The Elephants Dance, Chapter 44
Jan. 19th, 2014 12:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
yes_2dayA significant bump in the road for our intrepid heroes...
Sorry about the delay in posting. I had a terrible cold this week, and also LJ acted up and I had to get LJ Help to unlock me again. I suspect it is because I am quoting songs in these last several chapters, which require a lot of formatting. That much formatting in Word, when cut and paste into LJ, causes corruption in the draft files, apparently. (Now ask me what that means.) I did get a tip on how to prevent it from happening. We'll see if it works...
Chapter 44
Madrid was on a beautiful plateau at the center of the Iberian Peninsula, and the sky seemed an impossible vista. Earlier that afternoon, in Rome, a few hours after Linda and the kids had said their goodbyes, John and Paul had met each other in the lobby and had gotten into the limo for their own trip to the airport, where they sat silently. The last two days in Rome had been difficult for both of them, locked in their war of wills, and surrounded by Paul’s family, so finding themselves unable to fight it out between them.
Because Paul hadn’t ever asked about where he’d gone the night after the concert, John decided he would have to be more obvious, so the night before he had his two roadies go out and find him a woman to stay with him at the Grand, in the suite next to Paul’s. He invited the woman to dinner with Paul and Linda that night (the kids were having room service back in the suite), and then even for nightcaps with Linda and Paul after dinner before disappearing into his own suite, locking the door behind them.
Linda had been aware of and amused by John’s tactics. She thought she understood what he was up to. Paul did seem upset by it all, but it wasn’t clear to Linda whether the upset had more to do with worry and concern over the potential loss of John’s friendship or him getting hurt in some way than it did jealousy over the woman. Perhaps it was a lot of one, and a little of the other. She was in the strange position of having to reassure her husband that his male lover was just twisting his tail. When she was a kid at Scarsdale High School she’d never thought she’d be having a conversation like this with her husband! Oh, well.
“Paul, he’s doing this to get your attention,” she had finally said, as they prepared for bed, in much the same way as she had said it to her best girlfriend during senior year.
“But why? He’s already got my attention!” Paul had blurted that out without realizing how that might sound to Linda. “He doesn’t have to behave like a baboon to get my attention.” Paul was muttering to himself now, as he threw articles of clothing around the room.
Linda patted the bed beside her, and her grumpy husband had climbed in next to her. “Let’s forget about him for the night,” she suggested. “I’ve got some really great pot,” she added with her face all lit with mischief. Paul laughed and tweaked her nose.
“I don’t deserve you. I really don’t. It’s just that man – he makes me crazy!”
But soon, what with the pot and the sex, Paul had been very relaxed and was seeing the whole situation in a more balanced light. Was it true John was trying to make him jealous? Paul didn’t understand why people did that on purpose to people they loved. Feeling jealous was the worst feeling on earth, as far as Paul was concerned. It had driven him nearly insane on the few occasions that he had allowed himself to feel it. And here he was – halfway down the hallway to the Cuckoo Door. He chuckled as he took another huge toke and handed the blunt to Linda. “I’m a fucking fool,” he had said, laughing, and Linda had laughed too. “I’d much rather John be having fun while I’m with you, than him lying around feeling terrible.”
Linda had then patted her husband’s chest in an “attaboy” gesture, and handed the blunt back to Paul.
So, the next afternoon, while Paul sat silently next to John in the limo on their way to the airport, he wasn’t nursing anger anymore. But he didn’t exactly know how to get through to John. John seemed to have sealed himself off.
They were staying at the Ritz in Madrid, and Paul had made sure they only had the one suite. Maybe they’d end up in separate bedrooms if John wanted to keep up the feud, but hopefully there wouldn’t be a locked door between them. But first, Paul had some business to transact with the tour manager as soon as he arrived at the hotel. Paul found Evan Willis in his room, and waited for him to get off the telephone.
The manager turned to him as he hung up and said brightly, “How was your time off in Rome?”
“Did you know that John was gone for hours after the concert? He didn’t get back to the hotel until almost 5 p.m.!”
“Yes, Roger did mention it to me.”
“Roger?” Paul asked, confused.
“The roadie.”
“Roger the roadie told you…”
“Yes.”
“You do realize that there are professional kidnappers in Italy, don’t you? Why would you leave John’s safety and security entirely in the hands of…Roger the roadie?”
“I told Roger to tell you what went down,” the manager said. He was beginning to realize that McCartney was really mad. Paul didn’t like mistakes, and he especially didn’t like ugly surprises.
“Haven’t seen hide nor hair of Roger,” Paul said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, and becoming ever more frightening with each word. “I worried about John all the next day. You would have thought that someone might have thought it appropriate to tell me where the hell he was?”
The manager was squirming. This was the first time he had found himself between John Lennon and Paul McCartney and it was a damned unpleasant place to be. Some of the old Apple scruffs had warned him about this before he took the gig, but he had foolishly thought he could handle it, no problem. “Thing is,” Willis offered, “I myself didn’t know where he went at the time, although I told Roger to stay with him, and he did.”
“So Roger the roadie knew where John was, and you didn’t? Who’s in charge here anyway?” Paul’s face was white. He tended to go white when he was very angry. “Never. I. Mean. Never. Let. That. Happen. Again.”
The tour manager nodded in agreement, his eyes wide open. He had managed other rock bands on tour many times, and he’d never seen one of the band members this proprietary about the whereabouts of another. It was very strange.
Paul could see the confusion and disillusionment in the manager’s face, and he softened. “Look,” he said in a much kinder voice, “John isn’t like your average grown up. He is utterly unpredictable. He does crazy things when left to his own devices. He could get hurt, he could be lured into compromising situations, he could have a drug overdose. You have to keep your eye on John, he doesn’t have any…brakes.” Paul used the word for lack of a better one. But he was mindful that this is what George Martin often called him – John’s “brakes.”
Willis was relieved by the explanation and then ventured a question. “So, in the future, if he refuses to tell me what he’s up to, what do you expect me to do?”
“Call me immediately, and I’ll handle it.”
“Okay. I can do that.”
“Sorry if I bit your head off; but what John did was very dangerous, and it scared the shit out of me, and I need everyone on this team to be looking out for him because he doesn’t look out for himself.”
John was back in the hotel suite, doing his usual minimal overnight unpacking. They’d be leaving Madrid the day after the concert, and then would be on to Lisbon. In Lisbon, they’d have a few days’ rest before the long hall over to Caracas, Venezuela, to begin the South American leg of their tour. He felt dispirited and had begun to regret his crazy ass behavior over the last few days. He felt certain he had ruined Linda’s visit with Paul – was that his goal? John hoped that he was a nicer person than that, but he suspected he wasn’t. Still, Paul was behaving like a snot and had been doing so ever since the afternoon after he’d been out all night. Paul hadn’t even asked where he had been. Wasn’t he curious? And John had gotten no rise out of him with that stunt with the woman in their suite, either. Of course, John had lost all interest in her almost as soon as the suite door had shut behind them, and he had decided to go down on the woman because he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it up for long. Couldn’t have some woman going around telling the world John Lennon was impotent, could he? John had gotten very good at head in the ‘70s, when it became less and less exciting to him to have sex with women. He really had to be in the mood for vaginal sex with women, and while Paul was haunting his brain he couldn’t get in the mood for it.
Back in Madrid, John heard Paul entering the suite, and focused on his suitcase again, while actually waiting for Paul to come in the bedroom and say something. Anything.
Paul had entered so quietly, John didn’t hear him, so he jumped a bit when Paul said softly, “John?” Paul was sitting on the edge of the bed. John stopped what he was doing and sat down on an easy chair, facing Paul.
“Yes?”
“Can we talk about it?”
“Yes.” John didn’t pretend that he didn’t know what Paul was talking about. “It” was perfectly clear to both of them, like an elephant in the room or something.
“What you did – disappearing like that – it was very dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” John repeated. What the fuck? John had been hoping to hear how it made Paul jealous, or that he missed him, or that his feelings were hurt. But ‘dangerous?’
“Have you heard of the Red Brigades?” Paul asked him quietly.
John’s face was now a study in absolute perplexity. “Red Brigades? What has that got to do with me?”
“They are a group that kidnaps, kills, and kneecaps people for political reasons and to raise money to support their political causes. Hell, they killed a former prime minister! They have also spawned a lot of copycat gangs who forget the politics and just kidnap for the ransom. You’re a prime candidate for that kind of a kidnapping, John. You shouldn’t endanger yourself that way. Didn’t you hear what the security expert told us?”
If John hadn’t been hoping for a more romantic disclosure, he might have been touched by Paul’s concern for his safety. As it was, he was hard pressed not to explode. “Do you think I’m a fucking fool, Paul? No, I didn’t think I was going to get kidnapped! I was with two roadies at all times! I had Evan’s assistant book me a room in another nice hotel. We took a limo from the concert arena to the hotel. The woman came from the fucking audience, Paul, and was chosen at random and vetted by the roadies. It seems unlikely she’d turn out to be an agent of the Red Brigades!”
Paul listened in stony silence to John’s angry response. “This all may be so,” he said stiffly. “But I didn’t know any of this, and was left to worry about your safety all night long, and into the next day.”
“I don’t owe you explanations about my whereabouts!” John shouted.
“Yes, you do, John!” Paul shouted back. “Am I supposed to turn off my concern for you whenever you decide to freeze me out?”
John sighed heavily. “You’re such a fucking drama queen, Paul. You were with your wife and kids. I was trying to leave you alone so you could enjoy them. Excuse me for being thoughtful.”
“Thoughtful?” Paul was now beside himself as he repeated, “thoughtful? I spent the whole time worrying about you, John! It ruined everything! Why couldn’t you have left me a note, saying where you’d be so I wouldn’t worry?”
“Ah, the famous little Macca notes taped to the mirrors or left on the mantelpieces. Do you realize how queer that is? Half the time I don’t even see the damn things before you’re back in the room. You don’t have to tell me where you’re going every fucking second of the day, and I don’t have to tell you!” John’s voice was steeped in nasty sarcasm now – the kind Paul remembered from 1971. It was too painful a prod, and Paul reacted immediately. Without another word, Paul got up and left the room, taking his overnight bag with him.
“Where the hell are you going?” John demanded.
Paul laughed. “I thought I didn’t have to tell you everywhere I’m going every fucking second!” Paul slammed the bedroom door, and carried his case across the sitting room area to the other bedroom.
John had gotten up to follow Paul with “another thing” he wanted to say, but only got the door open in time to see the door to the other bedroom slam shut, and to hear the lock turning. “Oh for Chrissakes!” John shouted across the sitting area. “You’re behaving like a bleeding cunt!” John waited for a response, but he was met with cold silence. “So now we’re gonna do the whole withdrawal thing, are we?” No response.
John picked up a sofa cushion and threw it angrily across the room. “He’s a fucking woman,” John muttered to the room at large. He waited for a few minutes to see if Paul would come out, but he heard not a sound from that room. He plopped down on the sitting room sofa and turned on the television. It was only 4 p.m., and they had 2 hours to pass before leaving for the concert arena. John felt his stomach rumble, and thought he would call room service. Maybe Paul was hungry too? John went over to Paul’s door and knocked. He didn’t get a verbal response. “Paul? Paul, don’t let’s be stupid. I’m ordering something to eat. Are you hungry?”
“No thanks,” came the polite but cold response.
John sighed again. Lord save me from pouting lovers, he thought to himself, completely unaware that he had subjected Paul to far more moments like this than Paul had ever suffered on him. He went ahead and ordered enough food for two, in case Paul changed his mind, or John was able to woo him out of the room. Honestly, Paul took things so seriously sometimes. Most of the time he didn’t. John wished that Paul would come up with some kind of warning system so that he would know the times Paul was going to be hurt by his sarcasm, as opposed to brushing it off with a smartass remark of his own.
It was unusual for John and Paul not to have arrived at the arena precisely two hours before the concert. It had never happened that they were in danger of missing sound check. The tour manager was worried. He got on the phone and called John and Paul’s suite. John answered.
“Where are you two? Any problems?”
“His Eminence is moving like molasses. I’m hearing sounds from his room that indicate that he is about to emerge.”
“Is Paul okay?” Willis asked. Paul was never a problem. He was the least histrionic and most professional rock star the manager had ever worked for. They’d had a few scary moments with John’s moods, but never Paul.
“Oh – here he comes! The door is opening! And there he is, in all his glory!” John was announcing this into the phone in an unnecessarily loud and sarcastic tone of voice.
“Fuck off,” Paul said, giving John an obscene gesture with his fingers.
“Yeah, Paul is in a bonnie mood tonight. It’s gonna be a great concert!” John declared in a fake cheerful voice.
The tour manager hadn’t heard Paul’s response, but John’s voice was scaring the shit out of him. The two of them were obviously not getting along, and Willis wondered if it was because of Lennon’s disappearing act the other night.
“Gotta go now!” John’s voice was echoing in his ear. “His Excellency has just left the suite, and I believe that is my cue to follow humbly in his royal wake.”
Willis heard the phone click. He sighed deeply and, catching sight of the promoters, who were hovering around the dressing rooms wanting to introduce their V.I.P.s to the stars, he hurried over to them to assure them that all was well. “They’re on their way,” Willis said. “Should be here within 20 minutes.”
It was more like a half hour. It was cutting it very close, but Paul knew that they could do a truncated sound check and still be ready for the stage at 8:15 p.m. as usual, and the audience would be none the wiser. He had deliberately avoided leaving earlier so that there would be no further opportunities for John and him to argue before the concert. Lord knows there would be plenty of time to do that later. In fact, Paul saw nothing but time stretching out ahead of him. All of his dreams of getting closer to John on this tour had turned out to be fantasies, and his heart was hurting as much as his pride. He wondered if they’d make it through the rest of the tour without killing each other, or at least quitting.
As they stood in the wings at the mic, with their headphones on, Paul looked just above John’s head as they sang their harmony in Because. He was afraid he would become distracted by what he saw in John’s eyes, and it would screw up the intro.
Paul transformed himself into “Beatle Paul” as soon as the spotlight hit him, and his charm and smiles were as if normal. No one else could tell that there was no real warmth in the smiles that Paul sent his way, but John could.
They had just finished the rock and roll segment, and John was actually dreading the next few songs. They were soft, acoustic numbers – most of them were love songs. How on earth were they going to get through these songs feeling as they did? John was already terribly sorry he had reacted as he did. It really was kind of sweet of Paul to worry about him all night, and just because he didn’t say he was jealous didn’t mean that he wasn’t jealous. But because of his putdown, Paul had now cut himself off, and John knew it was going to be a pain in the ass tearing down those walls again.
After the last chord of I’m Down died, Paul turned to take a few sips of water. His throat was always dry after singing that demanding song. He then stepped up to the mic that had been placed in the middle of the stage. John was already there, waiting. Paul nodded, and Robbie played the first few chords of the next song – a series of three strums - and John and Paul both began to sing together in harmony:
John bored his eyes into Paul’s on the line “this boy wants you back again.” He couldn’t tell if Paul was getting the message, because he had that “Beatle Paul” smile on his face. At least he was meeting his eyes while they were harmonizing. But he kind of had to do that to make sure they were on time and in pitch.
The next song was John’s favorite vocal of Paul’s – ‘Til There Was You - which song Paul had added reluctantly at John’s insistence. But when Robbie put his hands on the guitar to play the first chord, Paul did a slitting gesture across his throat. “Not tonight” he said. Instead, he said “Nowhere Man”.
John was poleaxed. He felt exactly as if Paul had just plunged a knife into his gut. But seeing that Paul had his professional look on, John pulled himself together. They had to sing the first four lines of Nowhere Man a cappella, and it would require concentration. They managed to carry it off, and both felt relieved when the guitars and drums cut in at the start of the second verse.
Paul knew he would have to sing the next one, or it would start looking odd to the band. He had a hard time thinking of singing Here, There and Everywhere when he was feeling so hurt and ostracized by John. Everyone thought Paul had written that song for Jane Asher, but in fact Jane Asher was
never here, or there, or everywhere. She was always on some fucking acting tour in fucking Bristol or somewhere. It was John who had been here, there, and everywhere in Paul’s life at the time the song was written. Of course, Paul had never told John this, and he doubted that John had any idea it was about him.
Tonight Paul turned to the audience, and staring up to the highest seats, sang a beautiful rendition of Here, There and Everywhere. John stood off to the side watching Paul and feeling bereft of warmth. This was a hellish concert, and he only wanted it to end. So far, this had been the only concert he’d wanted to just walk away from since the tour began. Oh god – what if it kept on like this? Would he have to fake it through 45 more concerts? Well, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. If they didn’t get this straightened out soon, he would quit.
The next song, Real Love, left a strong taste of irony in John’s mouth, since he was the lead singer, and it had been written about his love for Paul. As John opened up with Real Love, he tried without success to catch Paul’s eyes as they sang the harmony, and because he was unsuccessful in this, he did a fairly dispirited job of it, although the fans didn’t seem to notice.
The ride back to the hotel in the limo was silent. Paul was leaned up against one door, his face kind of stuck to his window. John sat more in the middle, trying to think of something to say to break the ice. Literally, break the ice. Their tour manager was in the car with them. He had never gone with them before, but he was extremely concerned about his stars. The band was starting to whisper that there was trouble in paradise, and he knew it was his job to help them solve whatever problem they had. So he had hopped in the limo behind John, and now they rode in the most uncomfortable silence back to the hotel.
John and Paul straggled through the hotel’s underground parking lobby, Paul lagging a bit behind John, and Willis walking next to Paul. When they got on the elevator, Willis said, “Mind if I come up for a nightcap?” John and Paul both looked at him in surprise, but then John said,
“Of course you can come up.” Paul didn’t disagree, so the tour manager felt it was so far so good.
In a desultory way they entered the suite, and Paul went straight to his room and closed the door. Willis observed this and looked at John, who shrugged.
“What’s your poison?” John asked.
“Scotch.”
“Ice?”
“Three cubes please.”
“Water?”
“Just a splash.”
John handed him the glass, and then fixed one for himself and they both sat down.
“Will Paul be joining us?” Willis asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” John said laconically, hooking one leg over an easy chair arm.
“What’s going on with you two? It’s palpable. Everyone is talking – it’s really bad for the tour.”
John laughed in a humorless way. “Yeah. The tour. It’s bad for the tour.”
“Can you help me out here? I want to help, but I need a clue. I’ve acted as a kind of therapist for many a rock group in my career…but I have to have some idea of what is going on.”
John smiled at him. How quaint. The tour manager thought they were having stupid band problems. Willis had no idea what he was really dealing with.
At just that moment Paul came out, dressed in bed attire and a bathrobe. He strode over to the drinks tray and fixed himself a short whiskey, straight. He plopped down in the other armchair, opposite the sofa, and stared at Willis. “Cheers!” Paul said, offering his glass up in salut. The manager smiled in a sickly manner and raised his glass.
“He was just wondering what was going on with us,” John explained loudly to Paul. “He thinks he can help us sort it out, so we don’t kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.”
Paul sniffed with hard humor as he swallowed some whiskey. “We wouldn’t want to lose those golden eggs, would we John?”
“No, siree bob!” John responded cheerfully.
The tour manager was now utterly lost. “It’s just that if rumors get out that you two are feuding it can ruin the tour…” he tried.
Paul sobered enough to say, “I know, I know. But you’ll have to let us work this out between us, privately.”
“Yeah, god forbid if our tour manager knows what the fuck is going on…” John said, making a face at Paul.
There was a knock on the door, and Paul went to open it. It was the manager’s three assistants wondering where their boss was. Paul invited them in. John hopped up.
“Drinks?” He asked playfully.
Each of the assistants put in his order, but warily, and not sure if they were going to get in trouble for it later from their boss. They sat uneasily on the sofa with their boss as John handed out their drinks, taking a second full glass of whiskey for himself. He sat down and drank half of the whiskey in one go. He took a deep breath and drank the rest. He smiled to the assembled audience, and then got up and filled his glass with whiskey again.
Paul’s head lolled back and his eyes were rolling back in his head. He knew he couldn’t say anything to John. John was just bloody-minded, and was going to do what John was going to do.
“What do you want?” Willis hissed to his assistants.
“There’s a problem in Lisbon,” one of them whispered back.
“A problem?” Paul asked loudly, suddenly engaged and alert.
Shit, thought the manager. The last thing I need is a micromanaging star. He glared at his assistants. “I’ll meet you in my room in 30 minutes,” he said harshly.
“Oh, no, don’t make them go. We’re all having such a great time here, aren’t we?” John asked, swilling half his whiskey down in one go again.
“What problem is this?” Paul asked in a demanding voice.
“Yes, of course, you must tell Paul what the problem is. No problem can ever be solved without his input!” John’s voice was slurry and a bit nasty, and it made all the assistants very uncomfortable. John finished off his whiskey glass and went for more.
“You might consider easing off on that,” Paul said flatly.
“You’re such a fucking prig,” John spat at Paul.
The manager and his assistants didn’t know where to look.
“And you’re drunk and talking nonsense,” Paul responded in a low, warning voice.
“And you’re a fucking chicken!” John shouted.
The manager looked around desperately for a way to escape from this train wreck, but found himself almost glued to the sofa, as were the assistants. He thought perhaps he could leaven the atmosphere a bit. “I think it’s been a long, hard day and we should all be heading to bed…”
“Oh, Paulie isn’t going to be heading in bed tonight is he? At least not for me!” John declared.
A dead silence followed this announcement. Paul had heard it as if an axe were falling and heading for his neck. He squirmed in his seat and said, “Very clever, John.” He honestly couldn’t think of anything pithier to say under the circumstances.
“Clever? Clever? Is that what you call it?” John shouted. He got dizzy from shouting, and sat down abruptly in his chair and took a long sip of his fourth full whiskey of the night. “Is that why you’re locking yourself in that room like a nervous virgin on her wedding night?”
What the fuck? The tour manager was thinking. He looked, distressed, to his right and saw that all three assistants were staring at John and Paul, hanging on every word, and watching them as if it was a tennis match. This was bad. This sounded very much like a lover’s quarrel. In fact, it was pretty hard to put any other construction on it. He stood up and pushed the assistant’s arm that was seated to his right. That man stood up, followed by the other two. “We should be on our way,” Willis said, shoving his assistants towards and then out the door. He shut the door firmly behind him and then herded his assistants on to the elevator. He then directed them to his room, closed the door, looked at them, and said:
“Well! That was something, wasn’t it?”
They all nodded silently.
“I don’t have to tell you that those confidentiality contracts you signed are for real. You might get a one-time pay off from a tabloid, but you’d never work in this business again as long as you lived if you violate that contract. I’ll see to that. Do you understand?”
They all nodded.
“Good. Then, let’s talk about the Lisbon problem in the morning, and go to your hotel and get some much-needed sleep. Forget you ever witnessed that!”
They all wandered out in to the hall and went off to their own hotel, shocked - and one of them at least was a little disillusioned to find out that his heroes’ feet were made of clay. Queer clay.
“Well, that was quite a show you put on for our tour management team,” Paul said wryly, a few minutes after they’d been left alone in the suite.
“That’s the problem with you, Macca, you’re all about how other people see you…”
“And what are you all about, John?” Paul asked in a velvety and dangerous voice.
John looked at Paul in momentary confusion, surprised to have the tables turned so effectively.
Paul didn’t wait for a response from John. “Because it appears to me that what you’re all about is tearing the hearts out of people who love you, and then stomping on them for good measure. Then you’re surprised when you’ve chased them away.” Paul’s voice sounded laden with sadness, and this affected John.
“Let’s don’t fight anymore,” John said miserably, his words slurring and blubbering. “I don’t even know why we’re mad at this point. Why are we mad?”
Paul sighed, and put his still half-full whiskey down on the side table. He said, “I don’t know why you’re mad at me, but you are. Instead of telling me what it is in plain English, you put me through that whole thing in Rome. Apparently I failed to divine what you wanted of me, I didn’t say the right words, and so you got mad.”
John wasn’t really coherent at that point, but Paul could see the tears in his eyes. Paul felt as though to hold out against John any longer would be a form of cruelty, so he allowed his face to relax into a smile.
“Let’s make a deal,” Paul said softly, seductively. We’ll sleep together tonight, and in the morning you can tell me what is bothering you –you know, using actual words and all – and we’ll see if we can’t figure this mess out. What do you think?”
John nodded in an uncoordinated way, and Paul grinned. He got up, and helped John up, and led him into the master bedroom. He helped John to undress, and then followed John into bed, and held him in his arms. John was weeping, but Paul felt that was mainly due to the large amount of whiskey he had drunk. Paul still wasn’t sure whether they would work this out, but he had decided he was no longer going to be part of the problem. If John wanted to fight, it would have to be shadow boxing from now on, because Paul wasn’t going to fight back.
Sorry about the delay in posting. I had a terrible cold this week, and also LJ acted up and I had to get LJ Help to unlock me again. I suspect it is because I am quoting songs in these last several chapters, which require a lot of formatting. That much formatting in Word, when cut and paste into LJ, causes corruption in the draft files, apparently. (Now ask me what that means.) I did get a tip on how to prevent it from happening. We'll see if it works...
Chapter 44
Madrid was on a beautiful plateau at the center of the Iberian Peninsula, and the sky seemed an impossible vista. Earlier that afternoon, in Rome, a few hours after Linda and the kids had said their goodbyes, John and Paul had met each other in the lobby and had gotten into the limo for their own trip to the airport, where they sat silently. The last two days in Rome had been difficult for both of them, locked in their war of wills, and surrounded by Paul’s family, so finding themselves unable to fight it out between them.
Because Paul hadn’t ever asked about where he’d gone the night after the concert, John decided he would have to be more obvious, so the night before he had his two roadies go out and find him a woman to stay with him at the Grand, in the suite next to Paul’s. He invited the woman to dinner with Paul and Linda that night (the kids were having room service back in the suite), and then even for nightcaps with Linda and Paul after dinner before disappearing into his own suite, locking the door behind them.
Linda had been aware of and amused by John’s tactics. She thought she understood what he was up to. Paul did seem upset by it all, but it wasn’t clear to Linda whether the upset had more to do with worry and concern over the potential loss of John’s friendship or him getting hurt in some way than it did jealousy over the woman. Perhaps it was a lot of one, and a little of the other. She was in the strange position of having to reassure her husband that his male lover was just twisting his tail. When she was a kid at Scarsdale High School she’d never thought she’d be having a conversation like this with her husband! Oh, well.
“Paul, he’s doing this to get your attention,” she had finally said, as they prepared for bed, in much the same way as she had said it to her best girlfriend during senior year.
“But why? He’s already got my attention!” Paul had blurted that out without realizing how that might sound to Linda. “He doesn’t have to behave like a baboon to get my attention.” Paul was muttering to himself now, as he threw articles of clothing around the room.
Linda patted the bed beside her, and her grumpy husband had climbed in next to her. “Let’s forget about him for the night,” she suggested. “I’ve got some really great pot,” she added with her face all lit with mischief. Paul laughed and tweaked her nose.
“I don’t deserve you. I really don’t. It’s just that man – he makes me crazy!”
But soon, what with the pot and the sex, Paul had been very relaxed and was seeing the whole situation in a more balanced light. Was it true John was trying to make him jealous? Paul didn’t understand why people did that on purpose to people they loved. Feeling jealous was the worst feeling on earth, as far as Paul was concerned. It had driven him nearly insane on the few occasions that he had allowed himself to feel it. And here he was – halfway down the hallway to the Cuckoo Door. He chuckled as he took another huge toke and handed the blunt to Linda. “I’m a fucking fool,” he had said, laughing, and Linda had laughed too. “I’d much rather John be having fun while I’m with you, than him lying around feeling terrible.”
Linda had then patted her husband’s chest in an “attaboy” gesture, and handed the blunt back to Paul.
So, the next afternoon, while Paul sat silently next to John in the limo on their way to the airport, he wasn’t nursing anger anymore. But he didn’t exactly know how to get through to John. John seemed to have sealed himself off.
They were staying at the Ritz in Madrid, and Paul had made sure they only had the one suite. Maybe they’d end up in separate bedrooms if John wanted to keep up the feud, but hopefully there wouldn’t be a locked door between them. But first, Paul had some business to transact with the tour manager as soon as he arrived at the hotel. Paul found Evan Willis in his room, and waited for him to get off the telephone.
The manager turned to him as he hung up and said brightly, “How was your time off in Rome?”
“Did you know that John was gone for hours after the concert? He didn’t get back to the hotel until almost 5 p.m.!”
“Yes, Roger did mention it to me.”
“Roger?” Paul asked, confused.
“The roadie.”
“Roger the roadie told you…”
“Yes.”
“You do realize that there are professional kidnappers in Italy, don’t you? Why would you leave John’s safety and security entirely in the hands of…Roger the roadie?”
“I told Roger to tell you what went down,” the manager said. He was beginning to realize that McCartney was really mad. Paul didn’t like mistakes, and he especially didn’t like ugly surprises.
“Haven’t seen hide nor hair of Roger,” Paul said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, and becoming ever more frightening with each word. “I worried about John all the next day. You would have thought that someone might have thought it appropriate to tell me where the hell he was?”
The manager was squirming. This was the first time he had found himself between John Lennon and Paul McCartney and it was a damned unpleasant place to be. Some of the old Apple scruffs had warned him about this before he took the gig, but he had foolishly thought he could handle it, no problem. “Thing is,” Willis offered, “I myself didn’t know where he went at the time, although I told Roger to stay with him, and he did.”
“So Roger the roadie knew where John was, and you didn’t? Who’s in charge here anyway?” Paul’s face was white. He tended to go white when he was very angry. “Never. I. Mean. Never. Let. That. Happen. Again.”
The tour manager nodded in agreement, his eyes wide open. He had managed other rock bands on tour many times, and he’d never seen one of the band members this proprietary about the whereabouts of another. It was very strange.
Paul could see the confusion and disillusionment in the manager’s face, and he softened. “Look,” he said in a much kinder voice, “John isn’t like your average grown up. He is utterly unpredictable. He does crazy things when left to his own devices. He could get hurt, he could be lured into compromising situations, he could have a drug overdose. You have to keep your eye on John, he doesn’t have any…brakes.” Paul used the word for lack of a better one. But he was mindful that this is what George Martin often called him – John’s “brakes.”
Willis was relieved by the explanation and then ventured a question. “So, in the future, if he refuses to tell me what he’s up to, what do you expect me to do?”
“Call me immediately, and I’ll handle it.”
“Okay. I can do that.”
“Sorry if I bit your head off; but what John did was very dangerous, and it scared the shit out of me, and I need everyone on this team to be looking out for him because he doesn’t look out for himself.”
*****
John was back in the hotel suite, doing his usual minimal overnight unpacking. They’d be leaving Madrid the day after the concert, and then would be on to Lisbon. In Lisbon, they’d have a few days’ rest before the long hall over to Caracas, Venezuela, to begin the South American leg of their tour. He felt dispirited and had begun to regret his crazy ass behavior over the last few days. He felt certain he had ruined Linda’s visit with Paul – was that his goal? John hoped that he was a nicer person than that, but he suspected he wasn’t. Still, Paul was behaving like a snot and had been doing so ever since the afternoon after he’d been out all night. Paul hadn’t even asked where he had been. Wasn’t he curious? And John had gotten no rise out of him with that stunt with the woman in their suite, either. Of course, John had lost all interest in her almost as soon as the suite door had shut behind them, and he had decided to go down on the woman because he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it up for long. Couldn’t have some woman going around telling the world John Lennon was impotent, could he? John had gotten very good at head in the ‘70s, when it became less and less exciting to him to have sex with women. He really had to be in the mood for vaginal sex with women, and while Paul was haunting his brain he couldn’t get in the mood for it.
Back in Madrid, John heard Paul entering the suite, and focused on his suitcase again, while actually waiting for Paul to come in the bedroom and say something. Anything.
Paul had entered so quietly, John didn’t hear him, so he jumped a bit when Paul said softly, “John?” Paul was sitting on the edge of the bed. John stopped what he was doing and sat down on an easy chair, facing Paul.
“Yes?”
“Can we talk about it?”
“Yes.” John didn’t pretend that he didn’t know what Paul was talking about. “It” was perfectly clear to both of them, like an elephant in the room or something.
“What you did – disappearing like that – it was very dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” John repeated. What the fuck? John had been hoping to hear how it made Paul jealous, or that he missed him, or that his feelings were hurt. But ‘dangerous?’
“Have you heard of the Red Brigades?” Paul asked him quietly.
John’s face was now a study in absolute perplexity. “Red Brigades? What has that got to do with me?”
“They are a group that kidnaps, kills, and kneecaps people for political reasons and to raise money to support their political causes. Hell, they killed a former prime minister! They have also spawned a lot of copycat gangs who forget the politics and just kidnap for the ransom. You’re a prime candidate for that kind of a kidnapping, John. You shouldn’t endanger yourself that way. Didn’t you hear what the security expert told us?”
If John hadn’t been hoping for a more romantic disclosure, he might have been touched by Paul’s concern for his safety. As it was, he was hard pressed not to explode. “Do you think I’m a fucking fool, Paul? No, I didn’t think I was going to get kidnapped! I was with two roadies at all times! I had Evan’s assistant book me a room in another nice hotel. We took a limo from the concert arena to the hotel. The woman came from the fucking audience, Paul, and was chosen at random and vetted by the roadies. It seems unlikely she’d turn out to be an agent of the Red Brigades!”
Paul listened in stony silence to John’s angry response. “This all may be so,” he said stiffly. “But I didn’t know any of this, and was left to worry about your safety all night long, and into the next day.”
“I don’t owe you explanations about my whereabouts!” John shouted.
“Yes, you do, John!” Paul shouted back. “Am I supposed to turn off my concern for you whenever you decide to freeze me out?”
John sighed heavily. “You’re such a fucking drama queen, Paul. You were with your wife and kids. I was trying to leave you alone so you could enjoy them. Excuse me for being thoughtful.”
“Thoughtful?” Paul was now beside himself as he repeated, “thoughtful? I spent the whole time worrying about you, John! It ruined everything! Why couldn’t you have left me a note, saying where you’d be so I wouldn’t worry?”
“Ah, the famous little Macca notes taped to the mirrors or left on the mantelpieces. Do you realize how queer that is? Half the time I don’t even see the damn things before you’re back in the room. You don’t have to tell me where you’re going every fucking second of the day, and I don’t have to tell you!” John’s voice was steeped in nasty sarcasm now – the kind Paul remembered from 1971. It was too painful a prod, and Paul reacted immediately. Without another word, Paul got up and left the room, taking his overnight bag with him.
“Where the hell are you going?” John demanded.
Paul laughed. “I thought I didn’t have to tell you everywhere I’m going every fucking second!” Paul slammed the bedroom door, and carried his case across the sitting room area to the other bedroom.
John had gotten up to follow Paul with “another thing” he wanted to say, but only got the door open in time to see the door to the other bedroom slam shut, and to hear the lock turning. “Oh for Chrissakes!” John shouted across the sitting area. “You’re behaving like a bleeding cunt!” John waited for a response, but he was met with cold silence. “So now we’re gonna do the whole withdrawal thing, are we?” No response.
John picked up a sofa cushion and threw it angrily across the room. “He’s a fucking woman,” John muttered to the room at large. He waited for a few minutes to see if Paul would come out, but he heard not a sound from that room. He plopped down on the sitting room sofa and turned on the television. It was only 4 p.m., and they had 2 hours to pass before leaving for the concert arena. John felt his stomach rumble, and thought he would call room service. Maybe Paul was hungry too? John went over to Paul’s door and knocked. He didn’t get a verbal response. “Paul? Paul, don’t let’s be stupid. I’m ordering something to eat. Are you hungry?”
“No thanks,” came the polite but cold response.
John sighed again. Lord save me from pouting lovers, he thought to himself, completely unaware that he had subjected Paul to far more moments like this than Paul had ever suffered on him. He went ahead and ordered enough food for two, in case Paul changed his mind, or John was able to woo him out of the room. Honestly, Paul took things so seriously sometimes. Most of the time he didn’t. John wished that Paul would come up with some kind of warning system so that he would know the times Paul was going to be hurt by his sarcasm, as opposed to brushing it off with a smartass remark of his own.
*****
It was unusual for John and Paul not to have arrived at the arena precisely two hours before the concert. It had never happened that they were in danger of missing sound check. The tour manager was worried. He got on the phone and called John and Paul’s suite. John answered.
“Where are you two? Any problems?”
“His Eminence is moving like molasses. I’m hearing sounds from his room that indicate that he is about to emerge.”
“Is Paul okay?” Willis asked. Paul was never a problem. He was the least histrionic and most professional rock star the manager had ever worked for. They’d had a few scary moments with John’s moods, but never Paul.
“Oh – here he comes! The door is opening! And there he is, in all his glory!” John was announcing this into the phone in an unnecessarily loud and sarcastic tone of voice.
“Fuck off,” Paul said, giving John an obscene gesture with his fingers.
“Yeah, Paul is in a bonnie mood tonight. It’s gonna be a great concert!” John declared in a fake cheerful voice.
The tour manager hadn’t heard Paul’s response, but John’s voice was scaring the shit out of him. The two of them were obviously not getting along, and Willis wondered if it was because of Lennon’s disappearing act the other night.
“Gotta go now!” John’s voice was echoing in his ear. “His Excellency has just left the suite, and I believe that is my cue to follow humbly in his royal wake.”
Willis heard the phone click. He sighed deeply and, catching sight of the promoters, who were hovering around the dressing rooms wanting to introduce their V.I.P.s to the stars, he hurried over to them to assure them that all was well. “They’re on their way,” Willis said. “Should be here within 20 minutes.”
It was more like a half hour. It was cutting it very close, but Paul knew that they could do a truncated sound check and still be ready for the stage at 8:15 p.m. as usual, and the audience would be none the wiser. He had deliberately avoided leaving earlier so that there would be no further opportunities for John and him to argue before the concert. Lord knows there would be plenty of time to do that later. In fact, Paul saw nothing but time stretching out ahead of him. All of his dreams of getting closer to John on this tour had turned out to be fantasies, and his heart was hurting as much as his pride. He wondered if they’d make it through the rest of the tour without killing each other, or at least quitting.
As they stood in the wings at the mic, with their headphones on, Paul looked just above John’s head as they sang their harmony in Because. He was afraid he would become distracted by what he saw in John’s eyes, and it would screw up the intro.
Paul transformed himself into “Beatle Paul” as soon as the spotlight hit him, and his charm and smiles were as if normal. No one else could tell that there was no real warmth in the smiles that Paul sent his way, but John could.
They had just finished the rock and roll segment, and John was actually dreading the next few songs. They were soft, acoustic numbers – most of them were love songs. How on earth were they going to get through these songs feeling as they did? John was already terribly sorry he had reacted as he did. It really was kind of sweet of Paul to worry about him all night, and just because he didn’t say he was jealous didn’t mean that he wasn’t jealous. But because of his putdown, Paul had now cut himself off, and John knew it was going to be a pain in the ass tearing down those walls again.
After the last chord of I’m Down died, Paul turned to take a few sips of water. His throat was always dry after singing that demanding song. He then stepped up to the mic that had been placed in the middle of the stage. John was already there, waiting. Paul nodded, and Robbie played the first few chords of the next song – a series of three strums - and John and Paul both began to sing together in harmony:
That boy took my love away
Oh, he'll regret it someday
But this boy wants you back again
Oh, he'll regret it someday
But this boy wants you back again
John bored his eyes into Paul’s on the line “this boy wants you back again.” He couldn’t tell if Paul was getting the message, because he had that “Beatle Paul” smile on his face. At least he was meeting his eyes while they were harmonizing. But he kind of had to do that to make sure they were on time and in pitch.
That boy isn't good for you
Though he may want you too
This boy wants you back again
Oh, and this boy would be happy
Just to love you, but oh my
That boy won't be happy
Till he's seen you cry
This boy wouldn't mind the pain
Would always feel the same
If this boy gets you back again
This boy, this boy, this boy…
Though he may want you too
This boy wants you back again
Oh, and this boy would be happy
Just to love you, but oh my
That boy won't be happy
Till he's seen you cry
This boy wouldn't mind the pain
Would always feel the same
If this boy gets you back again
This boy, this boy, this boy…
The next song was John’s favorite vocal of Paul’s – ‘Til There Was You - which song Paul had added reluctantly at John’s insistence. But when Robbie put his hands on the guitar to play the first chord, Paul did a slitting gesture across his throat. “Not tonight” he said. Instead, he said “Nowhere Man”.
John was poleaxed. He felt exactly as if Paul had just plunged a knife into his gut. But seeing that Paul had his professional look on, John pulled himself together. They had to sing the first four lines of Nowhere Man a cappella, and it would require concentration. They managed to carry it off, and both felt relieved when the guitars and drums cut in at the start of the second verse.
Paul knew he would have to sing the next one, or it would start looking odd to the band. He had a hard time thinking of singing Here, There and Everywhere when he was feeling so hurt and ostracized by John. Everyone thought Paul had written that song for Jane Asher, but in fact Jane Asher was
never here, or there, or everywhere. She was always on some fucking acting tour in fucking Bristol or somewhere. It was John who had been here, there, and everywhere in Paul’s life at the time the song was written. Of course, Paul had never told John this, and he doubted that John had any idea it was about him.
Tonight Paul turned to the audience, and staring up to the highest seats, sang a beautiful rendition of Here, There and Everywhere. John stood off to the side watching Paul and feeling bereft of warmth. This was a hellish concert, and he only wanted it to end. So far, this had been the only concert he’d wanted to just walk away from since the tour began. Oh god – what if it kept on like this? Would he have to fake it through 45 more concerts? Well, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. If they didn’t get this straightened out soon, he would quit.
The next song, Real Love, left a strong taste of irony in John’s mouth, since he was the lead singer, and it had been written about his love for Paul. As John opened up with Real Love, he tried without success to catch Paul’s eyes as they sang the harmony, and because he was unsuccessful in this, he did a fairly dispirited job of it, although the fans didn’t seem to notice.
*****
The ride back to the hotel in the limo was silent. Paul was leaned up against one door, his face kind of stuck to his window. John sat more in the middle, trying to think of something to say to break the ice. Literally, break the ice. Their tour manager was in the car with them. He had never gone with them before, but he was extremely concerned about his stars. The band was starting to whisper that there was trouble in paradise, and he knew it was his job to help them solve whatever problem they had. So he had hopped in the limo behind John, and now they rode in the most uncomfortable silence back to the hotel.
John and Paul straggled through the hotel’s underground parking lobby, Paul lagging a bit behind John, and Willis walking next to Paul. When they got on the elevator, Willis said, “Mind if I come up for a nightcap?” John and Paul both looked at him in surprise, but then John said,
“Of course you can come up.” Paul didn’t disagree, so the tour manager felt it was so far so good.
In a desultory way they entered the suite, and Paul went straight to his room and closed the door. Willis observed this and looked at John, who shrugged.
“What’s your poison?” John asked.
“Scotch.”
“Ice?”
“Three cubes please.”
“Water?”
“Just a splash.”
John handed him the glass, and then fixed one for himself and they both sat down.
“Will Paul be joining us?” Willis asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” John said laconically, hooking one leg over an easy chair arm.
“What’s going on with you two? It’s palpable. Everyone is talking – it’s really bad for the tour.”
John laughed in a humorless way. “Yeah. The tour. It’s bad for the tour.”
“Can you help me out here? I want to help, but I need a clue. I’ve acted as a kind of therapist for many a rock group in my career…but I have to have some idea of what is going on.”
John smiled at him. How quaint. The tour manager thought they were having stupid band problems. Willis had no idea what he was really dealing with.
At just that moment Paul came out, dressed in bed attire and a bathrobe. He strode over to the drinks tray and fixed himself a short whiskey, straight. He plopped down in the other armchair, opposite the sofa, and stared at Willis. “Cheers!” Paul said, offering his glass up in salut. The manager smiled in a sickly manner and raised his glass.
“He was just wondering what was going on with us,” John explained loudly to Paul. “He thinks he can help us sort it out, so we don’t kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.”
Paul sniffed with hard humor as he swallowed some whiskey. “We wouldn’t want to lose those golden eggs, would we John?”
“No, siree bob!” John responded cheerfully.
The tour manager was now utterly lost. “It’s just that if rumors get out that you two are feuding it can ruin the tour…” he tried.
Paul sobered enough to say, “I know, I know. But you’ll have to let us work this out between us, privately.”
“Yeah, god forbid if our tour manager knows what the fuck is going on…” John said, making a face at Paul.
There was a knock on the door, and Paul went to open it. It was the manager’s three assistants wondering where their boss was. Paul invited them in. John hopped up.
“Drinks?” He asked playfully.
Each of the assistants put in his order, but warily, and not sure if they were going to get in trouble for it later from their boss. They sat uneasily on the sofa with their boss as John handed out their drinks, taking a second full glass of whiskey for himself. He sat down and drank half of the whiskey in one go. He took a deep breath and drank the rest. He smiled to the assembled audience, and then got up and filled his glass with whiskey again.
Paul’s head lolled back and his eyes were rolling back in his head. He knew he couldn’t say anything to John. John was just bloody-minded, and was going to do what John was going to do.
“What do you want?” Willis hissed to his assistants.
“There’s a problem in Lisbon,” one of them whispered back.
“A problem?” Paul asked loudly, suddenly engaged and alert.
Shit, thought the manager. The last thing I need is a micromanaging star. He glared at his assistants. “I’ll meet you in my room in 30 minutes,” he said harshly.
“Oh, no, don’t make them go. We’re all having such a great time here, aren’t we?” John asked, swilling half his whiskey down in one go again.
“What problem is this?” Paul asked in a demanding voice.
“Yes, of course, you must tell Paul what the problem is. No problem can ever be solved without his input!” John’s voice was slurry and a bit nasty, and it made all the assistants very uncomfortable. John finished off his whiskey glass and went for more.
“You might consider easing off on that,” Paul said flatly.
“You’re such a fucking prig,” John spat at Paul.
The manager and his assistants didn’t know where to look.
“And you’re drunk and talking nonsense,” Paul responded in a low, warning voice.
“And you’re a fucking chicken!” John shouted.
The manager looked around desperately for a way to escape from this train wreck, but found himself almost glued to the sofa, as were the assistants. He thought perhaps he could leaven the atmosphere a bit. “I think it’s been a long, hard day and we should all be heading to bed…”
“Oh, Paulie isn’t going to be heading in bed tonight is he? At least not for me!” John declared.
A dead silence followed this announcement. Paul had heard it as if an axe were falling and heading for his neck. He squirmed in his seat and said, “Very clever, John.” He honestly couldn’t think of anything pithier to say under the circumstances.
“Clever? Clever? Is that what you call it?” John shouted. He got dizzy from shouting, and sat down abruptly in his chair and took a long sip of his fourth full whiskey of the night. “Is that why you’re locking yourself in that room like a nervous virgin on her wedding night?”
What the fuck? The tour manager was thinking. He looked, distressed, to his right and saw that all three assistants were staring at John and Paul, hanging on every word, and watching them as if it was a tennis match. This was bad. This sounded very much like a lover’s quarrel. In fact, it was pretty hard to put any other construction on it. He stood up and pushed the assistant’s arm that was seated to his right. That man stood up, followed by the other two. “We should be on our way,” Willis said, shoving his assistants towards and then out the door. He shut the door firmly behind him and then herded his assistants on to the elevator. He then directed them to his room, closed the door, looked at them, and said:
“Well! That was something, wasn’t it?”
They all nodded silently.
“I don’t have to tell you that those confidentiality contracts you signed are for real. You might get a one-time pay off from a tabloid, but you’d never work in this business again as long as you lived if you violate that contract. I’ll see to that. Do you understand?”
They all nodded.
“Good. Then, let’s talk about the Lisbon problem in the morning, and go to your hotel and get some much-needed sleep. Forget you ever witnessed that!”
They all wandered out in to the hall and went off to their own hotel, shocked - and one of them at least was a little disillusioned to find out that his heroes’ feet were made of clay. Queer clay.
*****
“Well, that was quite a show you put on for our tour management team,” Paul said wryly, a few minutes after they’d been left alone in the suite.
“That’s the problem with you, Macca, you’re all about how other people see you…”
“And what are you all about, John?” Paul asked in a velvety and dangerous voice.
John looked at Paul in momentary confusion, surprised to have the tables turned so effectively.
Paul didn’t wait for a response from John. “Because it appears to me that what you’re all about is tearing the hearts out of people who love you, and then stomping on them for good measure. Then you’re surprised when you’ve chased them away.” Paul’s voice sounded laden with sadness, and this affected John.
“Let’s don’t fight anymore,” John said miserably, his words slurring and blubbering. “I don’t even know why we’re mad at this point. Why are we mad?”
Paul sighed, and put his still half-full whiskey down on the side table. He said, “I don’t know why you’re mad at me, but you are. Instead of telling me what it is in plain English, you put me through that whole thing in Rome. Apparently I failed to divine what you wanted of me, I didn’t say the right words, and so you got mad.”
John wasn’t really coherent at that point, but Paul could see the tears in his eyes. Paul felt as though to hold out against John any longer would be a form of cruelty, so he allowed his face to relax into a smile.
“Let’s make a deal,” Paul said softly, seductively. We’ll sleep together tonight, and in the morning you can tell me what is bothering you –you know, using actual words and all – and we’ll see if we can’t figure this mess out. What do you think?”
John nodded in an uncoordinated way, and Paul grinned. He got up, and helped John up, and led him into the master bedroom. He helped John to undress, and then followed John into bed, and held him in his arms. John was weeping, but Paul felt that was mainly due to the large amount of whiskey he had drunk. Paul still wasn’t sure whether they would work this out, but he had decided he was no longer going to be part of the problem. If John wanted to fight, it would have to be shadow boxing from now on, because Paul wasn’t going to fight back.
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Date: 2014-01-19 09:54 pm (UTC)That Paul is almost a saint... Dear Lord I would have punched John long time ago!. One has to love the other person way too deeply to forgive that kind of thing over and over again...
I have to say that I'm glad that John recognized that he had screwed up Linda's time with Paul in Rome. Of course John being John had to make masterful use of all his sarcasm when Paul brought it up.. Boys boys boys...
And now: the manager and the assistants! ... i really want to know what's going to happen here and how are John and Paul going to deal with it.
At least they're spending the night together, that's much more than what they'd done in the last few days.
Thanks for the update :)
no subject
Date: 2014-01-20 06:31 pm (UTC)Yeah - the tour manager and the assistants...hmmmm