Too Much Rain, Chapter 133
Shout out to Pattie_Ono who gave me the name for the Costa Rica house!
A series of vignettes. Hope you enjoy.
No warnings except THIS IS FICTION.
Chapter 133
December 29, 1999
Cavendish
“Arthur has certainly had his share of Christmas presents this year,” Mary told her father with a certain amount of irony. She had agreed to spend the Christmas holidays this year with Alistair’s family, so she was finally celebrating with Paul and John tonight. John had gone crazy and bought several gifts for Arthur. Paul’s head had shaken with amused affection at the sight of the largesse. Apparently, Alistair’s parents had also showered their first grandchild with gifts. “He’s only nine months old. He hasn’t got a clue what all this stuff is,” Mary joked. “But it is very generous of you.”
Paul said, “You should thank John. He has been shopping for weeks.” They both looked across the room at John, who was seated near the Christmas tree with James, and both men were ‘helping’ Arthur play with his toys. Paul and his daughter exchanged another amused grin.
Mary snuggled into the sofa’s corner and faced her dad. “How is it going with you and John?” She asked, a little shyly.
Paul gazed at his daughter and was reminded briefly of Linda. His face reflected his fondness for both Mary and Linda as he responded. “We’re doing pretty well,” he said judiciously.
“I’ve been worried. I know you had that bad difference of opinion...”
It wasn’t like Mary to fish, so Paul felt he owed her an explanation. “John wanted me to make a commitment to him - you know, just him and me and no one else, and I balked. It upset him, but I didn’t mean it that way.”
“How did you mean it?” She asked him, allowing the red wine to swish around in the glass she held.
Paul sighed. “It was all happening so fast. I wasn’t prepared for the discussion.”
Mary wondered if she should tell her father what she thought. It wasn’t her business, really. It wasn’t her relationship. But she loved John very much, and most definitely did not want to see him hurt. She went for it. “Have you sorted it out yet?”
“We’ve agreed to give it a try,” Paul said, “for a year.”
“Really?” Mary asked; she was clearly quite irritated, and even a little shocked. It had surprised her so much she didn't have time to filter her words. “You put a time limit on it?”
Paul was taken aback by Mary’s reaction. He’d thought he had done the mature thing, but here Mary was upset about it! “What’s wrong with that?” He asked defensively.
Mary regained her composure. She said, “I’m amazed John wasn’t insulted by that. He’s been there for all of us for years now. I would have thought he deserved more than a year!”
Paul was a little irritated himself. He didn’t like being judged, especially when he felt there was merit to the other person’s view. It wasn’t one of his better qualities. “I didn’t say it was over in a year, Mary. I said we’d try exclusiveness for a year, and then see how it went.”
“If you’d said that to Mum, I doubt she’d have married you,” Mary pointed out stubbornly.
Paul stared at Mary and it dawned on him she really had strong feelings about this. “What do you think I should have done?” Paul asked.
“I would have thought it was obvious,” she commented. “John’s your soul mate. You need to commit yourself 100% to him, and you shouldn’t put time limits on it. That’s ridiculous.”
Paul felt stung by Mary’s comments. Of course, she couldn’t know that the problem had more to do with sexual drive than emotional need. He had no intention of enlightening her, either. Instead he said, “John and I understand each other, and one way and another, we somehow make it work.”
Mary grunted but Paul could tell she still wasn’t convinced. It surprised him how loyal she was to John. But then, he decided, it shouldn’t surprise him. He’d raised her in a home where John was part of them. Naturally, her loyalty would be to John over any strange woman with whom Paul might want to have a fling.
John, meanwhile, was in a wonderful mood. Just after the New Year he and Paul were headed for their hideaway in Costa Rica, which he had named El Nido, and he was finally going to see the place after the remodeling he’d arranged from afar. Thus far he had only seen images sent to him over the Internet. And Christmas had been great, with all the kids (except Mary and her family) there, and Julian and his girlfriend had also stopped by for a few hours. Most importantly, Paul seemed quite satisfied with their decision on monogamy, albeit with a year’s deadline. John would worry about next year, next year. He'd managed to pressure Paul into putting off marrying Jane all those years by doing it one year at a time. It had worked then, and he had every reason to believe it would work again. For all these reasons, it had been a very nice holiday for John.
*****
Later that night, Paul lay in bed staring at the ceiling. John had a reading light on, and was perusing a new book, Crossing: A Memoir, an autobiography of a man who transitioned to a woman. Paul had thumbed through the book earlier in the day and had worried that maybe John was planning to become a woman! Oh dear god, no! This night, Paul glanced at the book in John’s hands and asked,
“Why would a man want to become a woman?”
John, interrupted, took a while to digest Paul’s question. He then immediately thought, ‘what a Paul-like question.’ He smiled and said, “I’m only on the second chapter. It appears to be something inside that drives him.”
“Why are you interested in reading about it?” Paul next asked.
“It isn’t so unlike what I have always lived with - this thing inside me that can only attach emotionally to men. I guess I hope I’ll read something that will help me understand myself better.” John was honest and thoughtful as he answered.
Paul thought about this response and said, half-joking, “So you won’t be turning into a girl anytime soon?”
John laughed. He had to put the book down momentarily because he was laughing so hard. Sometimes Paul could be so literal-minded. He finally was able to say, “I’d make a really ugly woman, Paul. But you on the other hand...”
“Don’t you dare say it!” Paul declared, laughing as he did so.
Silence fell over them again as John went back to his book. But Paul continued to stare at the ceiling. He felt as though he had to say something to John in order to clear his conscience. What Mary had said to him that evening had set him to thinking that maybe his attitude had been completely off.
“John?” Paul asked.
John, this time thinking that Paul must be horny, turned a lecherous eye towards Paul. But he saw instead a very cloudy face with worried eyes. “What’s wrong?” He asked.
“Were you insulted by the fact that I wanted a trial period on the monogamy bit?”
John was so surprised to hear Paul say this that he put his book down and forgot to save his place. “What?”
“I’m thinking now that it was very clumsy of me to put it that way. I should have explained.”
“If you want to explain, I want to hear it,” John said simply.
“I can’t imagine living without you, you know that, right?” Paul asked. He looked quite rattled.
John said, “I’m never sure about anything, but thank you for telling me that.” In truth, the admission had stunned him. In a good way.
Paul turned his eyes back to the ceiling. He couldn’t say these things and actually look at John. He was afraid he would clam up if he did. “It’s taken me a long time to realize that I always needed you as much as you needed me.” There. He’d said it. But then he rushed to add “This is scary for me. Can you turn off the light?”
John quickly turned off the light and lay down on his side facing Paul, but otherwise remained silent. Paul was actually volunteering things without being prodded. It was a bloody miracle. John was even afraid to breathe - he didn’t want to do anything to spoil Paul’s mood.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so cowardly,” Paul finally whispered.
John made a comforting sound, but Paul dismissed it.
“No, I have been a coward,” he insisted stubbornly.
“In what way?” John asked softly.
“It was never easy for me to face the world - I could never say out loud, without embarrassment, ‘I love this man.’ I still don't think I could do it unless my back was against the wall.” Paul was only able to allow these words to flow out of him because of the safety of the dark.
John said, “I'm not that brave about it either.”
“But you're willing to take the chance. I never was.”
John thought about that. “I said I was willing to take the chance, but I think I knew you would say ‘no’, which meant that I wouldn’t actually have to face the world.”
After a brief astounded silence, Paul laughed. “Only you could say a thing like that and somehow make sense.”
“What I’m saying is, you were my ‘brakes’, you know? I could say or suggest any crazy thing, but you would find a way to talk me out of it. I knew this about you, and it gave me the freedom to be crazy. If you hadn’t come back at me and been you, then I would have been afraid to do it on my own.”
Paul digested this little speech. “You know, John,” he finally said, “we need to break out of this little game we play. I think right now I’m the main perpetrator of it.”
“What do you suggest?” John asked, holding his breath.
“I’m suggesting that I just throw caution to the wind and say, ‘let’s be together, you and me, with no one else. Forever. And fuck the world!’”
John laughed. He could hardly believe it. Was Paul on acid? “You might regret this in the morning,” John warned.
“I have far too few regrets in my life, John. Sometimes being cautious is a burden, and maybe I just want to put it down for once.”
“You know I’ve always wanted to hear you say that. But what made you say it all of a sudden?” John was deeply curious.
Paul chuckled. “Mary read me the riot act. She was horrified by my behavior.”
John snuggled closer to Paul, and put his arm around Paul’s waist. Paul was still staring at the ceiling, but now he felt John’s hand rubbing his side, and his eyes found it hard to stay open. He allowed his muscles to relax. So, he’d thrown caution to the wind, and he had pledged his troth. Now the only thing left to do was to live up to it. He'd taken scary flyers before. He would just buckle up and deal with it.
*****
The Next Morning
December 30, 1999
The phone was ringing relentlessly. Paul woke up with a start and looked at the clock. It was 7 a.m.: awfully early for someone to be calling, especially since so few people actually had their phone number. Paul’s heart started beating - he had a premonition that someone he loved had died or been hurt.
“Hello?” His voice sounded startled.
“Paul - this is Ritchie. I just had a call from Olivia.”
“George!” Paul cried. “What happened?” He was fearing that the cancer had taken a bad turn.
John woke up at the sound of Paul’s shout. He sat up and was shaking the cobwebs out of his head while Paul spoke on the phone.
“Someone has stabbed him! He’s in hospital!” Ringo cried.
“Stabbed?” Paul repeated loudly.
“Stabbed? Who the fuck has been stabbed?” John shouted at Paul.
Paul put his hand on the speaker end of the phone and said, “It’s Ritchie on the line. George has been stabbed and he is in hospital.”
“Who? Why?” John cried.
Paul gave him a ‘beats me’ expression and turned back to the phone. “Ritchie, calm down. Tell me what happened. This all sounds crazy.”
“Olivia was upset and wanted Barbara there with her - that’s why she called us. But they were both hysterical, so I’m sorry it doesn’t make much sense. She told Barbara something about an intruder in their home.”
“Oh dear god!” Paul shouted. “In their fucking home? Where the hell were their security guards?”
John was beside himself now. “What? What?”
Ringo was saying, “I don’t know much more. We’re in our car, and we’re being driven to the hospital near him in Henley-on-Thames. You and John should come too!”
“Is he okay?” Paul asked desperately.
“I don’t know - he is still alive, or he was when Olivia called. Hurry up!” Ringo hung up abruptly.
John had gotten out of bed and was wandering around in nervous circles. “So what did he say?” He shouted, as soon as Paul hung up.
“He doesn’t know that much, although George was definitely alive when Olivia called them not long ago. They had an intruder in their home, and the guy stabbed George.”
“Jesus Christ!” John yelled, gesturing angrily at the ceiling. John never prayed, but he sure blamed Jesus when things went wrong.
Paul, meanwhile, had climbed out of bed and was stumbling around trying to find some clothes to wear. “Get dressed, John, we’re going to the hospital.”
John stopped pacing and began to dress. “You know, George has always been the one most obsessed about his security. It’s odd that he wasn’t better protected.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Paul agreed, as he pulled on one of his shoes. “Where the hell were his security guards?”
“He has those blokes in that little gatehouse. They were probably sound asleep.” John’s voice was laden with contempt.
“It’s fucking frightening, is what it is,” Paul said, slapping his thighs with his palms and standing up. He was dressed and ready to go. He headed for the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and then urged John to hurry up and finish while he punched some numbers into his Blackberry and ordered up a driver and a car. He was far too upset to drive.
*****
A Hospital
Henley-on-Thames
Late Morning, December 30, 1999
Olivia, Dhani and Barbara were huddling together in a private anteroom and Ringo was pacing nervously in the hall when John and Paul arrived, coming up through the staff elevator for privacy reasons.
“Is he okay?” John asked Ringo breathlessly.
“He’s getting some stitches put in his throat,” Ringo said.
“His throat!” John cried.
“The guy was trying to cut his throat,” Ringo said, his expression one of total disbelief.
“What about Olivia and Dhani?” Paul asked immediately.
“They’re in there,” Ringo said, pointing to the anteroom door.
Paul went in and headed straight for Olivia and Dhani. “How are you?” He asked Olivia. She had a swollen area on her face and was holding her arm as if it were injured. Olivia allowed herself to be swallowed by Paul’s hug. When they let go of each other, Paul then enveloped Dhani in a hug. It was Dhani who answered Paul’s question.
“She’s doing okay. She’s the hero, you know.”
“Really?” Paul asked.
“She smacked the guy in the head with a lamp.”
Paul turned to Olivia with his mouth open. She smiled sheepishly. Paul put his finger very gently on Olivia’s swollen cheek. “Did he do this to you?”
“I think so. It was crazy, and I don’t remember much of what happened.”
Ringo and John joined the others in the small room. John said, “The doctor said only two of us can go in George’s room at a time, but Ritchie and I explained to him that we’re all a package deal, so they’re bending the rules.”
Paul laughed. This was a far cry from the John Lennon who reduced a nurse to tears over a hospital gown some years earlier. John must have been picking up some of Paul’s ‘more flies with honey’ tricks.
George was half-sitting, half-lying in his hospital bed, his neck and part of his head covered in gauzy bandages. There were bruises just beginning to show on his face and around one eye.
“Good God George, what did he do to you?” Ringo cried from one side of the bed, with his wife beside him. Olivia and Dhani were on the other side of the bed, and John and Paul were standing at the foot of the bed, looking fascinated in a shocked kind of way at the seriousness of George’s injuries.
George’s voice was groggy as he responded, although accompanied by a drowsy smile. “You brought the whole crew, I see.”
“We’ve become a limited company,” John chirped from the end of the bed, reprising his line from A Hard Day’s Night.
Over the next 30 minutes, the story of George’s nightmare attack was told in minute detail. A crazed fan had somehow gotten on the property despite all of the security protections, and had broken into Friar Park and had wandered around looking for the Beatle. Noises heard of breaking glass from below had awakened George, who had gotten up and gone downstairs to investigate only to be confronted by a knife-wielding nutcase. In the fray, George’s neck had been cut, but Olivia had knocked the man out by hitting him in the face with a heavy table lamp. As the story was told to a horrified audience, George’s drug high began to wear off and it became clear to his three former band mates that he had been very badly shaken by the attack (as well he should be). Soon, the nurse popped in and said that only two could remain, so they all left except Olivia and Dhani.
They were all allowed to leave through the doctors’ exit, where their cars were waiting. Also waiting, however, was a small group of paparazzi who had managed to find the doctor’s car park and who thought they might get lucky by waiting there instead of in front with the dozens of other enterprising members of the press. Their originality of thinking was rewarded, and they snapped away crazily as three Beatles (and one Beatle wife) left the hospital together. They also had photos of Ringo and Barbara getting into one car, and John and Paul getting into the other.
*****
Later That Day
The tabloids went crazy with the story of George’s attack, but there was plenty of room for the tabloids to also write about how all four Beatles had been in George’s hospital room. From the press’s point of view, the last time all four had been known to be together had been for Linda McCartney’s London memorial service. Then, for a few lucky tabloids, there was a third story - photos of John and Paul getting into one chauffeur driven car while Ringo and his wife got into another. One of the photographers had his editor in mind and had phoned ahead to his office to have someone waiting outside Cavendish. This had been accomplished, and the car was photographed entering the big gate at Cavendish less than an hour later.
“Very suggestive,” the tabloid editor said approvingly as he saw the photos side by side. “You almost don’t have to say anything to make the point.”
“I thought so too,” the photo editor replied. “Although it is too bad that you can’t see inside the car,” he added, pointing at the Cavendish shot. He was lamenting the blacked out windows that kept the occupants of the backseat well and truly hidden. “It is clearly the same driver, though.”
The editor said, “I think we should just be bold and say something like, ‘John Lennon and Paul McCartney leave George Harrison’s bedside’ under the one photo, and ‘arrive home’ under the other. That way we aren’t actually saying they live together...”
“But we make the point...” finished the assistant editor. He was thinking how sometimes dramatic celebrity news stories (like George’s attack) threw up little gifts like this one, since emergencies caused the celebrities to act less cautiously than they otherwise would. The cold-bloodedness of his thinking did not occur to him at all.
So the evening issue of the tabloid printed the photos as a kind of sidebar to the Harrison attack story. John and Paul’s press agent noticed this, and phoned their manager. Their manager called them.
“Just a head’s up,” Frank said lightly to John, who had answered the phone. “The tabloids are going to be poking around again. You’d best be careful.”
John sighed. “We just got in to a car together, Frank. I mean... really.”
“It’s not a big controversy, don’t worry. But what happens when one of these tabloids prints something like this is that it provokes other tabloids to push the story further. They’re likely to be all over the two of you for a week or two.”
“I’ll let Paul know. But we’re leaving on holiday for a few months next week, so I guess I’ll just come in and out of my own house until then. It’s so fucking inconvenient.” John was thinking out loud, and his thoughts were irritating him. He went to find Paul.
“So, Frank thinks the tabs will be focusing on us for a few weeks again,” he said.
“Must be slow news days,” Paul said, not even looking up from his newspaper.
“It’s the George thing,” John pointed out. “They run out of things to write about him, so they immediately start thinking of related stories.”
Paul nodded in agreement with John’s comment. “They’re a bunch of pack animals. Anyway, we don’t care, do we? We’re going away in a week.”
To the freelance paparazzi, however, the scent of blood was in the water. Each of them imagined what it would be like if he got the photo: the photo that showed without question that the Lennon/McCartney rumors were true. The incentive to take such a photo was calculated in maybe as many as six figures, depending on the type of shot and it’s clarity.
*****
The Next Day
Paul left Cavendish the next morning. He knew there were photographers outside because he had seen them from an upstairs window. He had warned John at breakfast, and then had driven himself to his office at number 1 Soho Square. He had applied himself to various projects and meetings for several hours. At one point during the morning his secretary came in and said, “There are some paparazzi outside.”
Paul had looked up from some marketing plans and said, “Yeah, George’s attack has stirred up the tabloids.”
“Do they think someone is going to attack you next?” She asked.
Paul laughed. “Maybe I’ll attack one of them, instead,” he joked. “Don’t let them worry you. I don’t let them worry me.”
Eventually it was time to leave to go to his therapist’s office, and he knew he didn’t want them following him there, so he figured a little switcheroo was in order. He called up a driver to pick him up in the mews, and arranged for an office gofer to later drive his car home. He felt very pleased with himself as the car took off, and there were no followers.
*****
John had spent the day rearranging things in the kitchen. Linda had been very haphazard in her housekeeping, and her idea of where to put her kitchen appliances and tools were not the same as John’s. In addition, some of her appliances and tools were very outdated, and John preferred the ones he had purchased for his own home. Little by little he had been migrating his own tools and appliances over to Cavendish, and now the place was literally teaming with stuff. If there was one room in the house he ached to remodel it was the kitchen. And that was the most sacred room in the house in the McCartney family’s mind. The most he could get away with would be to box up some of the stuff he didn’t want, and then reorganize everything with the stuff he did want. It was a huge job, because it was a fairly large kitchen, and it was difficult to know where to start. After a half hour’s worth of procrastination, John decided to begin at one side of the kitchen, with the first block of cabinets and drawers, and start there.
About two hours into his task, Mary called just to chat with John. She was taking a break now that Arthur was playing quietly on the floor in front of her. John was always fun to talk to at moments like these.
“What are you up to?” She asked.
“I’m afraid to tell you,” John responded.
“What? Come on, what are you up to?”
“I’m going through the kitchen cabinets to try to reorganize and thin things out.” John held his breath. He knew of all the McCartneys Mary would be the first one to notice that the kitchen had been reorganized, since she was the most enthusiastic cook. He might as well tell her right away, because she’d find out on her own fairly quickly.
“I’m amazed you have the courage to face it,” Mary chuckled. “Mum just threw things in those cabinets. Nothing was ever in the same place twice. Used to drive me crazy.”
This response surprised John. “You don’t mind?” He asked.
“Mind about what?”
“That I’m changing the kitchen ‘round to suit me more?”
Mary was surprised by John’s question, but only for a moment. Of course John would feel that way - the kitchen was ground zero of her mother’s former universe. “John, my mother isn’t in the kitchen; she’s in my heart and soul. I don’t need things to always stay the same in order to honor her. Did you think that is how we all felt?”
John was silent for a very long moment, not knowing what to say.
Noticing John wasn’t going to answer her, Mary added, “Well, if that is what you thought, think again. Stella and I will be happy to help you reorganize - we’ll be your worker bees. James and Heather will not even notice.”
“What about your dad?” John asked, holding his breath.
“He’ll survive. I think he just wants you to be happy.”
“You said you’d be willing to help? Paul’s going to be late this evening.”
“I take it you’d like my help now?” Mary chuckled.
“You did offer.”
“I’ll be over in less than an hour. But I’m bringing Arthur, and he can be a distraction when he wants to be.”
*****
Across Town
Marc’s Office
Early January 2000
“The ‘trust thing’ - it’s hard,” Paul admitted. “I’ve kind of thrown my lot in, and I’m worried about it.”
Marc said, “What worries you about your decision?”
“He’s hurt me so many times. And he hasn’t been entirely honest about some of them,” Paul said, his voice low.
“I don’t actually know about the times he hurt you. Maybe you could explain?” Marc was hoping that Paul would open up more, and help him put things into context.
Paul sighed heavily. “I feel strange bringing it up, since it was all so long ago.”
“If it is still affecting you today, then it is important for us to talk about,” Marc pointed out.
Paul thought about himself as a 16 year-old boy. It had been only two years since his mother’s death, and only about 15 months since he had met John. They had become close friends in that period, especially after John’s mother had been killed, and between them they had slowly eliminated the band members who weren’t cutting the mustard. They’d spent hours and hours in each other’s company during the two summers they had known each other. But then John had become infatuated with a fellow student at the Art College. It happened in the snap of a finger. John had suddenly been busy almost every evening. It had become more and more difficult to connect up with John on the weekends. Saturdays had been the day of the week that they had each dedicated to their friendship, but suddenly John almost always had other plans - plans with Stuart, the new star on John’s tree. Paul remembered those dismal afternoons, denied his usual routine of hanging with John, playing guitars, laughing and joking, and just sitting quietly. Those routines had filled the empty space left by the routines he used to have before his mother died. Now he had lost another set of routines that had helped him deal with the free-floating anxiety that often assailed him. The afternoons had dragged. And when he had once been upset and voiced it to John over the telephone after another cancellation of plans, John had said a very hurtful thing: “Stu and I are adults, and you’re still a school kid. We can go to pubs and clubs and our parents don’t control us, like your dad controls you.” Paul had felt as though something had died inside him that day. He had quietly hung up the phone, and had gone back to his room. Back to his earphones and his guitar and his fresh notebooks waiting for his notations. And he had lost himself in music.
Marc waited and watched while Paul sat quietly, deep in thought, for several minutes. He didn’t interrupt. From the look on Paul’s face, the memory was exceedingly bleak. Finally, Paul seemed to rouse himself from deep inside this obviously painful memory. He met Marc’s eyes. He said,
“I can’t talk about it. I’m sorry.”
Marc said, “Another time maybe.”
Paul felt relief course through his body. This whole line of questioning had been lapping ever closer to the deepest cut of all. Paul had felt so humiliated about being dumped so casually after such an intense friendship, and he had humiliated himself further by trying to hang on to John’s friendship when it clearly wasn’t reciprocated any more. John would never know the humiliation he felt; a humiliation based on the knowledge that all of their mutual friends knew that Paul had been cast aside, just as all of John’s other friends had been. Sixteen year-old Paul could no longer think that what he and John had was special. He was just another shiny object that John picked up one day, obsessed over, and then had grown bored by and put down. It was in his room with his music that Paul licked his teenaged wounds. Those teenage years are the ones when humiliation hurts the most.
*****
A series of vignettes. Hope you enjoy.
No warnings except THIS IS FICTION.
Chapter 133
December 29, 1999
Cavendish
“Arthur has certainly had his share of Christmas presents this year,” Mary told her father with a certain amount of irony. She had agreed to spend the Christmas holidays this year with Alistair’s family, so she was finally celebrating with Paul and John tonight. John had gone crazy and bought several gifts for Arthur. Paul’s head had shaken with amused affection at the sight of the largesse. Apparently, Alistair’s parents had also showered their first grandchild with gifts. “He’s only nine months old. He hasn’t got a clue what all this stuff is,” Mary joked. “But it is very generous of you.”
Paul said, “You should thank John. He has been shopping for weeks.” They both looked across the room at John, who was seated near the Christmas tree with James, and both men were ‘helping’ Arthur play with his toys. Paul and his daughter exchanged another amused grin.
Mary snuggled into the sofa’s corner and faced her dad. “How is it going with you and John?” She asked, a little shyly.
Paul gazed at his daughter and was reminded briefly of Linda. His face reflected his fondness for both Mary and Linda as he responded. “We’re doing pretty well,” he said judiciously.
“I’ve been worried. I know you had that bad difference of opinion...”
It wasn’t like Mary to fish, so Paul felt he owed her an explanation. “John wanted me to make a commitment to him - you know, just him and me and no one else, and I balked. It upset him, but I didn’t mean it that way.”
“How did you mean it?” She asked him, allowing the red wine to swish around in the glass she held.
Paul sighed. “It was all happening so fast. I wasn’t prepared for the discussion.”
Mary wondered if she should tell her father what she thought. It wasn’t her business, really. It wasn’t her relationship. But she loved John very much, and most definitely did not want to see him hurt. She went for it. “Have you sorted it out yet?”
“We’ve agreed to give it a try,” Paul said, “for a year.”
“Really?” Mary asked; she was clearly quite irritated, and even a little shocked. It had surprised her so much she didn't have time to filter her words. “You put a time limit on it?”
Paul was taken aback by Mary’s reaction. He’d thought he had done the mature thing, but here Mary was upset about it! “What’s wrong with that?” He asked defensively.
Mary regained her composure. She said, “I’m amazed John wasn’t insulted by that. He’s been there for all of us for years now. I would have thought he deserved more than a year!”
Paul was a little irritated himself. He didn’t like being judged, especially when he felt there was merit to the other person’s view. It wasn’t one of his better qualities. “I didn’t say it was over in a year, Mary. I said we’d try exclusiveness for a year, and then see how it went.”
“If you’d said that to Mum, I doubt she’d have married you,” Mary pointed out stubbornly.
Paul stared at Mary and it dawned on him she really had strong feelings about this. “What do you think I should have done?” Paul asked.
“I would have thought it was obvious,” she commented. “John’s your soul mate. You need to commit yourself 100% to him, and you shouldn’t put time limits on it. That’s ridiculous.”
Paul felt stung by Mary’s comments. Of course, she couldn’t know that the problem had more to do with sexual drive than emotional need. He had no intention of enlightening her, either. Instead he said, “John and I understand each other, and one way and another, we somehow make it work.”
Mary grunted but Paul could tell she still wasn’t convinced. It surprised him how loyal she was to John. But then, he decided, it shouldn’t surprise him. He’d raised her in a home where John was part of them. Naturally, her loyalty would be to John over any strange woman with whom Paul might want to have a fling.
John, meanwhile, was in a wonderful mood. Just after the New Year he and Paul were headed for their hideaway in Costa Rica, which he had named El Nido, and he was finally going to see the place after the remodeling he’d arranged from afar. Thus far he had only seen images sent to him over the Internet. And Christmas had been great, with all the kids (except Mary and her family) there, and Julian and his girlfriend had also stopped by for a few hours. Most importantly, Paul seemed quite satisfied with their decision on monogamy, albeit with a year’s deadline. John would worry about next year, next year. He'd managed to pressure Paul into putting off marrying Jane all those years by doing it one year at a time. It had worked then, and he had every reason to believe it would work again. For all these reasons, it had been a very nice holiday for John.
*****
Later that night, Paul lay in bed staring at the ceiling. John had a reading light on, and was perusing a new book, Crossing: A Memoir, an autobiography of a man who transitioned to a woman. Paul had thumbed through the book earlier in the day and had worried that maybe John was planning to become a woman! Oh dear god, no! This night, Paul glanced at the book in John’s hands and asked,
“Why would a man want to become a woman?”
John, interrupted, took a while to digest Paul’s question. He then immediately thought, ‘what a Paul-like question.’ He smiled and said, “I’m only on the second chapter. It appears to be something inside that drives him.”
“Why are you interested in reading about it?” Paul next asked.
“It isn’t so unlike what I have always lived with - this thing inside me that can only attach emotionally to men. I guess I hope I’ll read something that will help me understand myself better.” John was honest and thoughtful as he answered.
Paul thought about this response and said, half-joking, “So you won’t be turning into a girl anytime soon?”
John laughed. He had to put the book down momentarily because he was laughing so hard. Sometimes Paul could be so literal-minded. He finally was able to say, “I’d make a really ugly woman, Paul. But you on the other hand...”
“Don’t you dare say it!” Paul declared, laughing as he did so.
Silence fell over them again as John went back to his book. But Paul continued to stare at the ceiling. He felt as though he had to say something to John in order to clear his conscience. What Mary had said to him that evening had set him to thinking that maybe his attitude had been completely off.
“John?” Paul asked.
John, this time thinking that Paul must be horny, turned a lecherous eye towards Paul. But he saw instead a very cloudy face with worried eyes. “What’s wrong?” He asked.
“Were you insulted by the fact that I wanted a trial period on the monogamy bit?”
John was so surprised to hear Paul say this that he put his book down and forgot to save his place. “What?”
“I’m thinking now that it was very clumsy of me to put it that way. I should have explained.”
“If you want to explain, I want to hear it,” John said simply.
“I can’t imagine living without you, you know that, right?” Paul asked. He looked quite rattled.
John said, “I’m never sure about anything, but thank you for telling me that.” In truth, the admission had stunned him. In a good way.
Paul turned his eyes back to the ceiling. He couldn’t say these things and actually look at John. He was afraid he would clam up if he did. “It’s taken me a long time to realize that I always needed you as much as you needed me.” There. He’d said it. But then he rushed to add “This is scary for me. Can you turn off the light?”
John quickly turned off the light and lay down on his side facing Paul, but otherwise remained silent. Paul was actually volunteering things without being prodded. It was a bloody miracle. John was even afraid to breathe - he didn’t want to do anything to spoil Paul’s mood.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so cowardly,” Paul finally whispered.
John made a comforting sound, but Paul dismissed it.
“No, I have been a coward,” he insisted stubbornly.
“In what way?” John asked softly.
“It was never easy for me to face the world - I could never say out loud, without embarrassment, ‘I love this man.’ I still don't think I could do it unless my back was against the wall.” Paul was only able to allow these words to flow out of him because of the safety of the dark.
John said, “I'm not that brave about it either.”
“But you're willing to take the chance. I never was.”
John thought about that. “I said I was willing to take the chance, but I think I knew you would say ‘no’, which meant that I wouldn’t actually have to face the world.”
After a brief astounded silence, Paul laughed. “Only you could say a thing like that and somehow make sense.”
“What I’m saying is, you were my ‘brakes’, you know? I could say or suggest any crazy thing, but you would find a way to talk me out of it. I knew this about you, and it gave me the freedom to be crazy. If you hadn’t come back at me and been you, then I would have been afraid to do it on my own.”
Paul digested this little speech. “You know, John,” he finally said, “we need to break out of this little game we play. I think right now I’m the main perpetrator of it.”
“What do you suggest?” John asked, holding his breath.
“I’m suggesting that I just throw caution to the wind and say, ‘let’s be together, you and me, with no one else. Forever. And fuck the world!’”
John laughed. He could hardly believe it. Was Paul on acid? “You might regret this in the morning,” John warned.
“I have far too few regrets in my life, John. Sometimes being cautious is a burden, and maybe I just want to put it down for once.”
“You know I’ve always wanted to hear you say that. But what made you say it all of a sudden?” John was deeply curious.
Paul chuckled. “Mary read me the riot act. She was horrified by my behavior.”
John snuggled closer to Paul, and put his arm around Paul’s waist. Paul was still staring at the ceiling, but now he felt John’s hand rubbing his side, and his eyes found it hard to stay open. He allowed his muscles to relax. So, he’d thrown caution to the wind, and he had pledged his troth. Now the only thing left to do was to live up to it. He'd taken scary flyers before. He would just buckle up and deal with it.
*****
The Next Morning
December 30, 1999
The phone was ringing relentlessly. Paul woke up with a start and looked at the clock. It was 7 a.m.: awfully early for someone to be calling, especially since so few people actually had their phone number. Paul’s heart started beating - he had a premonition that someone he loved had died or been hurt.
“Hello?” His voice sounded startled.
“Paul - this is Ritchie. I just had a call from Olivia.”
“George!” Paul cried. “What happened?” He was fearing that the cancer had taken a bad turn.
John woke up at the sound of Paul’s shout. He sat up and was shaking the cobwebs out of his head while Paul spoke on the phone.
“Someone has stabbed him! He’s in hospital!” Ringo cried.
“Stabbed?” Paul repeated loudly.
“Stabbed? Who the fuck has been stabbed?” John shouted at Paul.
Paul put his hand on the speaker end of the phone and said, “It’s Ritchie on the line. George has been stabbed and he is in hospital.”
“Who? Why?” John cried.
Paul gave him a ‘beats me’ expression and turned back to the phone. “Ritchie, calm down. Tell me what happened. This all sounds crazy.”
“Olivia was upset and wanted Barbara there with her - that’s why she called us. But they were both hysterical, so I’m sorry it doesn’t make much sense. She told Barbara something about an intruder in their home.”
“Oh dear god!” Paul shouted. “In their fucking home? Where the hell were their security guards?”
John was beside himself now. “What? What?”
Ringo was saying, “I don’t know much more. We’re in our car, and we’re being driven to the hospital near him in Henley-on-Thames. You and John should come too!”
“Is he okay?” Paul asked desperately.
“I don’t know - he is still alive, or he was when Olivia called. Hurry up!” Ringo hung up abruptly.
John had gotten out of bed and was wandering around in nervous circles. “So what did he say?” He shouted, as soon as Paul hung up.
“He doesn’t know that much, although George was definitely alive when Olivia called them not long ago. They had an intruder in their home, and the guy stabbed George.”
“Jesus Christ!” John yelled, gesturing angrily at the ceiling. John never prayed, but he sure blamed Jesus when things went wrong.
Paul, meanwhile, had climbed out of bed and was stumbling around trying to find some clothes to wear. “Get dressed, John, we’re going to the hospital.”
John stopped pacing and began to dress. “You know, George has always been the one most obsessed about his security. It’s odd that he wasn’t better protected.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Paul agreed, as he pulled on one of his shoes. “Where the hell were his security guards?”
“He has those blokes in that little gatehouse. They were probably sound asleep.” John’s voice was laden with contempt.
“It’s fucking frightening, is what it is,” Paul said, slapping his thighs with his palms and standing up. He was dressed and ready to go. He headed for the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and then urged John to hurry up and finish while he punched some numbers into his Blackberry and ordered up a driver and a car. He was far too upset to drive.
*****
A Hospital
Henley-on-Thames
Late Morning, December 30, 1999
Olivia, Dhani and Barbara were huddling together in a private anteroom and Ringo was pacing nervously in the hall when John and Paul arrived, coming up through the staff elevator for privacy reasons.
“Is he okay?” John asked Ringo breathlessly.
“He’s getting some stitches put in his throat,” Ringo said.
“His throat!” John cried.
“The guy was trying to cut his throat,” Ringo said, his expression one of total disbelief.
“What about Olivia and Dhani?” Paul asked immediately.
“They’re in there,” Ringo said, pointing to the anteroom door.
Paul went in and headed straight for Olivia and Dhani. “How are you?” He asked Olivia. She had a swollen area on her face and was holding her arm as if it were injured. Olivia allowed herself to be swallowed by Paul’s hug. When they let go of each other, Paul then enveloped Dhani in a hug. It was Dhani who answered Paul’s question.
“She’s doing okay. She’s the hero, you know.”
“Really?” Paul asked.
“She smacked the guy in the head with a lamp.”
Paul turned to Olivia with his mouth open. She smiled sheepishly. Paul put his finger very gently on Olivia’s swollen cheek. “Did he do this to you?”
“I think so. It was crazy, and I don’t remember much of what happened.”
Ringo and John joined the others in the small room. John said, “The doctor said only two of us can go in George’s room at a time, but Ritchie and I explained to him that we’re all a package deal, so they’re bending the rules.”
Paul laughed. This was a far cry from the John Lennon who reduced a nurse to tears over a hospital gown some years earlier. John must have been picking up some of Paul’s ‘more flies with honey’ tricks.
George was half-sitting, half-lying in his hospital bed, his neck and part of his head covered in gauzy bandages. There were bruises just beginning to show on his face and around one eye.
“Good God George, what did he do to you?” Ringo cried from one side of the bed, with his wife beside him. Olivia and Dhani were on the other side of the bed, and John and Paul were standing at the foot of the bed, looking fascinated in a shocked kind of way at the seriousness of George’s injuries.
George’s voice was groggy as he responded, although accompanied by a drowsy smile. “You brought the whole crew, I see.”
“We’ve become a limited company,” John chirped from the end of the bed, reprising his line from A Hard Day’s Night.
Over the next 30 minutes, the story of George’s nightmare attack was told in minute detail. A crazed fan had somehow gotten on the property despite all of the security protections, and had broken into Friar Park and had wandered around looking for the Beatle. Noises heard of breaking glass from below had awakened George, who had gotten up and gone downstairs to investigate only to be confronted by a knife-wielding nutcase. In the fray, George’s neck had been cut, but Olivia had knocked the man out by hitting him in the face with a heavy table lamp. As the story was told to a horrified audience, George’s drug high began to wear off and it became clear to his three former band mates that he had been very badly shaken by the attack (as well he should be). Soon, the nurse popped in and said that only two could remain, so they all left except Olivia and Dhani.
They were all allowed to leave through the doctors’ exit, where their cars were waiting. Also waiting, however, was a small group of paparazzi who had managed to find the doctor’s car park and who thought they might get lucky by waiting there instead of in front with the dozens of other enterprising members of the press. Their originality of thinking was rewarded, and they snapped away crazily as three Beatles (and one Beatle wife) left the hospital together. They also had photos of Ringo and Barbara getting into one car, and John and Paul getting into the other.
*****
Later That Day
The tabloids went crazy with the story of George’s attack, but there was plenty of room for the tabloids to also write about how all four Beatles had been in George’s hospital room. From the press’s point of view, the last time all four had been known to be together had been for Linda McCartney’s London memorial service. Then, for a few lucky tabloids, there was a third story - photos of John and Paul getting into one chauffeur driven car while Ringo and his wife got into another. One of the photographers had his editor in mind and had phoned ahead to his office to have someone waiting outside Cavendish. This had been accomplished, and the car was photographed entering the big gate at Cavendish less than an hour later.
“Very suggestive,” the tabloid editor said approvingly as he saw the photos side by side. “You almost don’t have to say anything to make the point.”
“I thought so too,” the photo editor replied. “Although it is too bad that you can’t see inside the car,” he added, pointing at the Cavendish shot. He was lamenting the blacked out windows that kept the occupants of the backseat well and truly hidden. “It is clearly the same driver, though.”
The editor said, “I think we should just be bold and say something like, ‘John Lennon and Paul McCartney leave George Harrison’s bedside’ under the one photo, and ‘arrive home’ under the other. That way we aren’t actually saying they live together...”
“But we make the point...” finished the assistant editor. He was thinking how sometimes dramatic celebrity news stories (like George’s attack) threw up little gifts like this one, since emergencies caused the celebrities to act less cautiously than they otherwise would. The cold-bloodedness of his thinking did not occur to him at all.
So the evening issue of the tabloid printed the photos as a kind of sidebar to the Harrison attack story. John and Paul’s press agent noticed this, and phoned their manager. Their manager called them.
“Just a head’s up,” Frank said lightly to John, who had answered the phone. “The tabloids are going to be poking around again. You’d best be careful.”
John sighed. “We just got in to a car together, Frank. I mean... really.”
“It’s not a big controversy, don’t worry. But what happens when one of these tabloids prints something like this is that it provokes other tabloids to push the story further. They’re likely to be all over the two of you for a week or two.”
“I’ll let Paul know. But we’re leaving on holiday for a few months next week, so I guess I’ll just come in and out of my own house until then. It’s so fucking inconvenient.” John was thinking out loud, and his thoughts were irritating him. He went to find Paul.
“So, Frank thinks the tabs will be focusing on us for a few weeks again,” he said.
“Must be slow news days,” Paul said, not even looking up from his newspaper.
“It’s the George thing,” John pointed out. “They run out of things to write about him, so they immediately start thinking of related stories.”
Paul nodded in agreement with John’s comment. “They’re a bunch of pack animals. Anyway, we don’t care, do we? We’re going away in a week.”
To the freelance paparazzi, however, the scent of blood was in the water. Each of them imagined what it would be like if he got the photo: the photo that showed without question that the Lennon/McCartney rumors were true. The incentive to take such a photo was calculated in maybe as many as six figures, depending on the type of shot and it’s clarity.
*****
The Next Day
Paul left Cavendish the next morning. He knew there were photographers outside because he had seen them from an upstairs window. He had warned John at breakfast, and then had driven himself to his office at number 1 Soho Square. He had applied himself to various projects and meetings for several hours. At one point during the morning his secretary came in and said, “There are some paparazzi outside.”
Paul had looked up from some marketing plans and said, “Yeah, George’s attack has stirred up the tabloids.”
“Do they think someone is going to attack you next?” She asked.
Paul laughed. “Maybe I’ll attack one of them, instead,” he joked. “Don’t let them worry you. I don’t let them worry me.”
Eventually it was time to leave to go to his therapist’s office, and he knew he didn’t want them following him there, so he figured a little switcheroo was in order. He called up a driver to pick him up in the mews, and arranged for an office gofer to later drive his car home. He felt very pleased with himself as the car took off, and there were no followers.
*****
John had spent the day rearranging things in the kitchen. Linda had been very haphazard in her housekeeping, and her idea of where to put her kitchen appliances and tools were not the same as John’s. In addition, some of her appliances and tools were very outdated, and John preferred the ones he had purchased for his own home. Little by little he had been migrating his own tools and appliances over to Cavendish, and now the place was literally teaming with stuff. If there was one room in the house he ached to remodel it was the kitchen. And that was the most sacred room in the house in the McCartney family’s mind. The most he could get away with would be to box up some of the stuff he didn’t want, and then reorganize everything with the stuff he did want. It was a huge job, because it was a fairly large kitchen, and it was difficult to know where to start. After a half hour’s worth of procrastination, John decided to begin at one side of the kitchen, with the first block of cabinets and drawers, and start there.
About two hours into his task, Mary called just to chat with John. She was taking a break now that Arthur was playing quietly on the floor in front of her. John was always fun to talk to at moments like these.
“What are you up to?” She asked.
“I’m afraid to tell you,” John responded.
“What? Come on, what are you up to?”
“I’m going through the kitchen cabinets to try to reorganize and thin things out.” John held his breath. He knew of all the McCartneys Mary would be the first one to notice that the kitchen had been reorganized, since she was the most enthusiastic cook. He might as well tell her right away, because she’d find out on her own fairly quickly.
“I’m amazed you have the courage to face it,” Mary chuckled. “Mum just threw things in those cabinets. Nothing was ever in the same place twice. Used to drive me crazy.”
This response surprised John. “You don’t mind?” He asked.
“Mind about what?”
“That I’m changing the kitchen ‘round to suit me more?”
Mary was surprised by John’s question, but only for a moment. Of course John would feel that way - the kitchen was ground zero of her mother’s former universe. “John, my mother isn’t in the kitchen; she’s in my heart and soul. I don’t need things to always stay the same in order to honor her. Did you think that is how we all felt?”
John was silent for a very long moment, not knowing what to say.
Noticing John wasn’t going to answer her, Mary added, “Well, if that is what you thought, think again. Stella and I will be happy to help you reorganize - we’ll be your worker bees. James and Heather will not even notice.”
“What about your dad?” John asked, holding his breath.
“He’ll survive. I think he just wants you to be happy.”
“You said you’d be willing to help? Paul’s going to be late this evening.”
“I take it you’d like my help now?” Mary chuckled.
“You did offer.”
“I’ll be over in less than an hour. But I’m bringing Arthur, and he can be a distraction when he wants to be.”
*****
Across Town
Marc’s Office
Early January 2000
“The ‘trust thing’ - it’s hard,” Paul admitted. “I’ve kind of thrown my lot in, and I’m worried about it.”
Marc said, “What worries you about your decision?”
“He’s hurt me so many times. And he hasn’t been entirely honest about some of them,” Paul said, his voice low.
“I don’t actually know about the times he hurt you. Maybe you could explain?” Marc was hoping that Paul would open up more, and help him put things into context.
Paul sighed heavily. “I feel strange bringing it up, since it was all so long ago.”
“If it is still affecting you today, then it is important for us to talk about,” Marc pointed out.
Paul thought about himself as a 16 year-old boy. It had been only two years since his mother’s death, and only about 15 months since he had met John. They had become close friends in that period, especially after John’s mother had been killed, and between them they had slowly eliminated the band members who weren’t cutting the mustard. They’d spent hours and hours in each other’s company during the two summers they had known each other. But then John had become infatuated with a fellow student at the Art College. It happened in the snap of a finger. John had suddenly been busy almost every evening. It had become more and more difficult to connect up with John on the weekends. Saturdays had been the day of the week that they had each dedicated to their friendship, but suddenly John almost always had other plans - plans with Stuart, the new star on John’s tree. Paul remembered those dismal afternoons, denied his usual routine of hanging with John, playing guitars, laughing and joking, and just sitting quietly. Those routines had filled the empty space left by the routines he used to have before his mother died. Now he had lost another set of routines that had helped him deal with the free-floating anxiety that often assailed him. The afternoons had dragged. And when he had once been upset and voiced it to John over the telephone after another cancellation of plans, John had said a very hurtful thing: “Stu and I are adults, and you’re still a school kid. We can go to pubs and clubs and our parents don’t control us, like your dad controls you.” Paul had felt as though something had died inside him that day. He had quietly hung up the phone, and had gone back to his room. Back to his earphones and his guitar and his fresh notebooks waiting for his notations. And he had lost himself in music.
Marc waited and watched while Paul sat quietly, deep in thought, for several minutes. He didn’t interrupt. From the look on Paul’s face, the memory was exceedingly bleak. Finally, Paul seemed to rouse himself from deep inside this obviously painful memory. He met Marc’s eyes. He said,
“I can’t talk about it. I’m sorry.”
Marc said, “Another time maybe.”
Paul felt relief course through his body. This whole line of questioning had been lapping ever closer to the deepest cut of all. Paul had felt so humiliated about being dumped so casually after such an intense friendship, and he had humiliated himself further by trying to hang on to John’s friendship when it clearly wasn’t reciprocated any more. John would never know the humiliation he felt; a humiliation based on the knowledge that all of their mutual friends knew that Paul had been cast aside, just as all of John’s other friends had been. Sixteen year-old Paul could no longer think that what he and John had was special. He was just another shiny object that John picked up one day, obsessed over, and then had grown bored by and put down. It was in his room with his music that Paul licked his teenaged wounds. Those teenage years are the ones when humiliation hurts the most.
*****