July 7th , After midnight, Somewhere in the maze of endless corridors in the Dorchester Hotel
I felt a tidal wave of relief wash over me as I finally escaped the hotel dining room. After over half an hour of picking at my food unenthusiastically, I was beginning to fear that I was never going to be able to slip away.
When I had tried to leave before, John had started hissing comments about other men. Blushing scarlet, I denied vehemently that I had an arrangement to meet someone. We almost broke into a proper argument, John's voice rising dangerously over my protests, before Brian intervened and suggested that perhaps I should go home and get to bed.
"Yes," I agreed decisively, standing up so quickly I nearly knock over the chair. "Maybe I should."
I gave John as nasty a look as I dared, given his current mood. Now that it was clear he was refusing to bury the hatchet, I was all the more determined to have my extramarital fun. Of course, I'd had some already, thanks to Brian's arrangement back at the theatre, but I felt I deserved more after the way I'd been treated. He could be such a bastard sometimes. The fans had no idea. They'd follow him and his band mates blindly to the ends of the earth. There had once been a time when I would have done the same. The present was a completely different story.
Since we'd married two years ago, I'd fast become disillusioned with the great John Lennon. How many times had he left me at home with our young to son to go jetting off across the world, not just for work but for holidays in the sun? And how many times had he ignored me when I had been allowed to come with him? Yes, and how many times had I felt there was something missing in his eyes when he said 'I love you'.
And, I realised to my shock, the answer to my troubles just didn't seem to lie in talking to my husband or trying to repair our already crumbling relationship. And the answer, contrary to the lyrics of the famous song, wasn't even blowing in the wind.
I knew exactly were I could find it: in the arms of Bob Dylan. Even if it was just for this one night, I was sure it would be worth it. Perhaps I would then be satisfied to go back to my life with John spent mostly without him. Or perhaps our fling would be the catalyst to help me see what I was missing as a housewife. Granted, I was married to one of the most famous men in the world, but now I was only really allowed to be seen with him a things like this. That's it, John, pretend you're not married so we'll have screaming girlies running after you. You can get the wife out for special occasions. I wasn't even allowed to go to the Liverpool one, so it wasn't much improvement from a year spent hiding under coats, just so that no one would see me with my husband.
I pulled out the scrap of paper Dylan had given me, don't ask me where I hid it, please, flattened it out and squinted at the room number.
Right, I thought, finally managing to decipher handwriting even more spidery than the man's hair. How on earth do I get to room number 42 from here?
When I had tried to leave before, John had started hissing comments about other men. Blushing scarlet, I denied vehemently that I had an arrangement to meet someone. We almost broke into a proper argument, John's voice rising dangerously over my protests, before Brian intervened and suggested that perhaps I should go home and get to bed.
"Yes," I agreed decisively, standing up so quickly I nearly knock over the chair. "Maybe I should."
I gave John as nasty a look as I dared, given his current mood. Now that it was clear he was refusing to bury the hatchet, I was all the more determined to have my extramarital fun. Of course, I'd had some already, thanks to Brian's arrangement back at the theatre, but I felt I deserved more after the way I'd been treated. He could be such a bastard sometimes. The fans had no idea. They'd follow him and his band mates blindly to the ends of the earth. There had once been a time when I would have done the same. The present was a completely different story.
Since we'd married two years ago, I'd fast become disillusioned with the great John Lennon. How many times had he left me at home with our young to son to go jetting off across the world, not just for work but for holidays in the sun? And how many times had he ignored me when I had been allowed to come with him? Yes, and how many times had I felt there was something missing in his eyes when he said 'I love you'.
And, I realised to my shock, the answer to my troubles just didn't seem to lie in talking to my husband or trying to repair our already crumbling relationship. And the answer, contrary to the lyrics of the famous song, wasn't even blowing in the wind.
I knew exactly were I could find it: in the arms of Bob Dylan. Even if it was just for this one night, I was sure it would be worth it. Perhaps I would then be satisfied to go back to my life with John spent mostly without him. Or perhaps our fling would be the catalyst to help me see what I was missing as a housewife. Granted, I was married to one of the most famous men in the world, but now I was only really allowed to be seen with him a things like this. That's it, John, pretend you're not married so we'll have screaming girlies running after you. You can get the wife out for special occasions. I wasn't even allowed to go to the Liverpool one, so it wasn't much improvement from a year spent hiding under coats, just so that no one would see me with my husband.
I pulled out the scrap of paper Dylan had given me, don't ask me where I hid it, please, flattened it out and squinted at the room number.
Right, I thought, finally managing to decipher handwriting even more spidery than the man's hair. How on earth do I get to room number 42 from here?