Days in the Life

Chapter Nineteen

I ended up going to bed early that night, probably around eleven o'clock or so, since I knew we had a very early flight to Seattle the next morning. Paul and the others stayed downstairs in the living room, probably smoking their daily dose of marijuana and messing around with the tempera paints and paper that Neil had gotten a hold of from a store earlier that evening. Apparently they got a big kick out of painting massive pictures on the huge oversize sheets of art paper; John mentioned that they'd done that before occasionally while on tour. Their goal earlier that night, just to have something to work for, had been to design a new cover for their next album. However, that fell apart after a while as phone calls from England came in for George and Ringo, and John and Neil went out to find some fast food to eat. The two of them brought back burgers and fries and an ice cream sundae for me from a Dairy Queen not too far from the house. After I had my ice cream, I decided to head upstairs to bed. Paul said he'd be along soon, but it must have been close to four hours later before he finally fell into bed next to me. He was too tired to be bothered with watching television on the small color TV on the dresser or conversation, or even sex, for that matter.

The next morning I got up around seven and showered quickly so that Paul could sleep a bit longer and have the bathroom available when he finally awoke. I opened the heavy drapes a little bit after dressing in my white sleeveless blouse and navy skirt, nudging Paul's bare shoulder with my hand.

"Paul…wake up. It's quarter to eight," I said, watching him get a cranky look on his face as I shook him. "We've got to be out of here in an hour…get up."

He rolled over, hiding his face in my pillow, and said, "I know…I know…just five more minutes…"

"Yeah, and then it turns into twenty," I said, buckling my shoe. "I'll be downstairs eating breakfast…you'd better get up."

"I know!" he shouted, muffled by the pillow. "Come off it—I'll be up…I know I can't sleep all day…"

I rolled my eyes. O-kay; time to get out of there and let him be by himself before he got up on the wrong side of the bed, I thought as I headed downstairs to the dining room, where the only souls at the breakfast table were Neil, Brian, Mal, and George.

"Aren't the others up yet either?" I asked, sitting down next to George and unfolding the forest green linen napkin on the plate in front of me.

George nodded. "Yeah; Ringo already ate breakfast…but John's still fast asleep upstairs…and where's Paul?"

I shrugged. "Asleep, too…how late were you guys up last night?"

"Well, I went off to bed about one o'clock," George began after sipping his orange juice, "and Ringo was already in bed by that point as well. John and Paul were down here tinkering with those Penny Lane and Strawberry Fields songs for God knows how long."

"'Till about three-thirty," Neil interrupted, turning away from his view of the patio out the window next to us. "They were messing about in the hallway and woke me up; my alarm clock said three thirty when I looked over at it."

"And they're going to run on four hours of sleep?" I questioned. "Now that's going to be a hoot."

Just as I was finishing up the plateful of scrambled eggs the kitchen staff had made up for me (since the members of the band had their preferred meal of cornflakes and the others settled for coffee and toast), John and Paul finally emerged from upstairs, both looking decidedly bedraggled as they sat down to their bowlfuls of cold cereal.

"So…I heard you two were up late screwing around with those songs again," I said to strike up conversation.

Paul nodded, chewing on a mouthful of cereal. After swallowing, he said, "Yeh…we made some changes to my song…it's all about just Penny Lane and not the entire town."

"Oh," I said, playing with the dried crusts from the toast on my plate, arranging the pieces into two little squares. Neither of them appeared to want to wake up completely. I was certain that they were going to sleep away the majority of the flight to Seattle that morning, but the way things went once we got on the plane, they didn't have a chance to get any rest whatsoever.

We'd left the house just a few minutes behind schedule, but we managed to get to the airport a little over a half an hour later and boarded the plane at nine-thirty. The Beatles and I settled into our seats at the back of the puddle-hopper jet, our usual gathering place, with the others seated closer to the front of the plane. Brian had gotten a hold of a Seattle newspaper from someone at the airport and read through it, looking for advance press about the group when he suddenly started laughing. A few moments later, he approached us, newspaper in hand, pointing to an item on one of its pages.

"According to this, there has been a whole mass of arrangements made for a wedding at the Edgewater Hotel," he said, handing the paper to Paul. "They're all under the name 'Mr. Bartholomew'…but for some reason, they've taken it upon themselves to claim that they're for you, Paul, and that you and Jane Asher are getting married there today."

Paul's eyes practically popped out of their sockets as the other three Beatles cracked up hysterically. "Gerron…let me see this," Paul muttered as I leaned over to read the item with him.

The "article" turned out to be more like a lengthy item in a gossip column than a bona fide article. According to the reporter, Jane Asher was supposedly sneaking into Seattle with the Beatles and would marry Paul that very day at the hotel. Paul made a face after reading it.

"Now where would they come up with that lot?" he remarked, handing the paper back to Brian.

"I have no clue—ohhhh…ohhhh my God," I said as a thought popped into my mind. "Careena…She said her father worked for a paper in Seattle, didn't she?"

Paul nodded, rolling his eyes.

"I'll bet you anything that she blabbed to him that she thought I was Jane Asher and he printed it, thinking he had a big scoop," I said, putting the puzzle together. "Oh, man…"

I explained to Paul and the others how she'd caught sight of me before we'd left the plane that day and swore that I was Jane. Brian shook his head. "No more commercial flights," he said softly. "I had a feeling it would be a problem."

Around one-thirty or so, the plane landed in Seattle in gray, cloudy weather—quite a change from the L.A. sunshine we'd been soaking up for the past day. I sighed; well, just as long as it doesn't start raining, I could handle it for just the day. As we exited the plane, Neil and I stayed way in the back of the group, just in case some other half-blind person mistook me for Jane Asher in disguise and the rumor really got out of hand. I took the second limo along with Brian and Mal to the concert venue, one of the few occasions that I didn't ride along with the Beatles in their car.

"The reporters are going to have a field day with this whole story," Neil said as we drove along. "It's going to be a good giggle."

"I can't help feeling a little like it's my fault, though," I remarked. "If I hadn't been around Paul, maybe—"

"No, no, no; it's far from your fault, luv," Neil said. "If that little chickie hadn't seen you, she would've seen one of the other ladies and thought it up—Brian's secretary Wendy, that Teen Set reporter that's been going 'round with us…"

"But it's caused a problem," I said.

"Really, Laurie, it's not even a problem. All we've got to do is have the lads and Tony Barrow disspell the rumors at the press conference this afternoon. Who knows? Maybe it'll give us some publicity and we'll sell out the rest of the tickets for the show."

"Yeah, but then Paul has to go through the third-degree with the press for the umpteenth time, and—"

"They do that every day. This isn't a terrible thing like the Jesus Christ situation; this one should be easily navigable. There aren't hordes of people armed with sticks and stones running after us, calling us blasphemers and the like. Perhaps all that there might be very upset are a few Paul McCartney fans wailing outside that hotel."

I smiled. "As long as they don't try to crash the 'ceremony'," I said. "Otherwise the real Mr. Bartholomew might have quite a memorable wedding."

"Yeah! Can you imagine that?" Neil laughed.

After slipping past an army of fans outside the Seattle Coliseum, we raced into the seemingly safe confines of the backstage area of the concert hall—not a bad setup, really. We had our own press conference room just down the hall from the dressing room (which, by the was, was really crappy—just a long mirror on the wall, a couple long wooden benches, and a few folding chairs), but the press room was nicely organized.

"And this is the star dressing room?" I questioned as we all surveyed our surroundings. "I'd hate to see what the supporting acts got to stay in."

George laughed. "They probably had to change in the bus."

Thank goodness the Beatles weren't the first act performing that afternoon—we'd arrived at the concert hall a little after 2 p.m., and the show was due to start at three o'clock with the opening acts. All in all, it typically took the four Beatles about half an hour to get into their stage suits (for this show they wore the fawn-colored pinstriped jackets and trousers with the funky multicolored bluish shirts) and put on their stage makeup.

"I don't know why we even bother with this stuff," George said as he powdered his face with the thick powder. "It's not as if anyone in the stands will be able to tell the difference if we have it on or not."

"The press photography," Paul reminded him, wiping the powder across his forehead. "They get close enough to notice…besides, you'll have it all sweated off by the end of the first song."

I dabbed my finger into Paul's powder dish and brushed some of the makeup across my forehead; it didn't quite match my skin, considering that Paul had a much paler complexion than I had, so I snatched a Kleenex from my purse and started scrubbing at it.

"Man, I think if I had to wear this all the time I'd end up with the world's worst case of blemishes," I said, really digging in with my fingertips. "This stuff doesn't want to come off…"

I ended up with a big red mark across my forehead as a result of scrubbing at my face so hard.

"Aye, well, you're pretty without it, anyroad," Paul said quietly, turning to me and smiling for a moment.

Now, of course, you know that comment wasn't going to be taken lightly and without comment by the others!

"Aww; in't that sweet?" Ringo squeaked in a girlish voice.

"Paul's got a girlfriend! Paul's got a girlfriend!" John laughed, reaching over and knocking a dollop of powder onto Paul's nose.

"Oh, come off it," Paul muttered, spreading out the superfluous makeup onto his face. "You three blokes are married, for God's sake…as if it's something obscene…"

As they continued their banter, I dropped back and took a seat on one of the folding chairs against the wall. Amidst their yelling and joking around, Neil and Brian taking turns answering the phone (which seemed to be just practically ringing off the hook that afternoon), and the general noise of stagehands and promoters coming and going, I finally figured out just how to block out the entire scene and have some quiet for myself…how to turn off my mind, relax, and float downstream into my own little world…just like they had to do when things got rough.

I checked my watch and wondered what Claire was up to at home. Probably heading home from high school at Breckhurst, I thought. Poor kid—back in school already…and with four more years of that place ahead of her! The three years I'd spent at Rosary so far seemed so much shorter than the unforgiving four years I'd spent in high school. I guess college just goes much faster because you're choosing classes you like, rather than sitting through eight periods and lunch every day, doing the same thing over and over and over again until your head feels like it's going to start dribbling liquid brains out your ears from overuse.

Paul got up from the table after a few more minutes of primping and reached for his bass. "Hey, Nell…is everything taken care of at the house?" he asked as the others followed him.

Neil nodded. I gave Paul a look as the four of them lined up at the door, instruments in hand, ready to rock the roof off of the Coliseum.

"What's that about?" I pressed, standing up and approaching Paul so he could hear me. Already the sounds of a very excited audience were leaking down the hallway.

"Nothing," Paul said, leading the group into the hall.

"Come on! It must be something," I said, pushing ahead of the others and dashing up next to him.

"Noth-ing," he sang sweetly. "Never you mind, luv…hey, you'd better go hide in the dressing room—you don't have your press pass with you!"

I looked down and realized that I'd left my press pass necklace on the bench in the dressing room. "Oh," I said, stopping and letting them go past me, then shouted after them, "Good luck!"

So the show went on that afternoon, leaving me puzzled about Paul's little "it's nothing" comment. Now what did he have up his sleeve? He sure as hell wasn't about to propose marriage to me, as far as I could tell. He'd been going out with Jane for three years and had never even asked her to marry him! Why should he ask me to do such a thing after only three weeks? Needless to say, he'd left me clueless.

Half an hour later, the lads were back in the dressing room. As soon as he set down his guitar, John pulled off his jacket and flung it into a pitiful heap on the bench next to me.

"Eh, Paul? You got any ciggies?" he asked. "I'm dead out of them…and I could use one before this press conference."

"John…if I added up how many smokes you've 'borrowed' from me, I'd be counting until I'm old and grey," Paul said, tossing his pack of Dunhills to John. "And those just happen to be the most expensive kind, too…"

John pulled one of the slim little rolls of tobacco from the package and handed the box to George and Ringo, who both proceeded to "borrow" one from Paul as well. The four of them had puffed up the room with a light haze of tobacco smoke within ten minutes.

"How was the show?" I asked them.

"Not bad. The bloody mics were awful, though," Paul commented thoughtfully, picking a piece of fuzz off of his sleeve. "They're suspended from the ceiling; they kept swinging around the whole time! I did 'Paperback Writer' entirely on my tiptoes. I hope they fix them before the next show."

"I'm on it already," Neil said quickly, diverting his attention briefly away from the conversation he was having on the phone. He wrote something down on a sheet of paper resting on the chair next to him and handed it to Brian.

Brian nodded after reading whatever he'd scribbled down, looking rather stressed that day. He popped one of those little prescription pills into his mouth and washed it down with a swish of Coke.

"You'd better watch it, Eppy, or you'll take one too many of those someday," John said, opening the bathroom door so he could to rinse his stage makeup off.

"I know how many I take, John," Brian replied, pocketing the bottle of pills. "I take them only when I need them."

"Which must be about every twenty minutes from the way you carry on," John muttered quietly before turning on the faucet in the sink. "Christ…"

For some reason, Brian looked extremely hurt at John's comment. He quickly started heading for the door. "I'll be back…I have to go check on…something…"

He opened the door and practically fled out of the room, much less walking out in a dignified manner to go see to some business matter.

"Oooh, you had him dead near tears, John," Paul said, getting up to close the door.

"Aye, well…he's gotta get a few facts straight in his head, if you know what I mean," John replied after toweling off his face.

"Among getting other things straight," George muttered, flipping through the pages of a copy of Look magazine that someone had left in the dressing room.

I frowned. "What are you talking about? It was just a disagreement."

"More like a lover's spat," Paul said in a low voice, "at least on Brian's part."

I opened my mouth to inquire exactly what the hell he meant by that, but Tony Barrow interrupted me with a knock at the door.

"They're ready for you, lads," he said, peeking his head around the door, then closing it again.

As Paul got up to quickly change his sweat-drenched shirt and jacket, I dashed over to him and asked, "What did you mean by that?"

Paul smiled as he unbuttoned his shirt. "You haven't noticed it?" he asked, genuinely surprised.

"Noticed what?" I whispered as he pulled his arms out of the shirt sleeves and reached for his traveling shirt hanging on the rack.

"Well…on all the occasions you've been around Brian, have you ever seen any women around him?"

"Well…no; just his secretary, Wendy what's-her-name," I replied.

"Wendy Hanson," Paul corrected me, straightening the collar on his shirt. "And she's the only one you'll ever see around him."

I frowned for a moment, not making the connection, but then….

"Oh…you mean he's, uh—"

"Yeah; you get the idea."

Paul pocketed the pack of Dunhills that Ringo had left on the bench in the corner and started for the door. I followed after him. "I had no idea…honestly! It just never quite occurred to me… But what does that have to do with John and him fighting? Oh, don't tell me that John is—"

"Oh, no, no, no—not a chance. He's as straight as they come…but we all think that Brian has a little crush on him…and obviously Mr. Lennon doesn't want to return the attention."

"Hmm…well…" I said, thinking this new tidbit of gossip over.

Paul noticed I'd gotten really quiet all of a sudden after hearing the news, so he said, "Hey, Laurie, don't let what I've told you change your opinion of Brian. He's a great bloke; it has no bearing over how he gets his work done. We couldn't have gotten this far without him."

"Oh, of course. I mean, I don't care what he does on his own time," I said, following Paul down the hall; this time I'd been sure to grab my press pass before leaving the room.

"I know, I know…you'd better hurry back to the room, luv," Paul said as we neared the press room and the flash bulbs started flashing on the photographers' cameras.

I nodded, rushing back to the safe haven and closing the door securely behind me. I was the only one in the room at that point, with Mal posted right outside the door as security. So, while the Beatles faced the press at their conference, I decided to try and call home. Thursday evening…probably around seven-thirty or so at home…someone should be there…

"Hello?" I heard my mother say.

"Hi, Mom!" I said cheerily.

"Laurie! How are you?"

"Great. We're out on the West Coast right now; I wanted to call home before it got too late over there."

"Oh, that's right; you're in the Pacific time zone right now…So, how's California?"

"Actually, we're in Seattle right now, just for two shows today, and then we'll be going back to Los Angeles," I explained. "Oh, Mom, the house in L.A. is just gorgeous! We—I've got a room that overlooks the patio area and the pool."

Eeech; I'd slipped up on that one! I said "we" instead of "I." Great going, Laurie…Maybe she won't pick up on it…

"Well, that sounds wonderful…Have you been, uh, minding your manners?" she said, her voice changing into a pitch that just automatically indicated that she meant a lot more than my manners by that statement!

"Of course!"

"I'm not going to hear about any problems when you get back home, am I?"

"Moth-er!" I shouted. "I'm not stupid!"

I didn't want to go into any further detail on the issue, lest I fucked up again and let something slip. Hey, I wasn't lying…too much; I wasn't stupid. I knew that I had to use birth control. And at that point I didn't consider sleeping with Paul a stupid thing to do.

"All right," she sighed, not entirely convinced. "Consider yourself warned."

Oh, man! She knows! I thought fervently. She must know!

"Look, Mom, I have to get going; I can't stay on the phone too long," I said, cutting the conversation short. "Is anything interesting going on at home?"

"No, not really," she said. Then in the background I heard Claire making a big fuss. "Oh, Laurie, I think Claire wants to talk to you."

"Put her on, then," I said, drumming my fingers on John's guitar case set upright on the floor next to me. I waited a few seconds, then I heard Claire say, "Hello, Laurie!"

"Hi, Claire! What's up?"

"I start high school tomorrow," she said happily. "I went to freshman orientation today; it was fab! Mary Kay and I have four classes together: biology, algebra, home economics, and English. We lucked it out!"

"That's really great, Claire," I said, smiling. "When I started there, I had Cheryl in just one class with me—Spanish--and that was it…and crabby old Mrs. Potter made up a seating chart and put us on totally different sides of the room."

"Ick…well, at least I can buy a hot lunch now and stay at school during the whole day instead of coming home for lunch."

"Oh, trust me; a week of that cafeteria food and you'll be begging for Alice Donaldson's peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and potato chips," I said. "Whatever you do, don't get the macaroni and cheese—Cheryl, Anna, and I have all come to the conclusion that they use Elmer's Glue in it instead of cheese."

"Yuck; I'll watch out for that one," she laughed. "Hey, do you have the book Merchant of Venice? We're supposed to have it for class on Monday, and the bookstore at school and Bingley's Books in town are both sold out of it."

"Yeah; I think the entire freshman class reads a certain Shakespeare play—whichever one they pick for the year," I said. "I had to read Much Ado About Nothing."

"So…how's the guys? How's John?"

"He's fine," I laughed. "No one's taken any shots at him yet."

"Laurie, that's not even funny…you'll jinx everything!" she shouted. "Watch; someone'll sabotage the plane or something and he'll die…"

"Gee, great to know that you're concerned about me and not John," I said sarcastically. "Really, Claire; we have our own jetliner. It's really nice. We've only been on one commercial flight the entire tour so far…but our jetliner is wonderful…We'll all make it home in one piece."

"Well…okay," she said. "I have to get going; is the book in your room?"

I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to visualize exactly which shelf I'd put that book on. "Hmm…I think it's in the…small bookshelf, top shelf," I said. "And don't mess up my room looking for it."

"I won't…jeez…," Claire muttered. "Hey, I just heard a song by a really cool group on the radio. They're called the Monkees—they're going to have their own TV show starting in a couple weeks. They remind me way too much of the Beatles."

"Well, who wouldn't want to see the Beatles on their TV every week?" I laughed. "What's the song?"

"Something about the last train to Clarksville or something," she said. "I didn't catch the title…but they've been playing it a lot all week, and Mary Kay already went out and bought their album. And there was an article in one of my magazines about them—the one named Davy is pretty darn cute."

"Hmm…well, I'll have to take a look when I get home," I said, checking my watch. Time to cut it short…

"Do you need to tell Mom anything else?"

"Nope; I don't think so," I replied.

"Well, good…because she just went downstairs to pull the laundry out of the washing machine."

"Cool…okay; I'll talk to you in a few days, okay?"

"When are you coming home? Monday, is it?"

"No. Tuesday," I said, mentally racing through the rest of the tour schedule. Day off, day off, L.A. show, San Francisco show…that would bring us to Tuesday, all right.

"Okay…see ya then!"

"Bye, Claire," I said, hanging up the phone. It was only a little while later when the Beatles returned to the dressing room; they appeared to be in halfway decent spirits.

"So…how'd it go?" I questioned them.

"Not bad at all, really," Ringo said. "Paul took care of those nasty marriage rumors right away—that was one of the first things they asked about."

Paul nodded, searching for his black stage suit on the rack of clothes. "It wasn't that bad. It was just the standard faire of questions: Jane Asher…our views on Christianity…oh, and they made us honorary citizens of Seattle, too."

"Well, that's something different," I offered.

"We've been through that so many times that we're citizens of just about every city on earth," John commented.

Instead of staying confined to the dressing room again, I went with Neil to the eight o'clock show that night, standing in the shadows of the stage entrance. The crowd was much wilder than the audience that had seen their afternoon show. A whole bunch of kids tried to crash the stage during one point in the show, but, of course, barely came near the Fabs before getting whisked away. The kids in Seattle seemed really flashbulb-happy—at any given moment, it looked like there were a thousand little flashes of bright light going off in the audience. Maybe I just hadn't noticed it at the outdoor venues we'd been at during this tour.

"Those kids must be mad if they think they're going to get any decent pictures," I commented to Neil above the din of the shrieking fans during "If I Needed Someone." "All they're going to end up with when they get that film developed is some very nice pictures of the back of the people's heads two rows in front of them."

Neil laughed. "Well, you can't blame them for trying, can you? I suppose you never tried anything like that, either?"

"Okay—ya got me; I'm guilty!" I giggled, crossing my arms. "I tried getting some pictures at their show at Comiskey Park last year…needless to say, those pictures didn't quite turn out."

I clutched my purse tightly in my right hand as the Beatles took their bows at the end of the show. Neil tapped my shoulder and said, "Laurie, we'd better head for the car; they're going to be making a mad dash outside as soon as they get their guitars off of them, you know."

"Oh, all right," I said, turning around with him and hurrying through the long maze of low-ceilinged corridors to one of the back entrances where the limousine was parked with the engine running. Neil and I hopped in quickly, making sure to lock the door securely behind us once we were seated. About one minute later, Brian joined us, sitting next to me.

"Well, that's it for the indoor concerts," Brian commented, watching the service door closely for any sign of the lads emerging from inside. "The last two shows are at baseball parks."

"At least we don't have to worry about it raining," I commented. "They'll be in California—I don't think it ever rains there."

That was the last thing any of the three of us said while we waited, save for the brief instructions that Neil gave the driver after my raining comment. Five minutes later, the Beatles came dashing outside. Somehow the four of them had managed to get back to the dressing room, pack up their instruments, change into their street clothes, and make a run for the back door all in a period of less than ten minutes. They all leaped into the car, and that's just about when we heard this wall of screams come flying at us, right before George slammed the door shut. A huge gang of fans came running at us from behind, arms flailing in the air, like a herd of wild elephants on a stampede.

"Well, go on, mate; what're you waiting for?" Neil asked just as the driver put the car into gear and stepped on the gas, jerking all of us in our seats as the car lunged forward. We picked up speed nicely as we turned onto the street, heading straight for the airport.

There was only a handful of fans at the airport, easy for the security guards to keep under control. I really wondered exactly how those all those fans in all those cities we'd visited managed to find out exactly which flight and what time the Beatles would be at the airport. I certainly never had had access to information like that…but somehow someone found out in every town and there was at least some sort of limited mayhem at the airport when the Beatles arrived and departed.

After going through the terminal, we emerged on the tarmac and saw the plane that was going to take us back to L.A. Our regular jetliner was nowhere to be seen—we'd been booked on an ancient-looking puddle-hopper! Paul made a face as he surveyed the side of the plane as we boarded.

"I don't like the looks of this," he said nervously, frantically digging in his pockets for his cigarettes, ready to go into a nicotine fit if he couldn't have a smoke and relax.

We took our seats, Paul and I seated in the halfway-tattered old chairs next to each other. I looked over at him as he tried lighting a cigarette; his hands were shaking.

"Oh, Paul, really," I sneered. "Come on; we'll be fine!"

George stood up after about five minutes of twiddling his fingers and waiting impatiently for any sign that the flight was going to depart soon. "Hey, we have to wait for all the stage equipment to get here before we can leave—anyone want to join me for a smoke outside?"

Ringo and John got up to follow him outside, as did one of the guys from the Remains who was sitting nearby. They probably had time for only one smoke outside, for the instruments and stage equipment arrived less than five minutes later. Everything was packed up quickly, and soon George and the others came back inside and found their seats again.

"Well, we're on our way," I said as the steward sealed the door shut at the front of the plane. A few seconds later, I looked out the window and saw the propellers start to spin—and also make quite a racket!

"Good god!" John said as everyone looked out the window at the very unsteady-looking blades chopping through the air. "The damn things are going to fall off!"

"Oh, come off it, Lennon," Neil scoffed, turning around in his seat as the plane slowly began to roll towards the runway. "It sounds worse than it really is. I—"

BANG!

I let out a scream, as did many of the others on the plane, jumping about a mile high in our seats. The engine on the plane had backfired and scared the living shit out of all of us!

"Nope! I'm out of here!" I heard the drummer of the Remains say just before he stood up in his seat. One of the Ronettes was shouting something about "let me off of this thing!" as well. I craned my neck above the high-backed seat in front of me, trying to get a better view of what was going on ahead of me.

I heard the propellers shut off, and the pilot was actually bringing the plane back to the terminal so anyone who had any objections could get off of the plane. Paul looked visibly shaken, as did Ringo. George just kind of shrugged it off as three people got off of the plane. John, who had somehow gotten hold of a small writing portfolio he carried around in his suitcase and was in the process of writing a letter or something, also seemed oblivious to the goings-on around him.

"Paul, Ringo…you're sure you two are all right now? Or do you and your Buddy Holly complexes want to get off the plane?" Neil leaned over and asked them.

Paul nodded. "I'm all right," he said, slouching down in his seat. "Let's just get to L.A. as fast as we can…I need some sleep."

"How about you, Laurie?" Neil asked me quickly. "Last call…"

I shook my head. "I'm fine," I answered him. "I've flown through thunderstorms over the Atlantic when the only thing around to land on was a two-mile deep ocean of water."

Ringo told Neil that he was fine, too…so we were on our way again. I nervously watched out the window as the plane gathered speed on the runway, and I noticed that there was a line of airport fire trucks gathered along the side of the runway…just in case, I suppose. I wasn't going to dare mention it to anyone else—no need to cause any more hysteria that night!

Thank God that was the most eventful part of the flight that night. Everyone calmed down after a little while, settling into their chairs for a nap. The lights inside the cabin were dimmed and everyone was slowly falling asleep. I couldn't say I blamed them—I'd rather be asleep during the flight rather than sitting up all anxious about the mechanical stability of the plane we were on!

Paul closed those cute brown eyes of his and dozed off after about half an hour, so I left him alone. George and a few of the members from the other bands moved to the back of the plane to talk quietly and not wake up anyone else. John was the only other Beatle awake; sitting right across the aisle from Paul and me, he was still busily writing. I got up slowly so as not to wake Paul and sat next to John. "What are you up to?" I asked.

"Writing a letter home," he said, pausing from his scribble and rereading what he'd written so far.

I looked at the other contents of the small folder. There was a black and white picture of John tucked into one of the pockets; someone else was next to him in the picture, but that part of the photo was covered up by the folder flap.

"Can I see the picture?" I asked, tapping the edge of it.

John nodded, pulling it out and handing it to me without so much as a glance up from his work. It turned out to be a picture of him, Cynthia and their son sitting in a very fancy-looking garden somewhere.

"Where's this?" I asked.

"The house," he answered, starting to write again. "That picture's about a year old or so…the baby's grown since then."

I studied the tiny little image of John's son on the picture. "How old is he?"

John looked up at the ceiling for a moment, calculating the numbers in his head. "He's…he was just three in April," he said after thinking it over.

"His name's, uh—"

"Julian," John said, closing his folder for a moment and looking at the picture with me. "Well, actually, that's sort of his middle name, you know; his full name is John Charles Julian Lennon…Looks more like his mum than me."

"Hmm…I think you're wrong there," I said, shaking my head. "I think he looks a terrible lot like you…especially with that little semi-Beatle haircut he's got going there. You and him have the same eyes…and the same smile, at least in this picture."

I handed the photo back to him, and he tucked it back in his folder. "He's in nursery school now," John said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his stomach as he closed his eyes. "Cyn tells me he's quite a troublemaker…I can't believe she wants to have another one…she's talking about maybe a girl this time."

So…Cynthia wanted to have another baby? Hmm… "Well, at least you'll have some time to spend with them after this tour, right?" I asked.

He shook his head tiredly. "No…a few days, maybe. I'm going off to do that film with Dick Lester when this is all over with."

"Oh…don't you ever get a chance to see your son?" I asked.

"Well…no. I think our cleaning lady sees more of him than I do," he said. "Did I ever tell you about when he was born?"

I shook my head. "Uh, no."

"Well, Cyn was staying at me auntie's house, and she was shopping in Penny Lane when she went into labor. I wasn't there for it; I was on tour with the others. I got to see him for the first time about four days later…and then it was only for a little bit in the hospital after I managed to sneak in without the fans noticing. And then I had to leave for another show…"

"Oh…" I was beginning to feel like a robot—"Oh," "Uh-huh," "Oh…"

John slid down further in his seat. "I'm knackered," he yawned, already half asleep.

"Okay…I'll let you be," I said, switching back to my first seat. I shut off the little reading light above my head and sat in semi-darkness, staring at the back of the seat in front of me. I could smell a very, very faint scent of pot from the back of the plane—someone was smoking something back there…

I must have dozed off within minutes, because the next thing I knew, the plane was just about to land in L.A. and Paul was grinding out the last of a cigarette into the ashtray on the arm of the chair. He looked over at me and patted my hand as I opened my eyes. "Sleep well, luv?"

"I didn't even know I'd fallen asleep," I said, trying to stretch. Sleeping on an airplane is never easy, especially with such a limited amount of space to move around in. "Mmmgh…my legs are so sore…"

"Well, don't worry," Paul said, fastening his seat belt quickly and then reaching over and latching mine shut before the plane began its descent to the runway. "In about an hour we'll be back at the house and you can sleep all you want, luv…that is, if you're not interested in anything else…"

He reached over and pinched the top of my thigh, giving me a wink.

"You must be joking," I groaned, barely able to keep my eyes open. "I'm dead on my feet here…"

He laughed, shaking his head. "And to think…about a week ago you would've died and gone to heaven if I asked you such a thing…"

"Very freakin' funny," I said, slapping his shoulder lightly with the back of my hand.

The limo seemed to be miles away as it rolled towards us once we'd de-planed. It was five in the morning and—get this—there were at least five hundred fans at the airport to greet the Fabs on their return to town! I sighed, slowly surveying the crowds of waving, screaming fans being held back by a heavy-duty wire fence nearby. How do they do it? I thought in utter wonderment. Jeez; Paul could ask me to marry him and I still couldn't make it up at five in the morning!

As Neil closed the limo door behind us, I sighed, "I want to go back to bed. We're sleeping late tomorrow, aren't we?"

"You mean today," John corrected, jerking his thumb at the window. "Sun's almost up, Laurie."

I looked easterly, and sure enough, there were the faint signs of a reddish and pink sky very low in the horizon. I made a mental note not to forget to close those heavy drapes once we got home so the sun wouldn't wake Paul or I up during the morning.

I ended up falling asleep on Paul's shoulder during the drive to the house, this time quite soundly. When Paul picked me up and carried me into the house, I barely took notice, far from the time he'd done the same thing back at my house last year. I only opened my eyes when he said, "Laur, luv, I can't make it up the stairs with you; you're gonna have to walk it from here on in."

"Mmmph," I moaned crabbily, opening my eyes. We were at the foot of the stairs inside the house.

"I'm not bloody Rhett Butler, Miss Scarlett…come 'ead."

He set me on my feet and we made our way tiredly upstairs on our weary feet. At the top of the stairs, he turned to me and said, "Dear heart…I'll carry you the rest of the way."

"No; I'll manage," I said before letting out a big yawn. "If not…well, the shag carpeting looks awfully comfy right about now."

He didn't give me much of a choice, since he leaned down and swept me back into his arms, carrying me into our room and setting me down on my side of the bed gently.

"Guess what?" he said, turning the lamp on very dimly and pulling the curtains shut before kneeling right next to me by the bed. I was in the process of kicking off my shoes and unbuttoning my shirt, ready to snatch my nightgown at the foot of the unmade bed and slide it on so I could go to sleep right away.

"What?" I yawned again.

"I have a surprise for you," he said, grinning deviously.

"Oh no…I don't like that look," I said, rolling my eyes as he reached underneath the bed. Okay; what kind of weird shit was he hiding under the bed? "You'd better not be trying to scare me."

He struggled to pull out whatever it was. I leaned over to see what he was goofing around with and saw him pull out a guitar case and stand it up on end.

"What?" I asked. "You brought your guitar up here?"

"No…for you, my love," he laughed, flipping the locks on the side of the case open. "I had Neil run out and buy it when he had a chance. It's a Rickenbacker 12-string acoustic—one of the nicest I've seen. Hell's sake, I want one like this!"

He'd purchased the deluxe model—the guitar, a capo, a pick, a pitch pipe for tuning, and a starter's book with basic chords and tiny little multicolored stickers you could put under the strings on the neck to indicate where your fingers go for each chord…all in a velvet-red lined case.

"My god—how much did you spend on this?" I asked as he helped me hold it correctly. "I'm not an expert on it, but I know that these things aren't cheap."

"Never you mind," he laughed, moving my fingers onto certain strings on the neck of the guitar. "Now, this right here is E…and here's A… and here's B7…those are the really basic, basic blues chords."

I nodded, smiling. "Well, it's lovely—thank you so much, Paul."

"I'm glad you like it. I thought you might like one after we were talking about it the other day in New York," he said, taking the guitar from me and setting it back into its case, locking it up for the night.

"Oh…I forgot about that conversation," I said, finishing the buttons on my shirt and pulling it over my head, then slipping on my nightgown before taking off my skirt and nylons as well. Paul was sitting on the other side of the bed as well, changing out of his clothes into his pajama bottoms before sliding underneath the covers and leaving his traveling clothes in a heap on the floor next to the bed.

"Damn, Paul…you're messy," I said, folding up my blouse and stockings before setting them on the chair across the room.

"Ah…lay off," he muttered, reaching for the chain on the lamp and shutting it off. "I can't believe it's already six in the morning…"

I got under the sheets with him, resting my head against his shoulder after he put his arm around me. "Mmm…I'm going to sleep all day, I think."

"You can't; isn't Anna coming over tonight?"

"Oh, that's right," I said, pulling the sheet closer around me. "Hey, Paul…can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Well, you never really gave me an answer on this one the other day when we were talking about it…what's 'finger pie' mean?"

Paul burst into giggles. "Wh-when were we tal-talking about that?" he said between laughs.

"In New York, when you were working on your Liverpool song," I explained. "Are you going to tell me what it means?"

"Let me put it this way: would you like me to tell you or show you?"

"Well…tell me."

He turned over onto his shoulder, forcing me to move about a foot away from him. He rested his hand on the inside of my right thigh near the knee, then slowly moved it upwards until I felt the warmth of his hand right against my underwear.

"Now…if I moved my hand about two more inches from this spot," he began, "well…that would be—"

"Oh!" I shouted, jumping back. "My god—I should've figured that one out easily…jeez…"

"It's all right; you're forgiven."

"Well, hey, I was a sweet and innocent little daisy of a virgin before about a week ago when someone took it upon himself to educate me in that department... I wouldn't know about a thing like that."

Paul rolled over towards the nightstand and asked me, "Well, in that case, would you consider going for a master's degree in 'that department'?"

"Do you have something?" I asked, leaning over to see him fumbling around in the nightstand drawer.

"Indeed I do," he said, finding what he was searching for and closing the drawer. "Last one…would you believe we're already out of them? This is the last one…lucky for one…"

"We used that whole box already?" I squeaked. "But we only did it the other night…it's been days…"

"Well, you know you have to use a new one each time."

"You do?"

He turned his head to give me the eye. "Please don't tell me you didn't know that."

"I didn't."

"You think one is going to last the entire night? Not a chance, luv. We must have had it off about ten times that night…let's make this one count; we've only got one chance…"

He moved over and pulled me underneath him, kissing me hard on the mouth and caressing my hair. It was lovely having some much-needed time alone together; I'd really missed this. In fact, it had sort of worried me that he hadn't made a move for me in the past few days, ever since New York. Maybe it had only been a few days ago, but it seemed like weeks to me.

Between deep kisses from him, I asked, "Paul…is there some reason why we…haven't done this…in a few days?"

He stopped kissing me and looked down at me, his hands still busily at work, though, working my arms out of my nightgown. "What? Of course not."

"Okay…I was just wondering, since we haven't done this in a few days."

"I just haven't had the energy, darlin'," he said, dropping my nightgown and his pajama bottoms onto the floor. "I hope you're up for this…I know I am."

I laughed. "Yes, indeed, you are," I whispered as he pressed himself against me and slid inside me. "Ohhh god…oh, Paul…"

His body practically melted against mine as we made love. I hate to say it, but we'd pretty much managed to perfect the art within less than a week after all that carrying-on earlier in the week. He knew exactly what to do to me to make me forget about everything and just concentrate on the wonderful feeling of it; he brought me to such heights of ecstasy that night that I cried out his name so loud I think it startled him half to death.

About five seconds after we'd both come, we heard a pounding on the wall from the room next to us. "Hey! Macca! Get off of her and let us get some sleep!" I heard John shout from the next room over. "Fuckin' hell…she's going to wake up the whole house."

I burst into giggles, as did Paul after he got rid of the condom and reached for me again, holding me tight in his arms as we drowsily looked at each other smiling in the very dim light managing to come through the curtains. Eventually we fell asleep, still holding each other tightly, getting some much-needed rest before yet another busy day.

Continue to Chapter Twenty