All I could do was give it to Tony but first I needed to give it to Liz, the secretary who was to type it up. Then, before Tony, I needed to show it to Paul. Paul . . . So much for working. I spent the rest of the day remembering his kisses and waiting for the phone to ring. It didn't. I didn't know what to think.

On Monday, Cyn dropped me off at the bus line when she drove Julian to nursery school and guidebook in hand I headed into London for a day of sightseeing. I went to a tourist center and took a tour bus all round the city; Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, Hyde Park, the houses of Parliament, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey. When it was over, I asked directions for a bus that would take me to Saville Row. John had said he would be at the office and we could ride home together. The lady at the tourist center smiled and said "A fan of the Beatle's, eh, ducks? I can get you on tour that takes you to each of their homes. We stop at each so you can take pictures and leave a note or flowers if you've a mind to. Plus it takes you to Abbey Road and to the spots where they filmed the movies. You can get out and lark about on the field from "A Hard Days Night."

I grinned, wanting to tell her I was living in one of those houses. "No thanks. I just need to get to Saville Row."

When I got there, I dug the papers out of my tote bag and took them to Liz. "I shall have it for you tomorrow," she said without a break in her typing. The receptionist said John was "in the back" so I headed down the hall to the back of the building. I heard Ringo laughing and wondered if Paul was with them. My pulse sped up. Just as I stepped in the door of what appeared to be a storeroom for musical equipment and stage speakers, I heard Paul say "One, two, three, four!" A guitar twanged to life, and Paul sang "Well she was just seventeen. . ."

I froze. The music hit me like a wall and for a moment I really thought I might faint. The Beatles!!! The sound I had lain awake so many nights listening to. The whole mood of being sixteen and falling head over heels into a major crush washed over me. Hours listening to every nuance of every song. Riding high on the waves of rock and roll, aching with the slow songs. Picking out the voices of each of them. Hearing heartbreak in one line and laughter in others. Reading more into every line, every wail, than could ever have been intended. They played just a couple of bars and the music fell apart except for an impromptu, wild drum solo. The music ended and they were looking at me.

"Tess?" John said and I knew from the tone of his voice I looked as woozy as I felt. George put his guitar down quickly and with a long stride was at my side with an arm around me. I looked up at him. "You are the Beatles!" I said.

He burst out laughing. "Yes, I'm George," he said.

"No -- I know that." I answered with what came out as a shaky laugh. "I know who you are. I mean I knew it all along. But you were the Beatles stuck in a hotel. And playing cards and cheating at scrabble and . . . reporters and fans . . . but I forgot about the music." I was babbling. "You are the Beatles. You are . . .the MUSIC," I finished, unable to explain it any better, with my voice shaky again.

"That's the part we like best, too," George said, laughing with the others but hugging me hard. I hugged back until I thought I could talk without squeaking.

"OK, now that I have made a complete fool of myself, play something for me?"

"What do you want to hear?"

I only had to think for a moment. I didn't want an attempt to recreate an album track and I had always wondered how they had sounded in those wild Hamburg sessions. "Something you used to do in Hamburg."

They went into a huddle around John who was sitting on a packing crate at a very beat up looking piano. After a brief confab, they emerged grinning at me. Then John was singing "To know, know, know her, is to love, love, love her."

Behind me, the secretaries and just about everyone who was in the building were gathering for the impromptu concert. Without any further encouragement, Paul ripped into "Hippy Hippy Shake," and none of us could stand still. Brian had joined us, watching and listening from the back of the small crowd with the biggest, happiest smile I had ever seen on his face. At the end of the song, Ringo did a drum roll, the kind used when the announcer says "And the winner is . . ." As he did, he called to me, "So Tess, who is your favorite Beatle?"

"John Lennon," I blurted out immediately. Everyone laughed at the way I said it - not "John" or even looking at John and saying, "He is." It was an obvious reflex answer, like any screaming fan. George played an unfamiliar bar and began to sing "They say that everyone wants someone, so how come no one wants me?" As soon as that one was over, John pulled out his harmonica and they were off again. After a twenty minute jam session, John said, "Enough, I need a pint. Let's go 'cross the street."

The four of them, Brian, and I, with Terry (as in "suitcase") and Mal (as in "in case of trouble"), headed across the street to a pub. Paul said nothing to me, only smiled a polite smile as he held the door for me and avoided meeting my eyes. We crossed the street and walked the half block down to the pub. Paul walked ahead of me with Ringo. At the pub, we headed for a big table in a back corner. Paul ignored the empty seat next to me and pulled a chair around to the far end of the table. I had been bewildered by his behavior at first, but that move was so obvious, and it hurt. Terry took the chair next to me and I forced what I hoped was a pleasant smile.

They apparently were regulars there as the waitresses seemed to be on familiar -- very familiar in Paul's case -- terms with them, and even the early afternoon customers took their appearance in stride. We ordered and John asked if he could "have a beer, please, nurse." I figured one or two wouldn't hurt especially since he only took a pain pill only occasionally now and I knew he was going to have one no matter what I said anyway. I tried an English beer. It was really awful. Gradually the sting of being snubbed by Paul settled into a dull ache and I sat back and began to enjoy my companions. Seven good looking young men. Well, six and one I couldn't bear to look at.

Mal asked if I was enjoying my holiday. "I am having a great time, but I sure am beginning to miss hamburgers and french fries!"

"I know a place that has great American style burgers," Terry said. "I could take you there if you like."

Everyone laughed. "Terry is our American junk food expert." Ringo explained.

"He even brought a suitcase full of peanut butter and -- What are they? Twinkies? -- back from the States with him!" Brian said.

"Peanut butter! Forget the burger and fries. I want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich!"

"I'll spring for both," Terry laughed. "Are you busy tomorrow night?"

"Tomorrow night would be great!" I said.

"Perhaps we might go to the movies or something?" Terry asked. He looked and sounded genuinely eager to make a night of it, not just being nice.

"I would love to, Terry," I said, knowing Paul was listening to all of this. Take that McCartney!

"Picking up birds with peanut butter!" Ringo laughed. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"So Terry has a date with Terry. Isn't that . . . incest or something?" George asked, and everybody cracked up.

"I thought it was masturbation," John said, and we all lost it.

As we got up to leave, I found myself momentarily face to face with Paul. My heart skipped a beat as I looked up at him. He looked at me, unsmiling, unreadable, for just a second before his usual affable smile reappeared. Somehow I managed a replica of his congenial smile. I could have just arranged a date with Jack the Ripper and he wouldn't react, I thought. What had Friday night been all about? Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing.

Terry picked me up at John's at seven the next evening. As we headed to the restaurant it seemed strange to be doing something so ordinary. Just hop in the car and go for something to eat. No fans, no security. The restaurant was great. It was a replica of an American diner, run by a couple of displaced Americans, and the food was real American. Terry had always seemed rather quiet, but away from the Beatlemania madness, he was a lot of fun. He had me laughing through dinner with his stories of touring insanity. Girls hiding in the bathtub, of being sent out to buy underwear for all of them repeatedly because it never seemed to come back from the laundry. I found out that he was a university student, studying sociology and working for the last two summers for Brian as part of the road crew and general chauffeur and gopher the rest of the time. Next week he was headed out again on a tour with Cilla Black.

After dinner we debated on a movie but decided instead to check out one of the popular clubs. The club was just gearing up for the evening, and we found a table where we could watch the people coming in. By nine-thirty the place was rocking. Terry pointed out members of various groups as they came in. I never would have recognized the guys from the Dave Clark Five, and I had never even heard of a guy from The Small Faces, Rod Stewart. "But it is Monday night! Why are all these people here?" I asked, reverting to a small town "roll up the streets at nine" mentality.

Terry laughed, "It's not like they have to punch a time clock in the morning. This is their job. Make an appearance, party, be seen, and move on." We danced until I was dizzy and they mercifully put in a slow dance here and there. The air was heavy with the acrid, burning rope smell of marijuana. By eleven, Terry and I were sitting out all but the slow dances, and he was holding me close. I was not even considering objecting. His light brown hair, grey eyes, and scattered freckles across an impossibly Irish face were making inroads on the choirboy face and brown eyes I wanted to forget. I knew he was going to kiss me and I knew I would like it. Somewhere in the smoky, sweaty haze a thought crept into my mind. Is this how it had been the other night? Hours in a room full of smoke, a lot of it pot, and then in the garden with Paul thinking I had never felt anything so incredible as his touch, his kiss. Was the whole thing a pipe dream and the pipe full of pot? Could you get high from being in a room with others smoking it? And was that all it was?

Well, I knew how to find out. Same smoke, different guy. "Terry," I said softly in his ear. "Could we go outside for some fresh air?" He led me through the crowd and out to the parking lot. It was drizzling rain. Well, I couldn't duplicate everything. We got into the car and I slid over to sit close to him thinking if he didn't try to kiss me, I was going to have to act like one of those sex kitten girls or be flat out sleazy and go for him, neither of which was a comfortable role for me. I needn't have worried. His arm was around me and he was looking down at me. Seeing nothing remotely resembling a "No" in my expression, he kissed me. I kissed him back, and not just to make it a fair test of my hypothesis. He was good looking, fun, and it felt good.

Ten minutes later the car windows were steamed up and I was gently easing his hand away from the buttons on my blouse. I wasn't sure if he was usually this fast or if he was just responding to my enthusiastic testing of secondary pot inhalation. He pulled back to look at me, then looked around the parking lot. People were still coming and going from the club.

"We could go back to my flat for peanut butter," he suggested.

I knew what he was really suggesting was a little more than peanut butter sandwiches. As nice as kissing him had been, I wasn't ready for more. Besides, my research was done. It hadn't been the marijuana. This was nothing like kissing Paul.

"I don't think that I should do that. I'm not ready for . . . peanut butter. I've had a great time tonight, Terry," I said and kissed him, "but I think I better just go home."

He smiled. "All right, then." We drove back out to John's. He kissed me goodnight at the door and said, "I will be leaving with the tour next week. Maybe we could go out again this weekend?"

I hesitated. I felt a little pang of conscience about using him for my little experiment, and going out again seemed to compound the deceit. I did have a good time with him though and what the hell. This was a lot better than waiting on a guy who ran hot and cold. A guy who kissed other girls while his date waited inside. A guy I had no business even hoping for.

"I'd like that," I said.

Julian and I were wading and trying to catch frogs in the little creek that ran across the back of their property at noon the next day when Cyn came down to round us up for lunch. John still wasn't up. He hadn't been home when I got home from my date with Terry, but Cyn was. I had heard John come in about five a.m. I took Julian into the bathroom and got him washed up and when we got back to the kitchen, John was there, unshaven and looking decidedly hung over. He sat at the table, drinking tea while Cyn, Julian and I had lunch.

"How was your evening?" Cyn asked me.

"I had a great time," I said.

"So give over. I want all the details," said Cyn. "Is this true love?" I laughed and told her about dinner and the club.

"And?" she said.

"And then he brought me home . . . after a bit."

"A bit of what?"

I just grinned at her. John was silent and if he was even listening, he was in no mood to tease me and give me a hard time, which was a relief. I was explaining to Cyn that Terry had asked me out again when John got up from the table. "I have to be down at the office at two," he interrupted. "Are you coming along, Tess?"

"Yeah, that would be great. Liz should have finished typing--"

"Be ready in an hour," he interupted, then took his tea and disappeared back upstairs.

Cyn looked surprised and embarrassed. I just smiled at her and shrugged. I finished lunch and went upstairs to change clothes. As I changed, I thought about John. He had been increasingly moody since he had been back home, but other than a few cutting remarks when he had been in a lot of pain, he had always been really nice to me. There was more to it than that. He really had changed since we had been here. He got quieter, moodier as the days went by. It wasn't that he was always in a bad mood. He was just quiet and even when he talked and laughed with me, something was missing. The intensity, the quick temper and crazy humor was fading day by day. He spent most of the day reading and watching TV or just sleeping. At times he seemed restless and bored, but didn't seem to want to do anything. If Cyn suggested going out for an evening, he shrugged and said "You go." When she suggested taking Julian up to Liverpool to see Mimi he seemed to consider it for a few hours and then lost interest in the idea. Although he wasn't rude to Cyn, he seemed to often just ignore her. She didn't seem to mind. The evening before, when he had left the house shortly before Terry had picked me up, all he said was, "I'm going out, Cyn." and went out the door. She didn't look surprised, or angry, just sadly resigned. I got the distinct impression that it wasn't unusual for him to go out without her.

It was getting harder to get him to do his exercises. "Later" he always said. Mornings were a little easier because we argued over some article in the paper all the way through the exercises. It was our little morning ritual. I found myself defending the most bizarre stands just for the sake of argument. He always won and then told me what an idiot I was for my beliefs. I always protested that they weren't my beliefs, that he made me argue with him and since he had first dibs on which side he took, I didn't have any choice! He would then go on about how only a wishy-washy person could argue something they didn't believe in and I would say it was indicative of an open mind capable of reason, unlike some minds. The argument carried us through breakfast and his morning exercises which was the whole point. He hated the exercises and arguing with me kept his mind off the pain so we got through the morning session.

By late afternoon he wouldn't do them without a few drinks or a toke first. The pain pills made him feel queasy so he wouldn't take them. We had some great fights over that, real arguments, not one of our mock battles. He would tolerate a hangover for an evening of fun, risk getting busted in order to get high on pot, but he wouldn't take a pill so he could do his exercises! Even though I did my best arguing, for once secure in knowing I was right and really believing in my cause, I finally had to give up. He was going to drink and smoke, exercises or not, so there wasn't much point in adding pills. So he did a fair number of exercise sessions "under in the influence" but at least he did them. But soon, twice a day was all I could get him to do.

Worried, I called the physical therapist and he just laughed, saying he always told the patient they needed to be done three times a day knowing that with most patients, that would end up being twice. I never told John that, just went on arguing with him over a third session and letting him think he was winning. I figured if he knew twice was enough he would start whittling away at that. Cyn was no help. She would reason gently with him to do them but never insist. Neither would she learn how to do them. She said she couldn't stand seeing him hurt, much less doing it to him. After the first few days, I realized it was just as well that she wouldn't. He was usually in a bad mood for the afternoon sessions and I knew she wouldn't have insisted he do them, and then he would have been angry with her because he knew he was supposed to do them. For all his resistance, he was concerned and I could see his relief as day by day the pain decreased and the range of motion improved.

I finished changing and was downstairs waiting when John finally reappeared. He looked a bit better with a shave and a something close to a pleasant look. Les drove us into London. The glass was up between us and Les, so after riding most of the way in silence, I simply blurted out, "John, are you all right?"

He looked at me, startled, for just a moment. "I'm fine!" he responded, and when he saw my dubious look, he said, "Just a bit of a hangover. Couldn't get a decent joint last night so I had to resort to the old standby."

"That's not what I mean."

He looked at me for a long moment, but broke away first. After another minute of silence, I reached over and took his hand and squeezed it. He held on to my hand but wouldn't look at me. As we turned onto Saville Row, he said quietly, "Just wondering why I was in such a hurry to come home, that's all."

I was startled at that comment and dismayed by the sadness in his voice as he said it. I couldn't think of what to say in response. Then he turned to look at me and the warm, wicked smile that I loved broke through. "Should have just run off to the south of Spain with you, luv!"

We pulled up in front of the offices and Les got out and opened the door. The receptionist told us that Brian, George and Ringo were already upstairs. Since I knew it was going to be a financial meeting, I stayed downstairs with the secretaries and found myself bombarded with questions about my date with Terry. We were laughing and talking about the whole ritual of the first date when Paul breezed in.

He came back into the secretarial area, smiling and flirting with the girls, and smiled at me. "Hullo, Tess. Did you have fun last night?" Something in his voice told me he was only asking to be polite.

"Yes. I had a good time. We went to Sybilla's after dinner."

"That's a great club. Always some action there . . . Susan, is today's mail in?" Susan brought him a basket of sorted mail and he sat on her desk to look through it.

Someone came up behind me and put his arm around me and held a jar of peanut butter in front of me. I grabbed the jar and said "Oh, Terry! You shouldn't have!"

He laughed. "Flowers are so overdone!"

"Oooh" the secretaries teased. "What does a girl have to do to get peanut butter on the first date?"

"Agree to a second date!" Terry said.

While they laughed, I took a quick look at Paul. I wanted to see his response, hoping for something vaguely resembling jealousy. He looked at me, smiled his meet the press smile, and got up and left.

OK, so jealousy was too much to hope for, but please, please, why couldn't we be friends again? The other times we had spent together were wonderful, even if Friday night had been a mistake. I missed talking to him.

I forced myself not to watch him walk out of the room, consciously composed my facial expression and tried to focus on what Terry was saying. We talked for a while longer, then he got a call and had to leave. Liz called me over to her desk and reported that she had my story all typed. "It's good," she said in her usual no nonsense tone. "Better than a lot of the rubbish they print."

I took the papers and sat down to read it. It looked better typed, and Liz was not a person given to compliments, so I began to finally believe that this whole thing might actually be going to work out. Now all I had to do was show it to Paul.

A little later John and Ringo came downstairs. "John, I need to talk to Paul for a few minutes before we leave," I said dreading what comment he might make almost as much as the meeting with Paul.

"Good. I could do with a pint. Coming, Rich?" George was coming down the staircase as I went up. Of all of them, he was the one whose presence always set off a surge of Beatlemania in me. I had never thought of John as "a Beatle." He was just too much all by himself and he had gone from being my patient to being my friend so quickly he never was "one of THEM." What Paul triggered in me was not the starry eyed adoration of a fan. The only word for it was lust. Ringo always looked at the screaming girls with a "Who, me?" expression. He was so warm, open, down to earth, I immediately forgot I was talking to "Ringo." So George, who hated all the fuss worse than any of them, was the only one who set me off. Thankfully, he never seemed to notice that when he walked in I got tongue-tied. Or maybe he did and that's why he always grinned at me and, as often as not, hugged me. Anyway, it worked and in his quiet way he always made me feel like I was a friend, not just another fan. Today he greeted me with a warm grin.

"So when do I get to do my bit for your college fund?" he asked. Apparently Tony had spoken to him about the interviews I needed. We talked for a few minutes and made plans to do it that evening. When I heard Paul's voice upstairs and my heart thumped and my palms started to sweat, I decided I wasn't up to Paul's cold shoulder.

"George, would you take these papers up to Paul for me?"

He didn't say anything but just looked at me questioningly. "I can't face him if he is going to get angry about my writing again," I explained.

"Nah. I think you should take them," he said grinning at me as if he knew more than he could possibly know. A quick hug and he was gone and I had no choice.

Upstairs, Paul, Brian, and a couple of accountant types were standing in the hall outside the conference room. I hesitated to interrupt but Brian saw me and smiled. "Hello, Tess."

"Hi Brian. I need to talk to Paul for a minute when you're done."

Paul turned to look at me, and one of the accountants said "I've got that information with me . . .," and the others all went back into the conference room, leaving Paul and I standing there looking at each other. No smile now, not even his pleasant meet the press face.

"I . . . I have the first article done. Here." And I held out the papers to him with one hand, a red pencil with the other. He took the papers, the pencil produced a little smile. He only glanced at the first page, then looked at me. Really looked this time. I didn't know what he was thinking, didn't know what to say or do. So I just looked back and felt an ache growing inside. I wanted to go back, back to before he knew about the articles and I'd give up the kiss in the garden to do it.

He glanced over his shoulder into the conference room, up and down the short hall, and then took my arm, opened the door behind me, and pulled me inside with him. A broom closet! Before I could ask him what the hell he was doing he had his arms around me and was kissing me.

Startled, I resisted. For about three milliseconds. Then I lifted my arms up around his neck and melted into the embrace and the kiss, opening my mouth to his. When he let me go a minute later, I swayed unsteadily, my body as confused as my mind. He steadied me, holding me gently. "See, Tess. It's not just the moonlight and roses."

Far from it. Filtered light from the frosted glass in the transom over the door and the smell of cleaning supplies and wet mops. No marijuana. Just the light scent of his aftershave and the warmth of his body and the taste of his kiss.

"It's you and me," I said, believing it this time. As I took the initiative to kiss him again, I felt him reach out to set the papers on a shelf behind me, and then he was holding me. I held on to him desperately. If this was all I could have of Paul McCartney, I would make the most of it.

I ran my fingers through the hair at the back of his neck loving its thick silkiness, touched his face trying to memorize the way he felt, tasted the soft skin of his neck, inhaled the lingering scent of his shampoo and soap. It was sensory overload and I wanted more. His arms were tight around me, but as I touched him, he loosened his hold, letting me run my hands down his arms. I loved the feel of him. As I moved my hand over his chest, all I could think of was how I wanted to unbutton his shirt and touch him. I could feel his heart beating against my hand and that made me kiss him again and again. He responded with kisses that asked for more, demanded and took every thing I could put into a kiss. His hands were moving over me, caressing me as I had him. When his hand moved up to touch my breast there was none of the usual defense reaction, no quick calculation of the situation: Should I let this boy make this move on this date? I just leaned into his hand and kissed him harder. He squeezed gently and stroked me with his thumb. I had always found boys fascination with breasts to be a little amusing, but this was not amusing at all. My nipples were hard and I wanted to feel his hand on my bare skin.

It was almost as if I had said it out loud. He tugged my pullover blouse out of my waist band, slipped his hand under my blouse, and into my bra. It may not have been first time I was touched like this, but no one had ever been so bold about it or done it so smoothly and it had never felt this good! I made a little gasping, moaning sound that was a first. Fumbling with the top button on his shirt I undid it and pressed my face into his neck, kissing him, tasting him, wanting still more.

Time slipped by and all there was in the world was his mouth, his hands, his body. When he slipped his hand out from under my blouse and moved it slowly down over my hip, down to lift me up against him, my body responded. I could barely stand, all I wanted was to feel him against me. I needed to feel him. He was hard, and as he pulled me tight against him I moaned again. Instinct took over and I began to move slowly against him, feeling soft where he felt hard, pressing, rubbing against him in a way that both satisfied yet made me want more. Breathing hard, wanting more, asking for more. This time he was the one to moan.

I stopped abruptly, startled with the realization of what I had been doing. So this is what they mean by getting carried away, I thought. Doing things you didn't know you knew to do and doing them without thinking of anything but how good it feels.

Paul waited, no doubt wondering why I had stopped. I stood there, unable to think straight, unable to decide what to say or do. When I didn't move, didn't speak, he touched my face and tilted my head back to look into my eyes. My first thought when I saw the intensity in his eyes was "Oh, no. I am about to lose my virginity in a broom closet!" But then he smiled and pulled me close and just held me, his warm hands on my back under my blouse just holding me close. He began kissing me again with slow, soft kisses that were even harder to resist than demanding ones.

The intensity built again. I found myself wanting to reach down and touch him. The idea was shocking. I had never even wanted to do that, much less actually done it! If I did, I knew I was forfeiting any right to say "stop." Another unwritten rule of the 60's. If the girl touched the guy she was giving him the green light. Besides, in order to do it, I would have to pull away from him and the magnetic center of the earth had shifted to a spot below my waist. My knees were weak, and if there had been room, I would have pulled him down to the floor. I couldn't stop, and I couldn't go any further. Another new sexual feeling. Frustration.

The sound of voices and footsteps in the hall brought the world back into focus. "John is waiting for me. He's going to wonder where I am," I managed to say.

He looked at me with a smile. "He'll know. He's been singing bits of "You're Going to Lose That Girl" to me every chance he gets. He's --" He broke off suddenly and looked at his watch. "Oh no! I've got a meeting with some people about a score for a movie and I am going to be late! I've got to go, luv." A few more kisses that were supposed to cool things off but threatened to begin it all again. He groaned and pried me away. A quick check to make sure no one was in the hall, and he grabbed the papers off the shelf.

"Ready?" he asked.

"No!" I tried to stuff my blouse back in. I needed time to get myself as well as my clothing back together. "Go on. You don't need to wait for me."

He grinned at my flustered state, kissed me and said "I'll bring these back tomorrow afternoon," and opened the door. I pulled the door shut after him and stood in the broom closet feeling. . . what? I didn't know how I felt. Happier than I could ever remember being one moment, confused the next. Foolish for being in a broom closet with my clothes all rumpled. Worried about the next time I saw him. Would he be cool again? Or would it be like this? And if this did happen again. . .

Not "If." Please let it be "when"! And what then? Pray for another well-timed dog or meeting to bail me out? Say "no"? Would I? He touched me and I was moaning and squirming against him -- and I was going to say no?

Is this how it happened? This crazy can't get enough feeling making you say yes when you knew you should say no? I hadn't dated much in the last couple of years, but I had spent some time in the back seat of a parked car and it had never gotten me to this point! Not even with the one boy I had dated for several months the spring and summer I graduated. I had certainly felt the stirring of these sensations but compared to this, it had been easy to say "Stop." We had gone together all summer and spent hours parked along country roads, but he was gentleman enough to let me set the limits and I was not in love enough to stop being a "good girl." That had ended with only moderate misgivings when I moved to Minneapolis to start school and he was drafted shortly after that. I felt a little good old Catholic guilt about what we had done in the back seat on those summer nights and missed that as much if not more than I missed him. But as much fun as that had been, it wasn't like this. A few "oohs," a definite enjoyment of pressing my body against his, a warm glow in my nether regions, but no uncontrollable moaning, no urge to rub hard and fast against the bulge behind his zipper.

I had been on the sidelines for two years, listening to the other girls talk and giggle about making out, and wondering which ones had gone all the way. Too busy to date any one boy long enough to consider it, way too straight-laced to consider it on a casual basis. But I didn't feel casual about Paul and I certainly was considering it.

OK, so I was more than considering it.

I had never really given a great deal of thought to my virgin status. I assumed that I would lose it on my wedding night, or, as I got older and learned a little more about how these things happened in the real world, I thought perhaps it would be in the back seat of a car -- with an engagement ring safely on my finger and wedding plans underway. But suddenly I was tired of waiting for the right guy, the right time, the right situation. Paul certainly felt like the right guy even if this wasn't the right time, right situation.

So what would I do if the opportunity presented itself? Take a chance and let it happen? Yeah, right. You can't get pregnant the first time. Famous last words. I could just see myself waking up on the first day of school with morning sickness! Ask him to use a condom? I couldn't imagine those words coming from my mouth. And what if he refused? Guys apparently didn't like to use them. That left the pill, a diaphragm, foam, and coitus interruptus. Didn't have, didn't have, unacceptable failure rate if used alone, and just about guaranteed failure.

This was crazy. I was trying to figure out how I could have sex with some guy I would never see again after this summer!

Well, I didn't know exactly how, but crazy or not, I was going to have the pill and Paul McCartney before I left London. I smoothed out my clothes, peeked out to see if the coast was clear, and headed downstairs.

Les was waiting. John had instructed him to drive me home. He had made plans for the evening. I wasn't thrilled about the idea of being the one to tell Cyn, but when I got home I found her all dressed to go out. John had called and told her to meet him. She looked happy again. Mrs. Powell arrived to watch Julian so I was free to go over to George's. Cyn dropped me off on her way.

The interview with George was more fun than I had expected. Away from the craziness, he lost the angry, irritated stance that talking about being a Beatle usually triggered in him. With Pattie teasing him, he talked for a long time, laughing at himself as well as the Beatle crazy world. We sat around the swimming pool in the courtyard, while I did the interview. Then Pattie grilled me about Paul. I tried hard not to say too much, still reeling and confused by that afternoon's encounter with him. She invited me to stay for dinner with them, but I wanted to go home and sit by the phone.

The only phone call I got was from Terry, breaking our weekend date. Brain needed him to drive to him to Liverpool over the weekend. Brian had a couple of groups he was considering taking on, and he wanted to see them perform. Terry sounded a little irritated. Someone else was supposed to go and Brian had changed his mind and called him for no apparent reason. I was actually a little relieved. I wasn't sure what was going to happen with Paul, and going out with Terry might be . . . inconvenient. Terry didn't think he would be back from the tour before I left, and we said goodbye on the phone.

While I waited in vain for Paul to call, I wrote a letter to Mom and Dad, and one to Brenda and Sandy. Carefully edited, it mentioned going to a party at Paul's house, but little else. I honestly wasn't sure they would believe it! Worse, I didn't know how to explain what was happening. You don't just say "Paul McCartney kissed me" and not explain the situation, but I couldn't begin to explain what was going on between us. I didn't understand it myself. We bounced from enjoyable conversations, to hot kisses, to cold shoulder. For that reason and the fact that "Kiss and Tell" with Paul felt like betrayal, it was easier just to say nothing. I did tell my roommates about the date I had with Terry. That was believable and within our frame of dating experiences! It was getting late when I finished the letters. I gave up waiting for the phone to ring and took a long soak in the tub and went to bed.

I had expected Cyn to be cheerful after her night out with John, but she was very quiet the next morning. I had heard them come in around three AM, and John was noisy. I couldn't make out much of what he said, but a little later I heard Cyn's voice from the bottom of the stairs. "All right. I can't handle him when he's like this anyway."

A man's voice answered, saying something about "until morning." It wasn't John's voice. Cyn came upstairs then and I heard her go in to check on Julian before she went to her own room.

The house was very quiet when I got up the next morning. Mal was sleeping on the couch in the living room and John in the sun room. Mrs. Powell was in the kitchen with Julian and she was not in a good mood. I decided it was not the time for questions and after a quick breakfast, I took Julian upstairs to play so he wouldn't awaken John. When we came back down a couple of hours later, Mal was gone, John was still sleeping, Dot had arrived and was doing laundry and Cyn and her mother were not speaking.

Julian and I went outside. I managed to keep Julian occupied for another hour or so and when we went back in, Mrs. Powell had left. Cyn seemed to want to pretend that everything was fine and we set about making small talk and fixing lunch. Dot left to take Julian to nursery school a little later. Finally alone with Cyn -- and hoping John wouldn't chose this time to put in an appearance -- I awkwardly asked her how I could go about getting birth control pills, coaching it in terms of a hypothetical question and knowing darn well my blush and stammer was giving me away. She looked a little surprised. Probably not as surprised as I was to hear myself saying that though. If you didn't grow up in the sixties, I don't know if you can appreciate how bizarre I felt. Nice girls didn't have sex. Well, at least not with someone they hardly knew and hadn't the slightest notion of marrying. I was not a rebel, not a wild child. I played by the rules. I even understood and appreciated the reasons behind them most of the time. But I wanted to have sex with Paul and I was going to do it, so there I was, premeditating, preplanning, preparing for something that I had never, ever imagined I would want to do.

Once I got through the preliminaries of explaining that, no, I didn't mean a refill, I wasn't on them yet, she refrained from asking the obvious question. "Well. . . You'll need to make an appointment. I may be able to get you in to see my doctor. He's private pay and it will cost about 30 pounds--"

I gasped. "30 pounds!"

"If you can get in. It often takes weeks."

"Oh, no!"

"Tess, if you like I can give you a couple months supply of mine. I just got a year's supply."

"But what will you . . ."

She laughed. "Maybe I'll just chance it for a bit. I've always fancied having a little girl. And either way, Julian could use a playmate. Maybe that's just what we need. . ."

A baby. To patch up a marriage. I cringed at the thought. John was already cheating on her. Being pregnant wouldn't solve that. A newborn in the house wouldn't keep him home nights either. If sweet, adorable Julian couldn't do it, no screaming baby would. I struggled to control the expression on my face, but it was too late.

"I know," she said softly. "But sometimes I wonder if it is only a matter of time anyway. He'll move on and that will be it. But at least I'll have his children."

"Maybe now that they aren't touring . . ."

She shrugged. "Maybe. Things are so crazy out there for them. I have always tried to give him a quiet, safe place to come home to. Someplace he can just be himself with no one demanding he keep up the image. But lately, he just . . . I don't know. He doesn't like it out there, but I don't think he is happy here either."

When she first started to talk about her marriage, I had been surprised that she would discuss it with me, but as she went on I realized she was as much a victim of their fame as any of the Beatles. Who could she talk to? She was trapped rattling around in a big house in the suburbs far from all her old friends in Liverpool. John had Paul, George, and Ringo and their friendship went back years. She didn't have three old girlfriends around much less a Brian, Neil, or Mal for companionship as John did. Pattie was a Londoner to begin with and had family and friends here. Maureen was wrapped up in the joy of a new baby and a husband who was thrilled by that baby's arrival. Although the other wives would understand the pressures of marriage to an idol, perhaps she hated to admit to them that her marriage was in trouble. Of course Cyn had her mother, but these are not the sort of confidences one shares with a mother who's apt to say "I told you so!" Who else could she trust to keep what she said confidential? John seemed to trust me and perhaps that was enough for her.

"I used to think that if he could just stay here, things would settle down, we could be an ordinary family finally," she told me. "But I am not sure that is enough for him. I've never questioned him about . . . about what goes on when they are gone. I thought if I held him too close, demanded too much, I would end up losing him that way anyway. But lately . . . I don't think . . . " She stopped and pulled herself together, and I thought she would change the subject but she went on in a voice that told me she was every bit as unhappy as John. "Sometimes I think I should be the one to leave." She laughed a sad little laugh. "Lord knows he has given me plenty of reasons."

"But you still love him!" I said, amazed to hear her say that.

"Oh, yes. You don't ever stop loving someone like John. Sometimes though I think I should just go and get on with my life. Try to find someone else while I'm still young. . ." She stopped, tears in her eyes. "But I won't. I won't just give up." She laughed shakily. "Maybe if I had been as careful as you, and not gotten preggers . . . " She pulled herself together abruptly and changed the subject. "OK, I have to know. Is it Paul, or is Terry back in town?"

If things worked out as I hoped, she would know anyway. "Paul," I said.

Cyn was laughing. "I can't blame you at all. Paul can turn a girls head. Come on. I'll get you the pills. I can get more for myself when I run out."

We went upstairs and she got a packet of pills from her bathroom. In those early days of birth control pills, there was less variability in brands and dosages, and few warnings about the risks of taking someone else's prescribed medication so I had no concerns about taking them. My being a nurse no doubt gave Cyn a false sense of security in giving them to me, too. Cyn explained how to take them; three weeks on, one week off, and that I should take the first one on the first day of my next period.

"You mean I have to wait until then!?" Quick mental calculation. Not due for another five or six days, lasting about five days. At least a week and a half, even two weeks before I could . . . do it.

She laughed at the look on my face. "So its that way is it? How long has this been going on?"

I told her about Paul's effect on me from the moment I met him. How we seemed to be able to talk for hours -- or had until he found out about the deal for the stories. How he had kissed me the night of the party at his house and totally ignored me after. And then today. . .

She looked as confused as I felt. "That's not like Paul," she said. "He doesn't play games. When he wants a girl . . ."

I didn't want to hear that. Cyn saw the look on my face. "He's just being careful. He'll read your article, he'll see it's OK. Then he'll relax."

That afternoon, I wanted to go into the office and see Paul, or at least see what he had red-inked on the stories. If they were OK, I could turn them into Tony. John wasn't up and Cyn assured me he wouldn't be wanting to go anywhere when he did get up. She said Les could take me, and I rushed to change clothes. It was really hot and humid, so I put on a short skirt and cotton blouse that tied in front. I debated on pantyhose and dress shoes, but it was just too hot to dress up so I just slipped on sandals.

When I got to the office, I asked if Paul was in. "He's up in his office. He said to tell you to go on up if you came in today."

I went on upstairs, heart pounding. Paul got up when he saw me in the doorway. He wasn't smiling. He barely looked at me as he shut the door behind me. My heart sank and at the same time a flame of anger sparked. I was tired of this on-again, off-again game. He sat back down behind the desk and gestured to a chair. I felt like an employee being called into the boss's office. I remained standing. The article was lying on the desk in front of him, no red ink on the first page at least. He picked up a pencil and fiddled with it for a minute. Still without looking at me, he said. "I was really hoping it would be awful."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

He looked up at me then, surprised at the sarcasm in my voice. The look on his face caught me by surprise. He looked just plain sad. He got up and came around the desk to me, reaching out for me.

I meant to step back, I really did, but somehow he had his arms around me.

"I thought if it was not good enough to publish, you would just give it up. It is good though. Tony will love it. The fans will be lined up waiting for the second part. And the third. Then the reporters will be back wanting interviews. I am asking you one last time . . . Drop it Tess, I'll pay your school costs, whatever you need, just--"

"I can't, Paul," I said miserably, ready to give up anything he asked me to give up. "I would, but I have an agreement with them. I can't back out now."

"Did you sign anything?'

"No"

"Then it isn't binding--"

"I can't go back on my word!"

He sighed and let go of me. "OK, Tess. OK." He turned his back to me and stared out the window.

I picked up the article and flipped through the pages. No red ink anywhere. "Paul, I don't understand," I said. "There is nothing in this you want out. . . and I'll let you edit the other articles, too."

After a long silence, he turned back to me. "Six months from now, when your car breaks down and the rent is due, and you need money, what then? When this whole thing is a nothing more than a wild summer holiday. What will you tell the reporters then?"

I was stunned. How could he think I would do that? I would never . . . but someone had and not even for money. How could I make him believe me? An idea came to me.

"I don't have a contract with Tony, but I will make one with you." I found a piece of paper and a pen on the desk, sat down and started writing. "I, Theresa Marie Martin, do make this solemn, binding promise to James Paul McCartney, that I will complete the series of three articles already promised to Tony Barrow, and that after the completion of said articles will cease and desist--"

Paul came over to read what I was writing. I got that far before he took the pen out of my hand and pulled me up off the chair. "Enough. Tess, enough." He lead me over to the big leather sofa across the small room. When he pulled me down on his lap, I didn't wait. I put my arms around his neck and kissed him. When I finally let him up for air, he pulled me right back for another kiss.

"I'll have it notarized," I murmured somewhere between kisses. He laughed softly and tipped me back until we were lying together on the sofa. A few minutes later, as he undid my blouse, I said, "I'll sign it in blood." My bra was expertly unhooked and his warm hand was caressing me. His kisses moved down my neck and the warmth of his mouth replaced the touch of his hand.

"I'll sign anything . . . ," I sighed.

I ran my fingers through his hair and when he eventually moved back up to kiss my lips, his hand was on my thigh. He pulled me close against him and his hand slid up under my skirt caressing my thigh before wandering on to my backside. My body reacted by pressing closer to him and I made a little sound that certainly wasn't a protest. I could feel him respond. Not a sound, not a movement exactly, but a power surge, like a car shifting gears.

A little voice in my head warning me this was getting out of control. The old virginity monitor was kicking in. I ignored it. It wasn't enough to be held tight against him, to hold him, to kiss him. I reached up and tugged his shirt out of his waistband so I could touch his bare skin. When his bare chest touched my breasts, I knew that I was in real trouble here. I would have to stop him soon. Stop myself soon. But not yet. I couldn't. Nothing had ever felt so good. Once again I found that even though I had gone this far before, it never felt like this! This was a point I had never gone beyond, had never really wanted to, but this was time I wanted to. Wanted very much to.

His hand was stroking and squeezing and caressing its way up to my waist, then down over my hip. He shifted slightly and slid it between my knees, moving upward slowly. If his intent was to give me time to say "No" it didn't work. The fire he had started there yesterday was rekindled and all I wanted was to feel his touch. I sighed, half pleasure, half despair because I knew I couldn't let this go any further, I really needed to stop him. This is where I had to draw the line. It wasn't fair to let him think I was ready to go further when the only place left to go was all the way and I couldn't risk that. Not yet.

Too late. His hand was there, touching me, fingers stroking me ever so lightly through the silky nylon of my underwear. I gasped and he stopped. He lifted his mouth from mine and moved his lips to my ear. "Ah, Tess," he said with a little teasing laugh in his soft voice. "Think what you could have if you just forgot about playing reporter altogether." His fingers pressed a little harder against me and I was so lost in the feeling that his words didn't register for a moment. Then, somehow through the haze of pleasure, a thought intruded. "He is rewarding you!"

I froze, and other thoughts piled in through the crack created by the first. That night in the garden was for agreeing to let him read the articles. Yesterday in the broom closet was for following through and bringing the papers to him. Today I offered him a contract agreeing not to write anything else. And in between the rewards, he ignored me.

"Oh, no. Please, no," I said, somewhere between a moan and whimper.

"It's OK. luv, the door--"

"No!" I pushed his hand away and struggled to get untangled from him.

"Tess! What--?"

"That's what it was all along, wasn't it? Rewards for doing what you wanted!" I pushed free of him and jumped to my feet, clutching my blouse shut and suddenly feeling naked and embarrassed.

"What are you talking about?"

I turned my back to him and choked out the words as I tugged at my clothes. "Promise you that you could edit them first -- and get a kiss!"

"Tess--"

"Bring you the pages and get groped in a broom closet!" I was shaking with fury and humiliation as I struggled to get my bra hooked.

"I didn't--"

But I wasn't done. "Promise you no more articles ever and get screwed!!"

"Tess!! It's not like that at all!" He was on his feet, reaching for me. I couldn't push him away, my hands were trying to tie my blouse. I spun away from him.

"Listen to me!"

"Leave me alone!" I yelled at him. I grabbed the papers and my purse off the desk and ran for the door. After a brief struggle with the door, I realized it was locked. Good planning, Paul! Wouldn't want anyone walking in during the behavior modification session! I found the button to unlock it, turned the knob, and escaped into the hall, slamming the door behind me. I stood there for a moment, realizing I couldn't go through the lobby like this. I needed a place to pull myself together. I headed for the enclosed stairway at the back of the building. Down at the turn of the first landing I stopped and collapsed on the top step sobbing.

"Stupid, Stupid, Stupid!" I screamed at myself as the tears poured. "You are in so far over your head with this guy!" Nothing had ever taught me to play these kind of games. Sex as a method of control. I dug in my purse for a Kleenex and got the tears under control easily enough because I simply had to. I couldn't walk out of here looking like this. I was scrubbing at the mascara smears under my eyes when I heard the door above me open. Footsteps came down the stairs and I looked up. Of course it was Paul.

I froze. I couldn't face the secretaries downstairs, and didn't know where else to go. He came half way down and when I didn't get up and run, he sat down on the upper staircase. I watched him warily. He ran his hand through his hair and couldn't seem to look at me. He sat with his elbows on his knees, staring down at his hands clasped in front of him. He looked upset, uncertain and most definitely unhappy. As he sat there, the image of that night at the park by the lake came back to me. Weight of the world on his shoulders, not knowing what to do. The knot of anger in my chest began to melt. Time ticked by in the hot stairwell. Finally he sighed, straightened up and looked at me. His voice was low, quiet. Not persuasive, not charming me. Just telling me something he wanted me to understand.

"When I found out you were writing for Tony I knew I should stay away from you. But I . . . I couldn't. Then I thought maybe I could talk you out of it so that we . . ." He stopped for a moment, then looked away. My heart was pounding.

"I knew I shouldn't kiss you," he went on, leaving his last comment unfinished. He laughed a short, self mocking laugh that touched and thrilled me at the same time.. "I knew it, but I did anyway . . . And the next day I swore it wouldn't happen again. If I wouldn't talk to you, I had no business kissing you . . . but yesterday . . ." He shrugged, hands in a gesture of surrender.

He tried again. "Tess, I wasn't trying to . . ." He stopped again, frustrated at not finding the words. Then looked at me and blurted it out. "All I want is to be able to be with you and not worry about what could end up in some fan magazine."

As I listened, I heard more than just the words. I heard Mr. P.R., the guy who always seemed to know the right words to say to please the fans, satisfy the press, searching, fumbling for the words to explain, to apologize. I heard the real Paul McCartney, the one that usually hid behind the smile and kept his feelings to himself. And I heard in his voice the same desire I had. To go back, make it the way it was before. To go on and make it more.

"I'm sorry. luv," he said. "I never wanted to hurt you. I just . . . I'm sorry."

I couldn't say anything. I reached for the railing between us to pull myself up, knowing my knees wouldn't hold me. He looked up at me as I reached out across the railing to touch his face. He reached for my hand, kissing my fingers as his hand closed around mine.

"What do we do now, Tess?" he asked as he stood up. "You have to finish the articles, and I . . ." He trailed off, not wanting to say again that he didn't want me to write them.

"And you'll never be comfortable with that," I ended for him. Ellen had really done a job on him.

Another silence, our hands together on the railing. Then Paul said, "How long will it take for you to finish it?"

"I don't know. I've got the second part almost done. I did the interviews with the others for the last one, but I was thinking about talking to some of the gatebirds for it, too."

"What is it going to be about?"

I took a deep breath. I didn't know how he would take this. "It's going to be about what it is like for you on tour, how your music has changed, where you want to go -- and on what the fans mean to you. Tony wants to make it clear that they are important so that when they find out there won't be any more tours, they'll understand why and they'll know you are just trying to give them your best."

He listened carefully. "The interviews with the others. . . you asked how they felt about touring, about the fans?"

"Yes."

"And George actually said something printable?"

I had to laugh, even though he asked it in all seriousness. "With a little editing, yes. He talked about how great he thought it was at first until it became something that had to be done because it was good business for everyone that had become involved. He just wants the music to be good and the fans to be reasonable about his privacy."

"And what are you planning to say about how I feel? 'Paul declined to be interviewed'?"

"I haven't quite figured out what to do about that," I admitted. "But I can say I was there when you were trying to decide whether to go ahead with the Minneapolis concert. That you were concerned about the fans getting what they paid for."

He looked at me, considering. Finally, he said "Would it make it a little easier, a little faster, if I agreed to an interview?"

"Yes."

"Day after tomorrow at four. My house. I'll give you the interview."

"You don't have to do that."

"If I want to spend time with you, I do," he said quietly. "And I do."

I reached up for him and we met across the railing in a kiss that felt like a promise. "Write fast, Tess," he murmured as he held me for a moment before letting me go. "Now lets get out here before I melt."

I picked up my purse and the papers and we headed down the stairs out into the cool air of the first floor. Les was across from the receptionist's desk, reading a newspaper while he waited. Paul took the papers from me and handed them over to the receptionist. "See that Tony gets these, would you, luv?"

"Saturday at four," he said to me as I headed out the door.