A Most Curious Place - Chapter Six (A J/P Slash-fic; Rated R)
Author: Lennonsmuse
Summary: It would appear that Nicky may have a slight problem....or maybe even two.
Chapter Six: Meeting the Beatles; Nicky’s POV
“Whoooaaaa…aaaaaye….whoooaaa….aaaaaye….
I gotta whole lotta things to tell her….
When I get home
C’mon….out my way….
‘Cause I’m a’gonna see my baby today….
I gotta whole lotta things I gotta say….
To heeeer….
Whoooaaa…aaaaaye….whoooaaa….aaaaaye….
I gotta whole lotta things to tell her….
When I get home…”
Hearing them today, I’m still totally impressed with their sound. Its uniqueness. Even more so now in this private setting than when it was overpowered by more than a thousand screaming girls at the CBS Theatre.
Watching these guys perform in their studio is a sight to behold; Paul bouncing the neck of his left-handed violin-shaped bass in time as he sings back-up vocals with George, who effortlessly plucks out a captivating lead line that blends perfectly with John’s relentless riffs, while Ringo’s head bobs to a beat that emphatically frames the whole vigorous living photograph of the performance.
C’mon…if you please….
I got no time for trivialities….
I got a girl who’s waiting home for me….
Toniiiiight….
Whoooaaa…aaaaaye….whoooaaa….aaaaaye….
I gotta whole lotta things to tell her…
When I get home….
It’s absolutely fascinating for me to witness these guys at work…and how serious they are about it all, even though they’d been laughing and behaving like typical ‘boys’ literally two minutes before Mr. Martin began counting down to the time of recording.
I like them all so far…The Beatles….
Well, perhaps with the slight exception of John Lennon. I think I’ve already heard too much mouth from that one. Nothing that I wasn’t able to put in its place with a few choice words of my own though, which seemed to have caught him off guard enough to have rendered him virtuously wordless with me since.
“Just don’t pay much mind to John…” Paul had informed me quietly a short while after his friend’s little tirade against me and my alleged ‘tit flashing’ scheme, “…he’s like that with everybody at one point or another. Even those of us he knows well aren’t necessarily excluded from it.”
“It’s okay, Paul…” I had assured him, feeling very sure of myself after assuming that I’d shut Lennon up once and for all by speaking out about ‘my tits’ on my own accord. “I’m in the music business, too, remember? I’ve dealt with eccentric musicians before…even mad drunk ones who were half out of their minds.”
Paul had granted me a slight frown at that remark, then almost visibly shuddered, “Yeah, luv, but John is sober today. You really don’t want to try handling him like that when he’s not.”
A warning like that from a guy who’s supposed to be his best friend makes me think that at least one Beatle, in particular, should probably be confined to a cage.
But that’s silly, right?
What kind of professional journalist can I be if I’m afraid of one of my subjects? I’m not scared of John! Not at all. It’s just that I’m starting to think it might be a better idea to take a little trip to Liverpool and ask third parties for all the information I need about him instead of ever talking to him...one on one.....especially in private.
Just to be safe.
Yes, I know it sounds paranoid, but what am I supposed to do? Besides, Steven’s coming over in two weeks and I don’t want any trouble going on here that he has to swoop in and rescue me from. I get enough flack from him about winding up in places where I don’t belong and getting myself into tricky situations. He wasn’t crazy about me flying to England on my own in the first place. It was only after he’d talked to Aunt Harriet on the phone and been assured by her that I’d be in safe and worthy hands that he was willing to breathe, take a step back and let me leave peacefully to get on with my career as a journalist.
I have this sneaking suspicion that he’s about to pop the question my parents have been dreaming of ever since I started dating him almost two years ago. He’s been really possessive and protective of me lately. Always has really…especially as our group’s manager, but even more so toward me specifically since we took that trip to New York three weeks ago.
I think a certain tall handsome somebody has found himself a wee bit jealous of four British rock musicians. And that probably has a lot to do with me telling him that Paul McCartney invited me to a party on the twelfth floor of The Plaza when I met him and Ringo in an elevator late one night that weekend.
“The next time we stay in a hotel…especially one filled with crazy rockers and their even crazier fans lurking around every corner…” he’d warned me, sounding more like my father than a boyfriend ever should “…and you need to leave the room for any reason late at night, you either wake me up so I can go with you...or for you….or don’t go at all!”
See what I mean? Possessive. No wonder my father loves him so much. In fact, if Steven was a happily married car salesman and father from Boston instead of an Ivy League-ster from a wealthy family on Martha’s Vineyard who aspires to be an attorney and is currently a manager for a girl group, he would practically be my father.
Despite how much I love and depend upon Steven for emotional support, I’m still sometimes not so certain that I want to relive my mother’s life. Not that she’s had it bad at all. Just the opposite. My father loves her very much and by all accounts she’s extremely content being the wife of a devoted hard-working man who’s the family breadwinner and a doting father on top of it.
I just don’t know if I can imagine myself playing the same role as her. I mean, my mother and I are two very different kind of women. Like, night and day. Hot and cold...you get the point...
And given those differences we have, I doubt we’re even meant to live similar lives.
So…if Steven does happen to spring that inevitable question on me when he comes to England, I’m not sure what my response will be.
And no…my uncertainty about marriage to Steven has absolutely nothing to do with a certain gorgeous, dark-haired bass-player whose close friends call him things like Paulie and Macca. *sigh*
He does want to take me out for drinks this evening though. Strictly work-related. Most journalists have to socialize on occasion for the sakes of their careers, don’t they? It doesn’t matter whether their subjects are physically perfect or not.
Mine just happens to be. Perfect, that is. Physically.
Lord help me, everything about the guy is utter perfection from what I can see so far, and frankly that pisses me off.
I’m a professional, damn it….and most of all I don’t want to prove John Lennon right!
Whatsoever! Like I’d try to seduce the subject of one of my articles. Pfft! What a pompous assuming ass he turned out to be. I don’t care how well he sings, writes songs or plays guitar.
“Fantastic, boys! That was splendid.” Mr. Martin calls through the microphone to them, harshly jarring me from my pitiful little daydream. “That’ll be all for today then. If you need to run off, feel free to do so…but be back here tomorrow by ten. I would very much like to get these vocals and possibly another few numbers done before dusk sets upon us.”
Through the glass I look down to see Ringo leap from behind his drum kit like a man on a mission, quickly bidding joyful ‘farewells’ to his friends, which earn him several good-natured back slaps and then he blows a kiss up at me as he heads for the exit, wearing a huge grin on his adorable face.
I wave to him. He’s really a sweetheart, that guy. Prettiest big blue eyes ever....and one hell of an enthusiastic drummer, too. Beat aside, just watching him play the drums makes me want to get up and dance.
“Well, Miss Gabriel…I sincerely hope being able to spend some time with the boys today has better encouraged you to continue with your article about them in The Boston Globe.” Mr. Martin begins telling me as he reclines comfortably in his chair with a charming smile, and an even more charming British accent. “They’re extremely hard workers and absolutely deserving of any success they happen to acquire. We’re all very pleased here that their concerts and television appearances managed to set such outstanding records in your country.”
“Mr. Martin…” I respond candidly “…we’ve honestly never seen the likes of a reception like the ones our audiences back home gave the guys. They’re absolutely loved there…and even that is probably a vast understatement. My manager....” pause “...well...” I feel myself blushing “...boyfriend, Steven and I traveled to New York the weekend of their first Sullivan appearance and we couldn’t believe our eyes. Really. There were literally thousands of fans lining the streets…blocking traffic…sobbing openly....mass hysteria. It was the most amazing thing the United States has witnessed since Elvis Presley!”
He laughs, much like a proud father would. “Yes. They seem to have that effect everywhere they go these days....and being compared to Elvis is their absolute dream come true.”
“Well, that’s in no small part a credit to you and the excellent recordings you’ve been making of their songs, Mr. Martin,” I add, being purposely, yet deservingly flattering to him, offering another ‘professional’ handshake as I rise from my seat, “And thank you so much for allowing me the opportunity to watch them in the studio today.”
“Strictly Paul’s idea....” he waves off modestly, accepting my hand “...although I didn’t mind it one bit. In fact, I hope you can come by again tomorrow. If you do, you’ll be the very first American to hear their latest recordings.”
“Can’t get more exclusive than that, can I?” I tell him, grateful for the offer. “Maybe I can write something about their new songs that’ll have the American fans anticipating the release of their next record even more....not that they aren’t regardless. I’m pretty sure the boys have already secured a special place in the hearts of all their fans there.”
“I believe so as well, but it’s always good to have some reassurance from an insider, Miss Gabriel....”
So, I decide to chat with Mr. Martin a few minutes more, insider that I am, and tell him about my own group and how well Steven manages it...and how excited I am for him to actually meet Steven when he comes to London....and then.....
“Excuse me. Hate to intrude, Miss Boston Globes....but your chariot awaits....”
Comes the deep resonating voice of none other than the Devil incarnate.
I whirl around expecting to see our obnoxiously rude interrupter standing at the control room door, but instead I nearly bump right into him as it seems that he has somehow, through his powers of intrinsic evil, managed to transport himself directly at my back side.
I stare at his neck for what seems like an eternal moment before my eyes lift to see the thin-lipped smile that quickly stretches across his face.
Not a bad face, actually. Nice bone-structure. Relatively clear complexion. But nowhere near as cordial or devastatingly handsome as his best friend’s. And the smile, despite its brightness, looks every bit as wicked as the amber-colored glint in those scrutinizing almond-shaped eyes of his.
Extremely long eyelashes though.
And that’s an extremely shallow thought, Nicole, I silently chide myself. How stupid of me...even making eye-contact with the devil!
“You mean Paul?” I ask just as stupidly as the things I was just thinking.
The smile vanishes. “No. Winston Churchill.” he deadpans.
Ignoring his blatant sarcasm, I return my gaze to his record producer and smile graciously, “Thank you again, Mr. Martin....for everything. I think I will definitely be back tomorrow.”
“You think or yer definite?” Lennon’s voice pierces the back of my skull.
And once more, I turn to glare at him. No smirk there....on that demonic face. Just a concentrated stare that I find myself struggling not to cower beneath.
“Pardon?” I dare to ask.
“Well, you can’t possibly be both, luv.” he expounds for me. “You either think you’ll be comin’ back, or yer definite you will.”
I hate you, John Lennon. That’s one thing I know for certain....meaning it’s definite!
I can feel him following closely on my heels as I descend the steps from the control room, and I know for sure that he’s trailing too near when I see the suspicious expression on Paul’s face as he looks up from the base of the stairs to observe us.
“You all ready to go then, Nicky?” he asks sweetly, his eyes flitting briefly to connect with those of He Who Shall Not Be Named behind me before he gives me a subtle smile.
I’m so relieved to see him that I could leap straight off the middle step into his rescuing arms. But that really wouldn’t be appropriate, would it? Not for a professional woman.
“Yes!” I beam at him too happily. “But like I told you earlier, I don’t want to put you out of your way, Paul. I took a bus over....and it’s really no problem to catch one back.”
“Oh, no way I’m gonna let that happen, luv.” he smiles, reaching up to take my hand, assisting me off the bottom step even though I show no signs of not being able to make it on my own. Such a gentleman. If I wasn’t about to be proposed to by another guy, I’d probably swoon. “Besides,” he continues “if we’re still going out together tonight, I should probably see for meself where yer stayin’, shouldn’t I? Or would you rather do it some other time?”
“No," I respond almost too quickly, "tonight’s great.”
“Well, ‘ow couldn’t it be?” John quips with a knowing grin and a nudge to Paul’s arm as he saunters past, calling over his shoulder to us, “Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t, kiddies....which only prohibits an orgy at Buckingham Palace or sackin’ the ole girl herself. Haven’t quite got round to those things yet....y’know....busy schedule and all.”
I, for the most part, manage to ignore John again as he walks away to pack up his equipment and keep my eyes trained on Paul. “So, I guess I’m ready when you are.”
“Oh, but, luv...he’s always ready, aye, Paulie?”
“Knock it off, John....right?” Paul shakes his head with an embarrassed chuckle before bending to pick up the guitar case at his feet. His eyes sparkle beautifully as he looks at me again, “All ready then. Let’s ‘ead out, shall we?” He calls back to his friend, “See you later, y’arse!”
“And thus I bid thee farewell three....me fair Lady, Don Juan an' 'is magic wand!” I hear John chuckle after us, “If Janie rings up I’ll be sure to cover for ye, Mackey ole mate.”
When Paul and I finally get outside the studio, he seems uncharacteristically quiet. Not nearly the same chipper young musician he was when I first arrived at the studio today and we talked about everything from classical music, to my father’s car dealership and Paul’s love for automobiles.
He told me that he idolizes my dad.....
That got me hysterical. Here’s a guy who’s probably on the verge of becoming one of the most famous young rock stars of today, and he considers Ralph Gabriel a celebrity just because he sells cars. Wait until I tell Daddy about this one.
“Wonder what yer da would think of this little number, aye?” Paul asks as though he just read my mind while leading me to a small dark green compact parked on the lot directly ahead of us. “Probably wouldn’t be too impressed with it, would he? I mean, after all...it’s not a Ford or a Chevrolet.”
I examine the car briefly and give him a nod, “Hmmmm....not bad though. Not that I’m familiar with foreign cars or anything. What’s it called?”
“It’s the Mini Coop-a!” he cheers enthusiastically, waving a hand in the air for emphasis.
“Coopa?” I ask, mildly confused.
He nods. “Well, that’s how we say it over ‘ere at least. But it’s like Tom Cooper’s name....” and then when he realizes I have no idea who that is, adds, “Um, you’d say it like that American actor’s last name though....y’know....Gary Coop-er.”
“Oh! So it’s a Mini-Cooper!” I acknowledge with delight.
Paul jokingly shakes his head. “Tsk-tsk....you Americans....just so....Americanized. Well, yer in my neck of the woods now, luv....so you’ll have to learn yerself some proper Brit lingo and all that good stuff.” He unlocks the vehicle’s left side door for me and opens it, “And no, ye blatant American person...I’m not lettin’ you drive. This just happens to be the passenger side round these parts.”
I laugh, already loving his quirky personality and unique sense of humor. It’s just a big bonus to the way he looks and how talented he is. Despite my own state of ‘attachment’, I can almost envy the girl that will be fortunate enough to snag this one someday...if she hasn’t already.
The Beatle with the smart mouth had mentioned someone named Janie as we were making our exit from the studio though, hadn’t he?
After Paul opens his own door, tucks his guitar case into a narrow space behind the car’s front seats and slides in beside me, he flashes an apologetic look my way, “And....while we’re speakin’ of bein’ proper and British....guess you’ve already figured you’ll never hear those two words together in a sentence associated with John. Don’t take him the wrong way though, right? You just can’t pay much mind to ‘im is all. He’s like that with almost everyone he meets at first....”
“And by ‘like that’, you mean a disgusting lech?” I ask him.
Paul blinks those big deep hazel doe-eyes of his so innocently that I get an impulse to pity him. “Uh...dunno really. Leeehhchh....” he tries the word out and lets it roll off his tongue before asking with a crinkle to the bridge of his perfect nose, “What exactly do you American folk mean by lech?”
“Someone who’s a lecher...or lecherous....”
“Ah, yes! Same as here. Good term for most of us British lads then,” Paul gives me a little wink. “But, any rate, lech or not, you can’t pay much mind to John.”
A smirk crosses my face, but instead of ranting about that ‘other’ Beatle, I feel a slight pang of sympathy for Paul, who I’m guessing is most likely the one always being left to deal with cleaning up his friend’s little messes. “I get the feeling you end up making that excuse a lot for him,” I offer, “You’ve already pleaded his case to me a few times today alone.” My expression softens as I study his captivating eyes while he concentrates on starting the car, “Look, Paul....you shouldn’t feel the need to apologize for John. After all, he’s a grown man....”
“Ha! That’s arguable.” he huffs mockingly as he twists the key in the ignition and the little car’s motor springs to life around us.
“What I mean is, he’s your friend....not your offspring. You can't feel responsible for what he says or does.”
“Funny....but sometimes it does feel that way though....” he tells me as he turns the wheel to maneuver us from the parking lot “...y’know...like he’s me naughty little boy and I have to tell everyone how terribly sorry I am he’s so badly behaved. S’pose I’ve reason to feel a bit responsible for 'im.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“I dunno really....” he shrugs slightly, and then his big curly-lashed eyes stare off thoughtfully into the distance for a moment as we coast along, “I mean, maybe it’s because we’re a lot like brothers or somethin’, John and I. Very close, y’know...like family. It's difficult to explain actually. But from the time I was fifteen on we’ve been practically inseparable. He sort of....” he hesitates a bit and then shifts an uncertain glance my direction before finally breaking into a shy smile “...well....I dunno how to say this without it sounding incredibly odd to you....”
“Try me.” I smile back to put him at ease, “I’m really good with the oddities of life. You might be surprised.”
His smile broadens and those immaculate brows arch further upward, “Woman of the world, are ye? Ah, well...yer the perfect reporter to be writin’ about us then.” he chuckles. “In fact, Miss Gabriel, this should be right up your lane.” His smile fades a bit and he releases a faint sigh before he blurts, “Alright....y’see....thing about John is, he’s a bit of an odd fellow....”
“That’s a vast understatement.” I smirk.
“Yeah, so you’ve noticed. Well.....this is probably goin’ to sound incredibly stupid or somethin’....but he gets sort of jealous about me gettin’ attention from other people....or me payin’ too much attention to them as well. I reckon he thinks things should stay the way they were between us when we were a bit younger....comin’ up, y’know. And then to make matters even worse lately, there’s his sudden split from Cyn...”
Sin? Split from sin? What does that mean exactly? That he’s a born-again Christian? Then I laugh to myself thinking how highly unlikely that is. Personally, my assessment of John Lennon is that he and sin probably walk hand-in-hand...especially judging from the way he’d been eyeballing me all day and making crude remarks behind my back that he thought I wasn’t wise to.
I place a hand on Paul’s arm to stop him talking for a moment. “Uh, sorry....but I don’t follow. What do you mean, his split from sin?”
Paul looks at me like I’m about to sprout alien tentacles. “Y’know....Cyn....his wife.”
Wife? Oh, now this is a revelation. I had no idea that a guy like John could even be married! But again, Paul did just mention a break-up, didn’t he....so I guess I’m still on track about that.
“Oh! You mean Cyn....as in a girl’s name...” I giggle, a little embarrassed.
“Right. Like short for Cynthia.” Paul studies my humored expression, and for a moment I think I detect admiration in his eyes. “Wait....you thought I meant....sin? Like in doin’ the Devil’s biddin' or whatever?” Then he laughs with me, “Nice wordplay there, but, no. Au Contraire, Nicole! If anything, John and that sin have the perfect romance. Been living a long and fruitful life together, they have. In fact, that’s likely one reason his marriage to the other Cyn isn’t exactly workin’ out.”
Why am I not surprised? “So he has a hard time with commitment? Who would’ve guessed that about him?” I ask with my own sarcasm biting at the thought of the obnoxious Beatle.
Paul goes silent and then shoots a wary glance across at me. “Listen....it’s not really my place to go into any kind of detail about what happened with John and Cyn. Besides, it’s his marriage, after all. I probably shouldn’t have said anything about it.....so all that’s off the record, right?”
“Don’t worry, Paul....” I assure him honestly, “I’m not out to slander anyone. I’m just writing an article about some very talented musicians and their music. What John Lennon does outside the recording studio or away from a concert stage is none of my concern.”
“And that same lack of concern goes for me as well, does it?”
The question catches me a little off guard and I turn to find myself faced with two deep pools of hazel intensity regarding me closely as we idle at a traffic light.
My heart thumps wildly beneath the fancy brown brocaded sweater I have on. “Uh...well...Paul...I....”
“Never mind.” Paul dismisses my baffled stammering with two softly uttered words as the slight grin returns to his lips. “I really shouldn’t ask questions I already know the answers to. Bad habit. Sorry.” He accelerates as the light changes, “And on that note...to break what promises to be an awkward silence now that I've dared ask so soon just how interested you might be in me...exactly how are things between you and this fellow who makes you not care what any Beatle does outside a recording studio? I know you already told me you’ve dated a couple years or so and he’s plannin' to join you here in a bit. But are you really that serious about 'im? Engaged perhaps? Or maybe even just hopeful to wed in the future and settle down to have yerself a nice little family and all that?”
“Why?” I ask nervously, but trying my darnedest not to show it. Damn it, I’m supposed to be the one asking him the questions, aren’t I? I’m the reporter here, after all! A professional.
And if that's truly the case, then I don’t know why I’m suddenly feeling so jittery...unless it has something to do with Paul’s confident attractiveness and the proximity of his body to mine in the cramped space of the vehicle. The way he looks in his crisp black leather jacket, sitting casually crouched behind the steering wheel...or the intimacy of our setting, even though we’re both fully clothed and it’s still the middle of the day.
I don’t feel afraid of him. Not at all.
Maybe only a little afraid of myself.
Did he really just ask me how I felt about him and did I just give him the wrong impression by stammering like some idiot schoolgirl? Or did I give him the right impression?
So damned confusing.
“Just making conversation is all, really.” he responds innocently at first and then breaks into a full grin, “No actually I’m not. I’m honestly just very curious about you and what your attachment to this chap is. Y’know, how serious and everything. I mean, was he in New York with you when we first met?”
I nod my head, unable to look at him directly. I begin to play with my fingernails instead, “Yes, he was.”
“Then he must be the real reason you didn’t show up at our room that night after I invited you...had to get back to the ole man, aye?” He began nodding his head....emphatically. “Alright, I got it. It’s pretty serious then. That bein’ the case, I s’pose I’ll have to behave meself.”
I sit stupidly pondering how serious it really is, when I’m finally reminded of a question I’ve been wanting to ask him ever since we left the studio. “Well, Paul...whether I’m seriously dating someone or not, I suppose you should behave yourself anyhow simply because Janie might not appreciate it if you don’t.”
He flashes a sideways look at me, “Whoa....I knew that was comin’.”
I smile victoriously, “Well, who is she?”
“Um....that would be Jane Asher, actually.” he begins to explain, “She’s a young Londoner who just happens to be an actress, and we met last year when she was interviewing me and the lads for this television music program thingie. Posed for some pictures with us and that....publicity stuff.”
“So....is this relationship you have with her exclusive?”
“Exclusively not so exclusive.” he grins, his left hand straying from the steering wheel to make a wave off gesture, “I simply don’t ‘ave the time for it is all, y’know...’cause right now the band comes first. Me career and all that...though I do like her quite a bit. Besides, Jane's really young....and I’m only twenty-one meself....twenty-two this summer. Still a bit too young for anything that serious, aren’t I?”
“Well, I’m younger than you are...”
“Oh, yeah? By how much?” he asks me, seemingly genuinely interested.
“I’ll be twenty-one in June.”
“Same month as me!” he says with the excitement of a little boy. “What date then?”
“The tenth.”
“Oh my! Another Gemini. We’re in big trouble, luv.” he beams, “Let’s just hope we can keep our duel-personalities somewhat in sync. Mine is on the eighteenth.”
I smile at him. “You're trying to change the subject, Paul.”
“I’m not.” he replies innocently.
“We were talking about you and Jane.”
“I’m perfectly aware of that, but I already told you the deal with me and her...” he looks at me seriously, “or at least, what there really is to tell of it.”
“So, you’re not dating?”
He shrugs, “We date when we feel like it.”
“But is she your official girlfriend?”
“No...” he finally laughs lightly. “Nothing’s official quite yet. I stay at her family’s house because they offered me a spare room there and we hang out a bit...talk and that. Go out on occasion, but we’re not engaged and I’m not planning on getting married or anything....sooo.....” he let that thought trail off his delicious-looking pouty little mouth.
Not that I’m noticing it more than I should be....
“So...” I nod in conclusion, feeling more like Sherlock Holmes than a journalist on duty “...the fact that you’re not engaged or even planning to marry her dictates that you are still very much a single man and can do whatever you please so long as she’s not around to know about it, right?”
Paul releases another laugh, but it’s a short one....and he does it at the same time that he’s lighting a cigarette, so it seems more like an irritated smirk through his closed lips than a genuine laugh.
Maybe I’ve gone too far already. Better back off before.....
“Listen, Nicky...." he begins as he exhales a quick stream of bluish smoke, "...are you wondering all this because you’re sincerely curious about my relationship with her, or is it because you’re finding yerself a bit more in’trested in me than you think you should be, especially given the fact you’ve got someone back ‘ome?”
Too late. He very cleverly manages to ask another blunt question that I really don’t care to answer.
“Maybe you should be the journalist here.” I tell him, feeling my cheeks flush hot.
Paul laughs again, albeit more genuinely this time...cigarette clasped between his lips. “Ah, you see? It’s not s’easy bein’ on the recievin’ end of these sort of questions, is it?”
“Okay...okay....” I emit an embarrassed giggle as I wave my hand in the air.....admitting defeat, and surrendering. “I get your drift.”
“Get my drift?” he ponders the phrase for a moment, “Hmmm....I like that.”
“I won’t ask anything more about the girlfriend.”
“Great!” he smiles, looking sincerely relieved, “Besides, you wouldn’t truly be in’trested in what I do outside the studio or beyond a concert stage anyhow, yeah?”
“Fair enough.” Smart guy. He definitely has me caught in the crosshairs with that one. How can I claim to him one minute that I’m absolutely not uninterested in John Lennon’s personal life, and then suddenly develop a keen enough interest in his to damn near interrogate him about this Jane girl?
Or is Paul right? Is my interest in him and what he does beyond being a Beatle due to something more than just journalistic curiosity on my part?
I struggle to swallow my nervousness as I point to a street sign ahead. “Oh, you’ll need to make a right up there....Porchester Gardens.” I instruct him
But rather than listening, he sails right past the place where I’d just told him to turn and then glances at me mock-apologetically. “Oops.”
I lean back in my seat with a quiet smile, surprisingly not feeling a bit anxious although I’m virtually trapped in a little vehicle with a guy I’ve only met once before this morning. “Alright. So, where are you taking me then?” I inquire with easy resignation.
“I thought it’d be nice to give the American bird a little tour of the countryside out ‘ere for a bit. Takin’ the scenic route ‘ome, y’know.” He smiles at me, his large doe-like eyes flashing with a subtle glint of mischief. “That is, if you don’t mind havin’ a short drive with me. Do you have to get back straight away?”
I shake my head. “I have all the time in the world, Mr. McCartney.”
He chuckles, “Don’t worry...t'won't take that long. I'm not kidnapin' ye. I’d just like you to see the view is all. It’s really lovely...even this time of year....”
“You don’t say?” I ask, testing my own British accent on him.
The bridge of his nose crinkles in disapproval. “Oh, that was horrible. You need some work, Girlie.”
I gape at him, pretending to be incredulous, “Well, I’m trying at least...since you seem to think I should be less obviously so American.”
That cute little wink appears again as he smiles at me, “Nah.....s’alright, luv. I rather enjoy your Americanisms. Besides, what you wanna go bein’ British for? That’d just make you like most of the other birds I know already now, wou’innit? And I’m quite fancyin' yer differences....” he adds, his sleepy eyes taking a sly but subtle dip over my sweater and skirt shrouded body.
Sigh...swoon....heart-racing and stomach flipping so wildly it feels like it’s doing the Tango with the underside of my ribcage.
As I sit back to enjoy the scenery and my early evening ride through the English countryside with a guy I’m already finding myself far too attracted to, a slightly guilty thought flickers in the back of my mind like a candle flame about to be snuffed from the threat of a coming storm...
It’s a thought about Steven....and how I’ll need to phone him as soon as Paul drops me back at my aunt’s house in order to find out exactly when he’ll be flying out to join me here.
Summary: It would appear that Nicky may have a slight problem....or maybe even two.
Chapter Six: Meeting the Beatles; Nicky’s POV
“Whoooaaaa…aaaaaye….whoooaaa….aaaaaye….
I gotta whole lotta things to tell her….
When I get home
C’mon….out my way….
‘Cause I’m a’gonna see my baby today….
I gotta whole lotta things I gotta say….
To heeeer….
Whoooaaa…aaaaaye….whoooaaa….aaaaaye….
I gotta whole lotta things to tell her….
When I get home…”
Hearing them today, I’m still totally impressed with their sound. Its uniqueness. Even more so now in this private setting than when it was overpowered by more than a thousand screaming girls at the CBS Theatre.
Watching these guys perform in their studio is a sight to behold; Paul bouncing the neck of his left-handed violin-shaped bass in time as he sings back-up vocals with George, who effortlessly plucks out a captivating lead line that blends perfectly with John’s relentless riffs, while Ringo’s head bobs to a beat that emphatically frames the whole vigorous living photograph of the performance.
C’mon…if you please….
I got no time for trivialities….
I got a girl who’s waiting home for me….
Toniiiiight….
Whoooaaa…aaaaaye….whoooaaa….aaaaaye….
I gotta whole lotta things to tell her…
When I get home….
It’s absolutely fascinating for me to witness these guys at work…and how serious they are about it all, even though they’d been laughing and behaving like typical ‘boys’ literally two minutes before Mr. Martin began counting down to the time of recording.
I like them all so far…The Beatles….
Well, perhaps with the slight exception of John Lennon. I think I’ve already heard too much mouth from that one. Nothing that I wasn’t able to put in its place with a few choice words of my own though, which seemed to have caught him off guard enough to have rendered him virtuously wordless with me since.
“Just don’t pay much mind to John…” Paul had informed me quietly a short while after his friend’s little tirade against me and my alleged ‘tit flashing’ scheme, “…he’s like that with everybody at one point or another. Even those of us he knows well aren’t necessarily excluded from it.”
“It’s okay, Paul…” I had assured him, feeling very sure of myself after assuming that I’d shut Lennon up once and for all by speaking out about ‘my tits’ on my own accord. “I’m in the music business, too, remember? I’ve dealt with eccentric musicians before…even mad drunk ones who were half out of their minds.”
Paul had granted me a slight frown at that remark, then almost visibly shuddered, “Yeah, luv, but John is sober today. You really don’t want to try handling him like that when he’s not.”
A warning like that from a guy who’s supposed to be his best friend makes me think that at least one Beatle, in particular, should probably be confined to a cage.
But that’s silly, right?
What kind of professional journalist can I be if I’m afraid of one of my subjects? I’m not scared of John! Not at all. It’s just that I’m starting to think it might be a better idea to take a little trip to Liverpool and ask third parties for all the information I need about him instead of ever talking to him...one on one.....especially in private.
Just to be safe.
Yes, I know it sounds paranoid, but what am I supposed to do? Besides, Steven’s coming over in two weeks and I don’t want any trouble going on here that he has to swoop in and rescue me from. I get enough flack from him about winding up in places where I don’t belong and getting myself into tricky situations. He wasn’t crazy about me flying to England on my own in the first place. It was only after he’d talked to Aunt Harriet on the phone and been assured by her that I’d be in safe and worthy hands that he was willing to breathe, take a step back and let me leave peacefully to get on with my career as a journalist.
I have this sneaking suspicion that he’s about to pop the question my parents have been dreaming of ever since I started dating him almost two years ago. He’s been really possessive and protective of me lately. Always has really…especially as our group’s manager, but even more so toward me specifically since we took that trip to New York three weeks ago.
I think a certain tall handsome somebody has found himself a wee bit jealous of four British rock musicians. And that probably has a lot to do with me telling him that Paul McCartney invited me to a party on the twelfth floor of The Plaza when I met him and Ringo in an elevator late one night that weekend.
“The next time we stay in a hotel…especially one filled with crazy rockers and their even crazier fans lurking around every corner…” he’d warned me, sounding more like my father than a boyfriend ever should “…and you need to leave the room for any reason late at night, you either wake me up so I can go with you...or for you….or don’t go at all!”
See what I mean? Possessive. No wonder my father loves him so much. In fact, if Steven was a happily married car salesman and father from Boston instead of an Ivy League-ster from a wealthy family on Martha’s Vineyard who aspires to be an attorney and is currently a manager for a girl group, he would practically be my father.
Despite how much I love and depend upon Steven for emotional support, I’m still sometimes not so certain that I want to relive my mother’s life. Not that she’s had it bad at all. Just the opposite. My father loves her very much and by all accounts she’s extremely content being the wife of a devoted hard-working man who’s the family breadwinner and a doting father on top of it.
I just don’t know if I can imagine myself playing the same role as her. I mean, my mother and I are two very different kind of women. Like, night and day. Hot and cold...you get the point...
And given those differences we have, I doubt we’re even meant to live similar lives.
So…if Steven does happen to spring that inevitable question on me when he comes to England, I’m not sure what my response will be.
And no…my uncertainty about marriage to Steven has absolutely nothing to do with a certain gorgeous, dark-haired bass-player whose close friends call him things like Paulie and Macca. *sigh*
He does want to take me out for drinks this evening though. Strictly work-related. Most journalists have to socialize on occasion for the sakes of their careers, don’t they? It doesn’t matter whether their subjects are physically perfect or not.
Mine just happens to be. Perfect, that is. Physically.
Lord help me, everything about the guy is utter perfection from what I can see so far, and frankly that pisses me off.
I’m a professional, damn it….and most of all I don’t want to prove John Lennon right!
Whatsoever! Like I’d try to seduce the subject of one of my articles. Pfft! What a pompous assuming ass he turned out to be. I don’t care how well he sings, writes songs or plays guitar.
“Fantastic, boys! That was splendid.” Mr. Martin calls through the microphone to them, harshly jarring me from my pitiful little daydream. “That’ll be all for today then. If you need to run off, feel free to do so…but be back here tomorrow by ten. I would very much like to get these vocals and possibly another few numbers done before dusk sets upon us.”
Through the glass I look down to see Ringo leap from behind his drum kit like a man on a mission, quickly bidding joyful ‘farewells’ to his friends, which earn him several good-natured back slaps and then he blows a kiss up at me as he heads for the exit, wearing a huge grin on his adorable face.
I wave to him. He’s really a sweetheart, that guy. Prettiest big blue eyes ever....and one hell of an enthusiastic drummer, too. Beat aside, just watching him play the drums makes me want to get up and dance.
“Well, Miss Gabriel…I sincerely hope being able to spend some time with the boys today has better encouraged you to continue with your article about them in The Boston Globe.” Mr. Martin begins telling me as he reclines comfortably in his chair with a charming smile, and an even more charming British accent. “They’re extremely hard workers and absolutely deserving of any success they happen to acquire. We’re all very pleased here that their concerts and television appearances managed to set such outstanding records in your country.”
“Mr. Martin…” I respond candidly “…we’ve honestly never seen the likes of a reception like the ones our audiences back home gave the guys. They’re absolutely loved there…and even that is probably a vast understatement. My manager....” pause “...well...” I feel myself blushing “...boyfriend, Steven and I traveled to New York the weekend of their first Sullivan appearance and we couldn’t believe our eyes. Really. There were literally thousands of fans lining the streets…blocking traffic…sobbing openly....mass hysteria. It was the most amazing thing the United States has witnessed since Elvis Presley!”
He laughs, much like a proud father would. “Yes. They seem to have that effect everywhere they go these days....and being compared to Elvis is their absolute dream come true.”
“Well, that’s in no small part a credit to you and the excellent recordings you’ve been making of their songs, Mr. Martin,” I add, being purposely, yet deservingly flattering to him, offering another ‘professional’ handshake as I rise from my seat, “And thank you so much for allowing me the opportunity to watch them in the studio today.”
“Strictly Paul’s idea....” he waves off modestly, accepting my hand “...although I didn’t mind it one bit. In fact, I hope you can come by again tomorrow. If you do, you’ll be the very first American to hear their latest recordings.”
“Can’t get more exclusive than that, can I?” I tell him, grateful for the offer. “Maybe I can write something about their new songs that’ll have the American fans anticipating the release of their next record even more....not that they aren’t regardless. I’m pretty sure the boys have already secured a special place in the hearts of all their fans there.”
“I believe so as well, but it’s always good to have some reassurance from an insider, Miss Gabriel....”
So, I decide to chat with Mr. Martin a few minutes more, insider that I am, and tell him about my own group and how well Steven manages it...and how excited I am for him to actually meet Steven when he comes to London....and then.....
“Excuse me. Hate to intrude, Miss Boston Globes....but your chariot awaits....”
Comes the deep resonating voice of none other than the Devil incarnate.
I whirl around expecting to see our obnoxiously rude interrupter standing at the control room door, but instead I nearly bump right into him as it seems that he has somehow, through his powers of intrinsic evil, managed to transport himself directly at my back side.
I stare at his neck for what seems like an eternal moment before my eyes lift to see the thin-lipped smile that quickly stretches across his face.
Not a bad face, actually. Nice bone-structure. Relatively clear complexion. But nowhere near as cordial or devastatingly handsome as his best friend’s. And the smile, despite its brightness, looks every bit as wicked as the amber-colored glint in those scrutinizing almond-shaped eyes of his.
Extremely long eyelashes though.
And that’s an extremely shallow thought, Nicole, I silently chide myself. How stupid of me...even making eye-contact with the devil!
“You mean Paul?” I ask just as stupidly as the things I was just thinking.
The smile vanishes. “No. Winston Churchill.” he deadpans.
Ignoring his blatant sarcasm, I return my gaze to his record producer and smile graciously, “Thank you again, Mr. Martin....for everything. I think I will definitely be back tomorrow.”
“You think or yer definite?” Lennon’s voice pierces the back of my skull.
And once more, I turn to glare at him. No smirk there....on that demonic face. Just a concentrated stare that I find myself struggling not to cower beneath.
“Pardon?” I dare to ask.
“Well, you can’t possibly be both, luv.” he expounds for me. “You either think you’ll be comin’ back, or yer definite you will.”
I hate you, John Lennon. That’s one thing I know for certain....meaning it’s definite!
I can feel him following closely on my heels as I descend the steps from the control room, and I know for sure that he’s trailing too near when I see the suspicious expression on Paul’s face as he looks up from the base of the stairs to observe us.
“You all ready to go then, Nicky?” he asks sweetly, his eyes flitting briefly to connect with those of He Who Shall Not Be Named behind me before he gives me a subtle smile.
I’m so relieved to see him that I could leap straight off the middle step into his rescuing arms. But that really wouldn’t be appropriate, would it? Not for a professional woman.
“Yes!” I beam at him too happily. “But like I told you earlier, I don’t want to put you out of your way, Paul. I took a bus over....and it’s really no problem to catch one back.”
“Oh, no way I’m gonna let that happen, luv.” he smiles, reaching up to take my hand, assisting me off the bottom step even though I show no signs of not being able to make it on my own. Such a gentleman. If I wasn’t about to be proposed to by another guy, I’d probably swoon. “Besides,” he continues “if we’re still going out together tonight, I should probably see for meself where yer stayin’, shouldn’t I? Or would you rather do it some other time?”
“No," I respond almost too quickly, "tonight’s great.”
“Well, ‘ow couldn’t it be?” John quips with a knowing grin and a nudge to Paul’s arm as he saunters past, calling over his shoulder to us, “Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t, kiddies....which only prohibits an orgy at Buckingham Palace or sackin’ the ole girl herself. Haven’t quite got round to those things yet....y’know....busy schedule and all.”
I, for the most part, manage to ignore John again as he walks away to pack up his equipment and keep my eyes trained on Paul. “So, I guess I’m ready when you are.”
“Oh, but, luv...he’s always ready, aye, Paulie?”
“Knock it off, John....right?” Paul shakes his head with an embarrassed chuckle before bending to pick up the guitar case at his feet. His eyes sparkle beautifully as he looks at me again, “All ready then. Let’s ‘ead out, shall we?” He calls back to his friend, “See you later, y’arse!”
“And thus I bid thee farewell three....me fair Lady, Don Juan an' 'is magic wand!” I hear John chuckle after us, “If Janie rings up I’ll be sure to cover for ye, Mackey ole mate.”
When Paul and I finally get outside the studio, he seems uncharacteristically quiet. Not nearly the same chipper young musician he was when I first arrived at the studio today and we talked about everything from classical music, to my father’s car dealership and Paul’s love for automobiles.
He told me that he idolizes my dad.....
That got me hysterical. Here’s a guy who’s probably on the verge of becoming one of the most famous young rock stars of today, and he considers Ralph Gabriel a celebrity just because he sells cars. Wait until I tell Daddy about this one.
“Wonder what yer da would think of this little number, aye?” Paul asks as though he just read my mind while leading me to a small dark green compact parked on the lot directly ahead of us. “Probably wouldn’t be too impressed with it, would he? I mean, after all...it’s not a Ford or a Chevrolet.”
I examine the car briefly and give him a nod, “Hmmmm....not bad though. Not that I’m familiar with foreign cars or anything. What’s it called?”
“It’s the Mini Coop-a!” he cheers enthusiastically, waving a hand in the air for emphasis.
“Coopa?” I ask, mildly confused.
He nods. “Well, that’s how we say it over ‘ere at least. But it’s like Tom Cooper’s name....” and then when he realizes I have no idea who that is, adds, “Um, you’d say it like that American actor’s last name though....y’know....Gary Coop-er.”
“Oh! So it’s a Mini-Cooper!” I acknowledge with delight.
Paul jokingly shakes his head. “Tsk-tsk....you Americans....just so....Americanized. Well, yer in my neck of the woods now, luv....so you’ll have to learn yerself some proper Brit lingo and all that good stuff.” He unlocks the vehicle’s left side door for me and opens it, “And no, ye blatant American person...I’m not lettin’ you drive. This just happens to be the passenger side round these parts.”
I laugh, already loving his quirky personality and unique sense of humor. It’s just a big bonus to the way he looks and how talented he is. Despite my own state of ‘attachment’, I can almost envy the girl that will be fortunate enough to snag this one someday...if she hasn’t already.
The Beatle with the smart mouth had mentioned someone named Janie as we were making our exit from the studio though, hadn’t he?
After Paul opens his own door, tucks his guitar case into a narrow space behind the car’s front seats and slides in beside me, he flashes an apologetic look my way, “And....while we’re speakin’ of bein’ proper and British....guess you’ve already figured you’ll never hear those two words together in a sentence associated with John. Don’t take him the wrong way though, right? You just can’t pay much mind to ‘im is all. He’s like that with almost everyone he meets at first....”
“And by ‘like that’, you mean a disgusting lech?” I ask him.
Paul blinks those big deep hazel doe-eyes of his so innocently that I get an impulse to pity him. “Uh...dunno really. Leeehhchh....” he tries the word out and lets it roll off his tongue before asking with a crinkle to the bridge of his perfect nose, “What exactly do you American folk mean by lech?”
“Someone who’s a lecher...or lecherous....”
“Ah, yes! Same as here. Good term for most of us British lads then,” Paul gives me a little wink. “But, any rate, lech or not, you can’t pay much mind to John.”
A smirk crosses my face, but instead of ranting about that ‘other’ Beatle, I feel a slight pang of sympathy for Paul, who I’m guessing is most likely the one always being left to deal with cleaning up his friend’s little messes. “I get the feeling you end up making that excuse a lot for him,” I offer, “You’ve already pleaded his case to me a few times today alone.” My expression softens as I study his captivating eyes while he concentrates on starting the car, “Look, Paul....you shouldn’t feel the need to apologize for John. After all, he’s a grown man....”
“Ha! That’s arguable.” he huffs mockingly as he twists the key in the ignition and the little car’s motor springs to life around us.
“What I mean is, he’s your friend....not your offspring. You can't feel responsible for what he says or does.”
“Funny....but sometimes it does feel that way though....” he tells me as he turns the wheel to maneuver us from the parking lot “...y’know...like he’s me naughty little boy and I have to tell everyone how terribly sorry I am he’s so badly behaved. S’pose I’ve reason to feel a bit responsible for 'im.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“I dunno really....” he shrugs slightly, and then his big curly-lashed eyes stare off thoughtfully into the distance for a moment as we coast along, “I mean, maybe it’s because we’re a lot like brothers or somethin’, John and I. Very close, y’know...like family. It's difficult to explain actually. But from the time I was fifteen on we’ve been practically inseparable. He sort of....” he hesitates a bit and then shifts an uncertain glance my direction before finally breaking into a shy smile “...well....I dunno how to say this without it sounding incredibly odd to you....”
“Try me.” I smile back to put him at ease, “I’m really good with the oddities of life. You might be surprised.”
His smile broadens and those immaculate brows arch further upward, “Woman of the world, are ye? Ah, well...yer the perfect reporter to be writin’ about us then.” he chuckles. “In fact, Miss Gabriel, this should be right up your lane.” His smile fades a bit and he releases a faint sigh before he blurts, “Alright....y’see....thing about John is, he’s a bit of an odd fellow....”
“That’s a vast understatement.” I smirk.
“Yeah, so you’ve noticed. Well.....this is probably goin’ to sound incredibly stupid or somethin’....but he gets sort of jealous about me gettin’ attention from other people....or me payin’ too much attention to them as well. I reckon he thinks things should stay the way they were between us when we were a bit younger....comin’ up, y’know. And then to make matters even worse lately, there’s his sudden split from Cyn...”
Sin? Split from sin? What does that mean exactly? That he’s a born-again Christian? Then I laugh to myself thinking how highly unlikely that is. Personally, my assessment of John Lennon is that he and sin probably walk hand-in-hand...especially judging from the way he’d been eyeballing me all day and making crude remarks behind my back that he thought I wasn’t wise to.
I place a hand on Paul’s arm to stop him talking for a moment. “Uh, sorry....but I don’t follow. What do you mean, his split from sin?”
Paul looks at me like I’m about to sprout alien tentacles. “Y’know....Cyn....his wife.”
Wife? Oh, now this is a revelation. I had no idea that a guy like John could even be married! But again, Paul did just mention a break-up, didn’t he....so I guess I’m still on track about that.
“Oh! You mean Cyn....as in a girl’s name...” I giggle, a little embarrassed.
“Right. Like short for Cynthia.” Paul studies my humored expression, and for a moment I think I detect admiration in his eyes. “Wait....you thought I meant....sin? Like in doin’ the Devil’s biddin' or whatever?” Then he laughs with me, “Nice wordplay there, but, no. Au Contraire, Nicole! If anything, John and that sin have the perfect romance. Been living a long and fruitful life together, they have. In fact, that’s likely one reason his marriage to the other Cyn isn’t exactly workin’ out.”
Why am I not surprised? “So he has a hard time with commitment? Who would’ve guessed that about him?” I ask with my own sarcasm biting at the thought of the obnoxious Beatle.
Paul goes silent and then shoots a wary glance across at me. “Listen....it’s not really my place to go into any kind of detail about what happened with John and Cyn. Besides, it’s his marriage, after all. I probably shouldn’t have said anything about it.....so all that’s off the record, right?”
“Don’t worry, Paul....” I assure him honestly, “I’m not out to slander anyone. I’m just writing an article about some very talented musicians and their music. What John Lennon does outside the recording studio or away from a concert stage is none of my concern.”
“And that same lack of concern goes for me as well, does it?”
The question catches me a little off guard and I turn to find myself faced with two deep pools of hazel intensity regarding me closely as we idle at a traffic light.
My heart thumps wildly beneath the fancy brown brocaded sweater I have on. “Uh...well...Paul...I....”
“Never mind.” Paul dismisses my baffled stammering with two softly uttered words as the slight grin returns to his lips. “I really shouldn’t ask questions I already know the answers to. Bad habit. Sorry.” He accelerates as the light changes, “And on that note...to break what promises to be an awkward silence now that I've dared ask so soon just how interested you might be in me...exactly how are things between you and this fellow who makes you not care what any Beatle does outside a recording studio? I know you already told me you’ve dated a couple years or so and he’s plannin' to join you here in a bit. But are you really that serious about 'im? Engaged perhaps? Or maybe even just hopeful to wed in the future and settle down to have yerself a nice little family and all that?”
“Why?” I ask nervously, but trying my darnedest not to show it. Damn it, I’m supposed to be the one asking him the questions, aren’t I? I’m the reporter here, after all! A professional.
And if that's truly the case, then I don’t know why I’m suddenly feeling so jittery...unless it has something to do with Paul’s confident attractiveness and the proximity of his body to mine in the cramped space of the vehicle. The way he looks in his crisp black leather jacket, sitting casually crouched behind the steering wheel...or the intimacy of our setting, even though we’re both fully clothed and it’s still the middle of the day.
I don’t feel afraid of him. Not at all.
Maybe only a little afraid of myself.
Did he really just ask me how I felt about him and did I just give him the wrong impression by stammering like some idiot schoolgirl? Or did I give him the right impression?
So damned confusing.
“Just making conversation is all, really.” he responds innocently at first and then breaks into a full grin, “No actually I’m not. I’m honestly just very curious about you and what your attachment to this chap is. Y’know, how serious and everything. I mean, was he in New York with you when we first met?”
I nod my head, unable to look at him directly. I begin to play with my fingernails instead, “Yes, he was.”
“Then he must be the real reason you didn’t show up at our room that night after I invited you...had to get back to the ole man, aye?” He began nodding his head....emphatically. “Alright, I got it. It’s pretty serious then. That bein’ the case, I s’pose I’ll have to behave meself.”
I sit stupidly pondering how serious it really is, when I’m finally reminded of a question I’ve been wanting to ask him ever since we left the studio. “Well, Paul...whether I’m seriously dating someone or not, I suppose you should behave yourself anyhow simply because Janie might not appreciate it if you don’t.”
He flashes a sideways look at me, “Whoa....I knew that was comin’.”
I smile victoriously, “Well, who is she?”
“Um....that would be Jane Asher, actually.” he begins to explain, “She’s a young Londoner who just happens to be an actress, and we met last year when she was interviewing me and the lads for this television music program thingie. Posed for some pictures with us and that....publicity stuff.”
“So....is this relationship you have with her exclusive?”
“Exclusively not so exclusive.” he grins, his left hand straying from the steering wheel to make a wave off gesture, “I simply don’t ‘ave the time for it is all, y’know...’cause right now the band comes first. Me career and all that...though I do like her quite a bit. Besides, Jane's really young....and I’m only twenty-one meself....twenty-two this summer. Still a bit too young for anything that serious, aren’t I?”
“Well, I’m younger than you are...”
“Oh, yeah? By how much?” he asks me, seemingly genuinely interested.
“I’ll be twenty-one in June.”
“Same month as me!” he says with the excitement of a little boy. “What date then?”
“The tenth.”
“Oh my! Another Gemini. We’re in big trouble, luv.” he beams, “Let’s just hope we can keep our duel-personalities somewhat in sync. Mine is on the eighteenth.”
I smile at him. “You're trying to change the subject, Paul.”
“I’m not.” he replies innocently.
“We were talking about you and Jane.”
“I’m perfectly aware of that, but I already told you the deal with me and her...” he looks at me seriously, “or at least, what there really is to tell of it.”
“So, you’re not dating?”
He shrugs, “We date when we feel like it.”
“But is she your official girlfriend?”
“No...” he finally laughs lightly. “Nothing’s official quite yet. I stay at her family’s house because they offered me a spare room there and we hang out a bit...talk and that. Go out on occasion, but we’re not engaged and I’m not planning on getting married or anything....sooo.....” he let that thought trail off his delicious-looking pouty little mouth.
Not that I’m noticing it more than I should be....
“So...” I nod in conclusion, feeling more like Sherlock Holmes than a journalist on duty “...the fact that you’re not engaged or even planning to marry her dictates that you are still very much a single man and can do whatever you please so long as she’s not around to know about it, right?”
Paul releases another laugh, but it’s a short one....and he does it at the same time that he’s lighting a cigarette, so it seems more like an irritated smirk through his closed lips than a genuine laugh.
Maybe I’ve gone too far already. Better back off before.....
“Listen, Nicky...." he begins as he exhales a quick stream of bluish smoke, "...are you wondering all this because you’re sincerely curious about my relationship with her, or is it because you’re finding yerself a bit more in’trested in me than you think you should be, especially given the fact you’ve got someone back ‘ome?”
Too late. He very cleverly manages to ask another blunt question that I really don’t care to answer.
“Maybe you should be the journalist here.” I tell him, feeling my cheeks flush hot.
Paul laughs again, albeit more genuinely this time...cigarette clasped between his lips. “Ah, you see? It’s not s’easy bein’ on the recievin’ end of these sort of questions, is it?”
“Okay...okay....” I emit an embarrassed giggle as I wave my hand in the air.....admitting defeat, and surrendering. “I get your drift.”
“Get my drift?” he ponders the phrase for a moment, “Hmmm....I like that.”
“I won’t ask anything more about the girlfriend.”
“Great!” he smiles, looking sincerely relieved, “Besides, you wouldn’t truly be in’trested in what I do outside the studio or beyond a concert stage anyhow, yeah?”
“Fair enough.” Smart guy. He definitely has me caught in the crosshairs with that one. How can I claim to him one minute that I’m absolutely not uninterested in John Lennon’s personal life, and then suddenly develop a keen enough interest in his to damn near interrogate him about this Jane girl?
Or is Paul right? Is my interest in him and what he does beyond being a Beatle due to something more than just journalistic curiosity on my part?
I struggle to swallow my nervousness as I point to a street sign ahead. “Oh, you’ll need to make a right up there....Porchester Gardens.” I instruct him
But rather than listening, he sails right past the place where I’d just told him to turn and then glances at me mock-apologetically. “Oops.”
I lean back in my seat with a quiet smile, surprisingly not feeling a bit anxious although I’m virtually trapped in a little vehicle with a guy I’ve only met once before this morning. “Alright. So, where are you taking me then?” I inquire with easy resignation.
“I thought it’d be nice to give the American bird a little tour of the countryside out ‘ere for a bit. Takin’ the scenic route ‘ome, y’know.” He smiles at me, his large doe-like eyes flashing with a subtle glint of mischief. “That is, if you don’t mind havin’ a short drive with me. Do you have to get back straight away?”
I shake my head. “I have all the time in the world, Mr. McCartney.”
He chuckles, “Don’t worry...t'won't take that long. I'm not kidnapin' ye. I’d just like you to see the view is all. It’s really lovely...even this time of year....”
“You don’t say?” I ask, testing my own British accent on him.
The bridge of his nose crinkles in disapproval. “Oh, that was horrible. You need some work, Girlie.”
I gape at him, pretending to be incredulous, “Well, I’m trying at least...since you seem to think I should be less obviously so American.”
That cute little wink appears again as he smiles at me, “Nah.....s’alright, luv. I rather enjoy your Americanisms. Besides, what you wanna go bein’ British for? That’d just make you like most of the other birds I know already now, wou’innit? And I’m quite fancyin' yer differences....” he adds, his sleepy eyes taking a sly but subtle dip over my sweater and skirt shrouded body.
Sigh...swoon....heart-racing and stomach flipping so wildly it feels like it’s doing the Tango with the underside of my ribcage.
As I sit back to enjoy the scenery and my early evening ride through the English countryside with a guy I’m already finding myself far too attracted to, a slightly guilty thought flickers in the back of my mind like a candle flame about to be snuffed from the threat of a coming storm...
It’s a thought about Steven....and how I’ll need to phone him as soon as Paul drops me back at my aunt’s house in order to find out exactly when he’ll be flying out to join me here.