Chapter Text
JULY 1980
It was fucking hot. And humid. A million degrees, John thought dramatically. He was sweating through his shirt and his trousers were sticking to his arse.
“The things I fucking do for Richie.” John mumbled as he pulled his suitcase out of the trunk of the taxi.
“Sorry sir?” the driver had come around to help him.
John shoved some money at him. “Nothing, talking to meself.” He had no idea if he’d given an appropriate amount – who the fuck knew how much things were in Bahamian dollars? – but he must’ve overpaid because the fellow looked pleased and hightailed it back to his taxi to start the engine again.
“Thank you, sir!” he waved out the window, and he was gone.
John watched the car drive away for a moment, wistful. There goes me ride , guess I’m stuck here now. He turned to look at the house that Richie had hired for the week. It was stunning, sprawling, a bright white mansion sitting on a pristine beach surrounded by palm trees.
Well, if he’s gonna force me to come here and spend a week with people who hate me, at least the conditions are nice.
John sighed. Alright, alright. Not forcing. Not exactly. Richie was turning 40 this week, and he wanted to spend his birthday in a house in the Bahamas celebrating with his closest friends, and he considered John one of his closest friends. Which was good. And it was reciprocated, of course. It wasn’t as though John was gonna say no to Richie.
The problem was the other people who Richie considered to be his closest friends. Like George, for instance, who would be here with a new wife and an almost two year-old son that John didn’t even know. George, who John had barely spoken to in the past five years. George, who had just written a book about his life that somehow didn’t include John because apparently George forgot that he used to follow John around, forgot that it was John who had helped him compose when his songs were too embarrassing to put on any album.
John scowled, thinking of it. He stood in front of the door and tried to work up the courage to go in.
Yeah, spending a week with George would be dead awkward, but obviously he wasn’t the worst of it. Not even close.
John took a deep, fortifying breath and went inside.
***
Evidently, John was the last of the guests to arrive, and Richie was waiting for him with a smile and a bear hug. And yeah, it was fucking brilliant to see him. He was one of the few people that had visited John at the Dakota in the last five years, but it hadn’t been much; it was nothing like before. Now, here, Richie was the same as he’d ever been: bright and shining, laughing, showering John with affection.
“Everyone is down at the beach,” Richie told him, but he didn’t clarify who “everyone” was. John didn’t know who was here, exactly – he hadn’t paid much attention to the details when Richie had told him about the trip. All John knew was that Paul and Linda and their herd of children must be down at the beach, sparkling in their wholesome, vegetarian perfection. He tried to swallow down his anxiety.
Richie showed him around. The house was gorgeous. High ceilings, bright, modern artwork, massive windows with sweeping views of a large swimming pool and the ocean just beyond. Richie pointed down a long hallway and said he and Barbara were in the master bedroom, with Barbara’s sister Marjorie and her boyfriend Ben in the room next door. “They’re great, you’ll love them,” Richie told him.
“Neil and Suzy are in the loft room upstairs,” Richie said, and brought them through the main sitting area. “George and Olivia and Dhani are over by you.”
The living room was equipped with a grand piano, which made John snort. “Did Paul demand this, then? Or did he somehow get it in his suitcase?”
Richie smiled at him fondly, indulgently. John cringed. Nice work, Lennon, you were here almost an entire five minutes before you mentioned him.
“There’s good news, actually,” said Richie, as he took John down a small side corridor. “Harry and Una were able to make it after all.”
John immediately felt some of the tension drain out of his body. Harry was here. An ally. Harry was always on his side. “That’s bloody great news,” he said, smiling.
Richie stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall and nodded. “Yeah, I thought so too. The thing is, though…” He bit his lip a bit and looked nervous enough that John’s heart rate increased. “The thing is, it means we didn’t have enough bedrooms because we didn’t count on them coming. So, we put them in the room – that one, there – that I’d picked for you, and I was hoping you wouldn’t mind sharing.”
John exhaled a bit. Sharing a room wasn’t so bad. With who?
Richie opened the door to a spacious room, decorated with the same primary colours as the rest of the house, the walls a deep blue, and one large bed. A canvas duffle bag was sitting by the bed and next to it, the well-worn guitar case of an Epiphone Texan that John knew better than he knew some of his own appendages. Fuck.
The guitar itself was sitting out on the bed, as if its owner had played it immediately after getting to his room. As if its owner was the sort of person who had to immediately play music after arriving somewhere, before he’d even unpacked.
John turned on Richie violently, ready to be furious at the idea of sharing a room with Paul , ready to pretend that it was anger he felt so that he wouldn’t have to admit that it was actually anxiety and excitement and fear flooding through his body in equal parts.
But ugh, it was Richie, and his kind little face looked worried, apologetic, and John couldn’t yell at him. He sighed. “It’s just him? What about Linda? And all them kids?”
Richie looked relieved, as if John’s failure to yell signified a great victory. He put John’s suitcase on a luggage rack by the door.
“They aren’t here. It’s just Paul. He was happy to share with you, said it would be just like old times.” Richie smiled, “I mean, I’m sure he’d rather share with me – he and I were the ones who always cuddled on tour – but Barbara said no.”
Linda wasn’t here. Okay. That was both a surprise and a bit of a relief. One less person that John had treated like shit in the past 10 years. But it also meant Paul wouldn’t be focused on Linda and the kids. John felt his heart rate increase. No Linda. No Yoko. John hadn’t spent time along with Paul in…well, John didn’t even know. Since their Apple trip in ‘68, maybe. That trip hadn’t exactly been a wild success.
Paul had agreed to share a room? John didn’t know what to make of that. He assumed that Paul’s enthusiasm had been added, exaggerated, by Richie to make John feel better. Paul wouldn’t have been pleased. He didn’t want to spend time with John. He wanted to write music with John because he knew it would sell records, and that’s the only reason he ever called John. There were no real emotions there.
But this was Paul, of course he wouldn’t make a fuss. Fine. John forced himself to smile at Richie. “Great. It’ll be just like old times.”
***
Richie left John to get settled, change from his plane clothes, wash his face. He felt jittery – what if Paul came in now? Even though John had been anxious about this trip for weeks, he’d at least assumed that he’d have the buffer of Linda and the wee McCartneys. He wasn’t ready to spend this much time with Paul. To be hurled back to the years of spending every waking minute together.
And they were sharing a room. A bed. John sighed. What a fucking week to give up smoking.
Richie had told John to join them at the beach when he was ready, but John didn’t think he could face it just yet, so he walked around the property and tried to get his head right.
Things with Paul were friendly now. It wasn’t that John thought there would be actual fighting. They spoke on the phone sometimes, about cooking, or their kids. John had worked hard to keep the relationship aloof. It was better that way. With a little distance, it was harder for Paul to hurt him.
As he walked back to the house, John faltered. He could see Paul through the large window of the sliding glass door. There he was. He was playing the piano, singing. Sometimes, in petty, uncharitable moments, John thought of Paul’s constant need to be making music as a form of showing off. Like he picked up a guitar or made his way to a piano because he wanted to remind everyone that he was better at it than them, better than John. He wanted to let everyone hear him play because he was the best at it. And obviously Paul did show off sometimes, but his inability to stop making music was not about that, John knew. He genuinely couldn’t help it.
And here he was, alone in the house, playing piano for himself because he had to. Because that’s just what he did.
John watched him for a minute, through the glass doors. It wasn’t like he’d forgotten that Paul was attractive, but seeing him now, the first time in person in almost three years, was like being hit over the head with it. To John’s annoyance, Paul wasn’t any less good looking now than he’d been fifteen years ago. John had spent enough time vainly looking at photos or at his own face in the mirror to know that he was less attractive now that he was older. But Paul had only filled out a bit, he was broader, less delicate. His hair had lightened slightly, the crinkles around his eyes had deepened. But he still looked as effortlessly handsome as ever.
John was still so attracted to him. A painful attraction that had never been, and would never be, reciprocated. He sighed. He couldn’t fathom barging through the sliding glass door, Paul greeting him with some bland, “Hello, good flight?” – not yet – so he slipped in a side door that he hoped would allow him to bypass the living room altogether.
It didn’t. He found himself in some kind of laundry room, and it appeared that the only way out was right through the room where Paul was playing. Or, he could go back outside and try to sneak by the glass doors to the other side of the house. He bit his lip. This was humiliating.
He was about head back outside when the indiscriminate chords from the piano turned into something John recognized; it took his breath away for a moment as he realised what Paul was playing.
Let me take you down, cause I’m going to…Strawberry Fields … nothing is real, and nothing to get hung about …
Fuck’s sake….what the fuck was John supposed to feel about that? Paul was playing “Strawberry Fields” when he thought he was alone?
John ran his hand over his face. It sounded great this way, too, with one voice and a piano. He should’ve told George Martin to go to hell with his orchestra.
No one I think is my tree, I mean, it must be high or low …
Paul’s voice sounded fucking beautiful and John wanted to scream.
Did he sing this because it was just another Beatles hit, or did he associate it with John specifically? Was he thinking of John now, as he played it?
… But you know I know when it’s dream …
John was going to embarrass himself and go out there and sing with Paul. They were going to spend this week together, weren’t they? May as well start it as they’d begun it all. Singing. Trying to impress each other.
He’d almost decided when he heard the sliding glass door open and someone walk through. Paul didn’t stop, though he must’ve seen the person enter.
Strawberry Fields forever….Strawberry Fields forever…
“Good song.” John heard, the voice slow, laconic. George.
“One of the best,” Paul answered, and the piano stopped. John felt a surge of pleasure, embarrassingly, at the compliment.
“Richie said he’s here.” George’s voice was flat, emotionless – a contrast to the anger from the last time John saw him in person, almost five years ago, when he and George had argued.
“Yeah, told me too. I haven’t seen him.” Paul sounded distant. And there was nothing John could do now. He was trapped here, eavesdropping, and Christ, he’d give anything not to be.
Sometimes John convinced himself that he’d experienced so much pain in his life that he’d become inoculated against it. Developed an immunity. But no, there was always something new. Like this. He was going to have to stand here and be forced to listen to these two men who meant so much to him talk about how they didn’t want to see him.
“You okay?” George asked Paul, and John felt a surge of…some kind of righteous indignation. George was worried if Paul was okay. Well, that was fucking rich. Of course Paul was okay. When was Paul ever not okay? Didn’t Paul have a perfect new band and perfect wife and perfect family? And since when did George give a fuck about Paul anyway? Last time John had checked, George was sick to death of Paul.
Paul gave a little laugh, a weird noise that John wasn’t familiar with. New. “Sure, I’m alright. I’m nervous to spend a week with him, of course. But it’s okay.”
Nervous to spend a week with him? Why? They were friendly. The last call had been fine, John recalled. He’d told Paul about how much Sean loved to sing. Hadn’t hung up or anything. He shifted uncomfortably. There was no reason for Paul to be nervous. He didn’t have the emotional investment in the relationship that John had.
George said something low and quiet that John couldn’t hear, and Paul sighed. “You know, I really never think about him.”
And that fucking stung, actually. Because John sometimes felt like he’d spent his entire life trying not to think about Paul and failing. He could hear one of Paul’s songs on the radio or see something about Paul in a magazine and that would be enough to make his entire day collapse on itself.
But Paul never thought about him at all. Well, that was great. Okay, enough of this, then. He was gonna have to leave the safe little laundry room and go into the lion’s den. Hopefully they wouldn’t notice where he’d come from. He didn’t want it to look like he'd been hiding, even if he had been.
He walked out, all false confidence, and smiled at the two of them. “We doing a number, lads? What’s it gonna be?”
They turned to him. George’s face was wary. Paul smiled brightly and stood up from the piano bench. “John!” He actually looked delighted, as though he hadn’t just finished saying that he never thought about John and was dreading seeing him.
“Heard we’ll be bunking together, like the old days,” said Paul cheerfully, and put his hand out as if he was going to touch John, but then retracted it rather clumsily at the last minute. Good.
John scowled, determined to seem aloof and miserable and sullen, rather than hugging them both because…well, actually, even after everything, it was really fucking great to see them, to be together in the same space with them. But better not to show them that. They obviously didn’t feel the same way.
“Right, I heard. We made Richie a millionaire and he still can’t afford to give us our own rooms.”
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw George frown. Yeah, he wouldn’t have liked the implication that Paul and John had carried Richie to success. Good then. It was my band . I made you all millionaires, for that matter. Put that in your fucking book.
Naturally, Paul pretended he hadn’t heard. “It’ll be grand, just like Paris.”
And frankly, this was why John hadn’t wanted to come here. This was why John didn’t really want to see Paul ever, because Paul made casual, friendly references to their shared past as if it was fun to remember, as if each memory wasn’t lodged inside John like a piece of shrapnel, constantly painful and impossible to remove, preventing him from properly healing. And the trip to Paris for John’s twenty-first birthday was a particularly large piece. He and Paul had been so close then. Of course Paul could mention it without flinching because it meant nothing to him. Just two kids on a holiday.
“At the George V? Don’t remember who I roomed with and I reckon we at least had our own beds,” John said, pretending to misunderstand.
A very brief flicker of annoyance passed over Paul’s face. Yes, I know that’s not the Paris trip you meant, you twat . But Paul just smiled.
“No Yoko?” George asked.
John fidgeted. Well, it was going to be in the papers soon enough. He hated giving them the satisfaction, but there was nothing for it. “No Yoko. We’re divorcing, actually. It’ll be final next month.”
He wasn’t sure why they looked so surprised. He and Yoko had already split up once, after all. Still, he supposed that since Sean had been born, John had painted a different picture of things. Cosy domestic life and all that. Well.
“Sorry to hear it, John,” said George, and it almost sounded sincere. I know you always hated her, John wanted to tell him, but what was the point in going through all of that now?
Paul looked like he was about to say something, and John braced himself for a lecture on making a marriage work, buying flowers everyday or some bollocks like that. He’d heard it from Paul before, during the first split from Yoko. Paul viewed divorce as a failure.
He was interrupted, though, because the telephone rang. John started. Who would have this number? But Paul obviously knew because his eyes flew to the wall clock. He looked jumpy. “Oh, excuse me, I’m waiting for that phone call.” And he scampered into the little office off the kitchen and shut the door. Must be Linda, then. Clearly didn’t want to keep her waiting.
John and George looked at each other for a minute, and John wondered if he should start shouting about George’s book. But George surprised him.
“Come on, then,” said George. “Let’s go outside so you can meet Olivia and Dhani.” And John couldn’t help it, he went. He could be aloof later.
***
There wasn’t a table big enough for the whole group to eat dinner together, so they sort of scattered around the large front room. John found himself, horrifyingly, balancing his plate on his knees while trapped around a coffee table with Paul, Richie’s girlfriend’s sister Marjorie and her fellow Ben, and Neil’s wife Suzy. Christ. John cast his eyes around for Harry or Richie, or even Neil, for fuck’s sake, but no, this was the dinner group he was stuck with.
“Is this a traditional meal in the Bahamas?” asked Marjorie.
“Pasta with red sauce?” John asked, raising his eyebrows. “Ah yes, pasta was invented here, didn’t you know?”
Paul elbowed him, and John tried not to enjoy the physical contact.
“No, Marjorie,” Paul said, “I think it was just the easiest thing for a big group. There’s a chef coming in tomorrow, you see, but we were on our own tonight.”
“Too bad Linda didn’t come,” John said innocently. “She could’ve whipped us up a nice veg pot roast.” He was dying to know why Linda wasn’t there, but he wasn’t going to ask outright. He thought Paul and Linda were permanently attached at the hip.
Paul smiled blandly, no doubt sensing that Linda was being mocked somehow. “She could, too.”
“I can’t believe my sister is going out with a Beatle,” said Marjorie. “Barbara and I went to your show at Shea Stadium, you know.”
“Sure, I remember you, Marjorie,” Paul said, smiling, all charm. “You were screaming, right?”
Everyone but John laughed.
“Right, I think he shagged you in the dressing room, didn’t he?” said John, which caused Marjorie to choke on her pasta and her useless boyfriend to protest with a “Hey now!”
“Oh, he’s just messing about, ignore him,” said Paul, but he was clearly stifling a laugh. He leaned slightly in toward John and winked, whispering, “Aye, and she was filthy, too, gagging for it – best not tell her fellow,” and John had to turn away to hide that he was amused.
Fuck, it was annoying how much he enjoyed having Paul around.
Marjorie, like every other woman on the goddamn planet, was a McCartney fan, and the conversation quickly turned to everyone verbally fellating Paul.
Ah, Paul, didn’t you just get an award for being the greatest songwriter in the history of the world?
Paul, tell us the amazing story of how you wrote Yesterday in your sleep?
Paul answered smoothly, nothing John hadn’t seen a million times over, but to be honest, he wasn’t used to being practically ignored. Five years off of writing, and suddenly no one gave a shit about him anymore. Fair enough, it’s not like you deserve any praise.
Finally, Marjorie turned politely to John, interrupting Paul admiration hour and John’s reverie. “You’re taking some time off from music, John?”
John considered defending the decision to spend time with his son, but it felt embarrassing in front of Paul. After all, Paul had managed to be both Father of the Year and Greatest Songwriter In History. He hadn’t had to choose.
“Right, I gave it all up for a bit,” he said instead. “Might say I took my lucky break and broke it in two.” He smiled and looked at Paul. He expected a scowl, perhaps, maybe an eye roll. But Paul was just sort of studying him, appraising him, and John felt pretty sure he was coming up short. It was awful to be such an obvious disappointment to everyone.
“Have you quit music for good, John?” Suzy asked. He glanced at her with suspicion. She looked interested, but he didn’t think she’d ever liked him. She probably thought he treated Neil like shit or something. She was probably trying to make him look stupid.
John cleared his throat. Well, this was as good a time as any to start being honest, and at least save a little face. “I haven’t quit. I’m working on a new album right now, you know.”
He knew this would be a bit of a bombshell, particularly to certain ex-songwriting partners at the table. He tried to fix a casual, nonchalant look to his face while telling himself Don’t look at Paul don’t look at Paul don’t look at Paul don’t look at Paul.
He looked at Paul.
Paul was staring back at him, astonishment and something else – hurt? – in his expression. “Are you?” he asked.
John nodded, unable to look away from Paul’s stupid, expressive eyes. “Yeah. Been working on it for a couple of months.”
“I’d no idea,” said Paul, and it was almost accusatory. Well, why the fuck would you know? It’s not like we ever talk about anything that matters.
John shrugged. “Keepin’ it under wraps.”
“Do you both write alone now?” Ben asked, blithely. “Must be odd, after writing together all those years.”
John turned to look at him. Jesus, man. Say something more awkward. He could feel Paul’s eyes boring into him. He thought briefly about saying he was writing with someone, Bowie maybe, just to see Paul’s reaction.
“I wrote these songs alone, yeah,” he said instead, back to avoiding Paul’s gaze. “It’s not that odd, really, Paul and I didn’t write together as much as everyone thinks, it isn’t -- ”
“We did, actually,” Paul interrupted, and John looked at him in surprise. Paul’s brow was furrowed. “We did write together, loads, and yes, it’s harder to write alone. Not as good.” His eyes flickered to John’s, steely, determined, daring John to argue.
And fuck. John wanted to smile at him. He wanted to agree, to say God yes it’s not as good writing without you but he wasn’t going to let Paul trick him into that. He didn’t know what Paul was after, saying that, but John wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of any admissions.
“Paul writes with Denny Laine sometimes,” John found himself contributing, not knowing why. He hated thinking of Paul writing with Denny Laine. He hated Denny Laine.
“It’s nothing like writing with John, though,” Paul said quickly.
“What’s it like writing with John?” Ben asked politely. John could’ve throttled him. Couldn’t they talk about the weather? Wasn’t today humid? Will it rain in the afternoon tomorrow? He didn’t want to hear whatever bland nonsense Paul would reduce their partnership to.
“Well,” said Paul, and of course none of this would be bothering him. Much easier to field these types of questions when you didn’t have to worry about pesky things like feelings or emotions. “We complimented each other…”
“Right,” John interrupted, because he and Paul had given some variation on this answer a million times in the past 20 years. “He’s all sunshine and happiness and I’m Mister Doom and Gloom.”
“No,” Paul contradicted him, again, quickly and looking rather annoyed. “No, it’s not that. Our approach is quite different, you see.” He paused and furrowed his brow as if he was thinking hard. “It’s like…me, I build wings, but John just…flies.”
It was maybe a bit clumsy, as metaphors went, and John didn’t know exactly what it meant. He tried to summon something cutting to say, to hide that he found that really fucking touching, actually, but nothing came.
“Oh, that’s lovely,” said Marjorie and John thought she was an idiot, but she was right about this. That was lovely. It sure sounded like a compliment.
“It worked really well, didn’t it, John?” Paul was looking at him, expectantly.
John locked eyes with Paul, looked right at him, and said, “I really don’t remember.” And Paul was world class at hiding what he was feeling, always had been, but John saw a flicker in his eye and a very subtle tightening of his jaw – almost nothing, really, no one else would notice – and for a moment John let himself believe that this wasn’t all just a show for Paul. For a moment, John let himself believe that Paul really did care.
***
After dinner, thankfully, everyone got up from where they were eating to mingle, get more drinks. John had just about relaxed into a private chat with Harry, when George interrupted, guitar in hand, to declare to the room that he was going to perform a song he’d written for Richie’s birthday.
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, John settled on the sofa next to Harry to listen to George’s song. God, he wanted a ciggy.
As George started, John felt the sofa dip, and an elbow in his side. “Did you write him a song?” Paul whispered, leaning in. He was way too close.
“No, but I didn’t fuck his wife, either.” John answered, not bothering to whisper.
“Shhhh…” Paul’s eyes widened comically and he glanced around, looking delighted and scandalised. John knew that expression well – fake outrage, real amusement. Paul never minded John’s inappropriate jokes; he just liked to pretend that he was above them.
“Right, then, I reckon we’re fine,” Paul murmured, smiling, into John’s ear. His shoulder was against John’s. Too close.
“Then again, I didn’t sue him, either. So you might need to pull something together tomorrow.”
John could feel Paul physically – and probably emotionally – harden next to him, and move ever-so-slightly away. Good.
They listened to the rest of George’s song without talking. John wasn’t particularly impressed with the lyrics, but the melody was okay. Not George’s best. Richie was smiling, though, his arm around Barbara, beaming at George. He seemed to like it. That was fine then. When George finished, there was a round of applause, and then everyone started chattering again.
“Uh, I’d just like to make a quick toast to Richie,” Paul said, standing up, and even though he’d barely raised his voice, the room immediately grew quiet. John scowled in annoyance. These idiots were so far up Paul’s arse.
Paul surveyed the room and smiled. He looked perfectly comfortable, which John found both irritating and impressive. John had never felt as comfortable as Paul with public speaking. Paul fed off the attention; it made John self-conscious.
“I’m so happy that we’re all together here to celebrate Richie’s 40th birthday. I feel lucky that I’ve known Richie for a long time now…you all may not know this, but he and I used to be in a band together.” He held for the gentle laughter. It was an easy crowd.
“I’ll never forget the first time Rich played with us, in Hamburg. Pete was sick and couldn’t play, so we asked Richie to fill in. We were standing up there on stage, playing, and even though Pete had been good, when Richie played with us for the first time, John and George and I all sort of looked at each other, like, wow, this guy is it. ”
John had no memory of that – he was pretty sure Paul was making it up – but the sentiment behind it was true enough. He glanced at George, and at Richie, who were both smiling, and John felt overcome for a moment, just so fond of all of them, full of nostalgia from Hamburg and that period of time. He was hit with an unexpected sadness that none of them were in his life now, not really, anymore.
“I think I was about 20 then, give or take, and now I’m nearly 40, so I’ve been friends with Richie about half my life. I have one really great brother – most of you know him – but Richie never had brothers, and he always said we were like his brothers. Well, I don’t think Mike would mind me saying that Richie has been like another brother to me. And there have been times, like with all family, I guess, that Richie and I have had our ups and downs, but Richie has always –” Paul’s voice cracked, full of emotion.
John had been studying the throw rug rather intensely, unable to look at Paul, but at the sound of Paul’s voice breaking, his head snapped up. He was fucking crying? In front of everyone?
Again, John found himself looking to George and Richie, because they were the only other people in the room who knew Paul as well as John did, the only people who knew that it was fucking insane that Paul was crying right now. But George was just watching Paul, looking supportive and not reacting to Paul’s emotional outburst, and Richie was smiling, happy – evidently able to look at Paul with love without feeling like he needed to try and disguise it.
“ – Richie has always forgiven me for anything I’ve done. He’s always been…sorry, just give me a minute..” Paul smiled sheepishly, looking around at the group – not at John – and wiping his eyes. “He’s always been there for me, no matter what awful thing I’ve done. I’m so lucky to have him as a friend, and I know you all feel the same. I hope I’m friends with him until we’re both old and grey. Next year, in other words, because he’s 40 now. I am looking forward to this week, all of us here together, celebrating this great man.” He raised his glass. “To Richie!”
“To Richie!” Everyone chimed in, and Richie got up to wrap Paul in a big hug.
John felt like his entire worldview had been altered. Paul was good at giving speeches, always had been. And he did have the ability to make people think he cared about them, even if he wasn’t capable of actually caring about anyone, not really. John himself had fallen for that. For years. Was still in danger of falling for that, sometimes, like when Paul showed up at the door to the Dakota, guitar in hand, wanting to write with John. Or when Paul invited John to New Orleans to work on his album. Paul could look at you with his big doe eyes and smile and put on a pretty convincing show that he gave a shit about anything other than himself. But it wasn’t real.
So the tears…well, John and Paul had spent 10 years in each other’s pockets and John could only remember seeing Paul cry a handful of times. In Florida, when they’d talked about their mums. Even that was just booze. And it had just been the two of them, not like tonight, crying in front of a crowd. When else? John couldn’t even think. This was….well, John didn’t know what to think of it.
As soon as people were up and mingling again, John sidled up to Neil, who was making himself a cocktail at the built-in bar in the living room. John and Neil had always had a good relationship, at least until John had run his mouth off to Rolling Stone . John had said a bunch of shit about Neil trying to horn in on the Beatles’ fame, and it’d hurt Neil’s feelings. John had apologised, but they’d barely seen each other since and John wasn’t sure exactly where they stood.
Neil seemed happy enough to see him, though, fixing John a drink, asking about Sean and telling John about his million kids – who had stayed in England with Suzy’s sister, thank god – until John couldn’t stand it anymore.
“That was mad, wasn’t it? Paul blubbering like that during his toast?” He tried to make it sound casual, as if it wasn’t the entire reason he’d come over to talk.
Neil gave him an odd look. John didn’t try to decipher it.
“It was nice, I thought.” Neil said carefully. “He’s right about Richie being a good friend.”
John nodded dismissively. Of course, of course. They all loved Richie. That wasn’t the issue. “Just not used to seeing him crying like that.” He wasn’t sure what the point of this was. For some reason, he wanted to hear someone agree with him that it was strange for Paul to cry. Or that Paul had added fake crying to his repertoire of manipulation.
Neil shrugged. “I dunno. Don’t think he cries more or less than anyone else. Just seemed like a sweet moment to me, John.”
John was ready to walk away now, find Harry and get pissed. Obviously Neil wasn’t going to be any help here. Paul cried as much as anyone else? That was blatantly wrong; clearly Neil didn’t pay close enough attention to Paul. And this was starting to feel pathetic, how much he cared about it. So much for being aloof.
He was about to politely wander off when Neil spoke again. “I mean, I’m sure Mal told you about the day you announced you were leaving the Beatles.”
John looked at him, hackles rising. “Told me what?”
Neil hesitated. “Oh, I just assumed because you and Mal spent so much time together in LA…no, it’s just that Mal said he’s never seen anyone cry the way Paul cried that day.”
John felt dizzy for a second, but that was only because he momentarily took what Neil said at face value. Then he laughed. No, that was obviously…no. “Yeah, right. I was there, Neil. He smiled and wished me luck. Nothing near a tear.”
He wanted to squirm with the intensity of the look Neil gave him in return – searching, as if trying to figure John out, like John was one of the crossword puzzles that Neil so diligently solved each day in the Times . He shook his head, and John didn’t know if that was him deciding he couldn’t solve it, or deciding that John was an idiot.
“Mal drove him home and he cried the whole way. Was sobbing so hard that Mal was afraid to leave him alone. I mean…John, you know Paul didn’t want the band to break up.” The look Neil was giving John was almost incredulous, like he couldn’t believe how dumb John was. But Neil didn’t know Paul like John did. He didn’t know how selfish Paul was, that if Paul didn’t want the band to break up it wasn’t for some sentimental reason, like it would be for John; no, for Paul it had to do with money or fame or control.
But he wouldn’t have cried like that because of the money, John’s treacherous brain supplied. He frowned. This type of thought had never served him well. Okay, so Paul had been more upset that the band had broken up than he’d realised. That meant nothing. That changed nothing.
“I just haven’t seen him cry that much,” John said, honestly, trying to move the subject away from that day and the image of Paul, alone, sobbing at Cavendish, that was now floating into his mind and making him feel a bit wobbly.
“I think he always tried pretty hard to hide it from you,” Neil said, his voice soft.
John had about a million questions in response to that, but instead, he shrugged, hoping that would put an end to the conversation, and suggested they smoke a joint. Waved Richie and Barbara over. Tried to ignore the queasy feeling in his stomach.
***
The idea that the night was going to end with John and Paul in bed together – and not in the way that John had often wanked to – hung over John for the entire evening. Eventually, he decided to sneak off before anyone noticed, with the hope that he’d be asleep by the time Paul was ready to turn in, and any awkwardness of going to bed together could be avoided.
It didn’t work. He’d only been in the room about two minutes – hadn’t even managed to change into his pyjamas – when Paul came in.
“Thank god you turned in, I’m knackered, but I didn’t wanna be the first,” Paul announced good-naturedly, bursting into the room as if he had absolutely no qualms about the fact that he was going to be sharing a bed with his estranged writing partner. His estranged best mate.
John didn’t say anything, just rummaged through his bag, trying to organise his things. Someone had packed for him – at Yoko’s instruction, probably – and he wasn’t sure what he’d brought.
Paul started to babble, cheerful and unrelenting. How nice the house was. How good it was to see everyone. Too bad Klaus and Astrid and Jurgen couldn’t make it. Wasn’t Dhani adorable. How great it was that John was writing music again.
John turned to him, cutting off the chatter, and inclined his head toward the bog. “You can go first, if you want. I’m still unpacking.”
If Paul was surprised at the sudden interruption, he didn’t show it. He just gave John an easy smile and nod, and ducked into the loo with his pyjamas and toiletries.
After Paul finished, John used the toilet and cleaned his teeth, and although it seemed funny, used the privacy to change into his pyjamas. He and Paul had changed in front of each other countless times, of course. But they weren’t 20 anymore. It didn’t seem right.
When John emerged, Paul was in bed, reading with only the small light from the bedside table, and John had to catch his breath. Paul was tucked under the covers, cosy, his brow furrowed in concentration. For just a brief moment, John could imagine that this was their shared bed and Paul was waiting for John to join him.
Instead, John got in bed, awkward, keeping his distance. Paul put down his book and looked over at John with a smile. “I was trying to think of the last time we shared a bed. I dunno, maybe sometime on that final tour.”
John ignored him. He knew the last time. It was ’67, when they were making Pepper. Things with Cynthia had deteriorated, and every night that John had spent at Weybridge was suffocating, stifling. He’d felt trapped by Cyn, by Julian, by the suburbs. Instead, he’d spent most nights in Paul’s guest room at Cavendish. Jane was gone for the summer, and he and Paul spent their time writing or listening to music, going to see art, going to clubs, challenging each other.
By then, John could admit to himself that he was in love with Paul. So he stayed at Cavendish because it meant he could be with Paul all the time, and he didn’t have to worry about the new friends Paul was making or the avant garde ideas that Paul was being exposed to without John. He’d hated the nights that guilt forced him back to Weybridge. He’d lie in bed and wonder what Paul was doing, who he was seeing, who was making him laugh.
Paul did a lot of cocaine that summer. They both did. But Paul liked it more than LSD, did it whenever he could. Paul’s personality was already, just naturally , like someone on coke: an overly confident, frenetic energy with an underlying anxiety ready to emerge when the morning came. The cocaine exacerbated it.
So there were many nights when John and Paul would either be ushering birds or musicians out the door as the sun was rising, or stumbling back to Cavendish when the day had started to break, driving home, dangerously, as the stockbrokers were making their way to the underground for the morning commute.
When Paul’s post-cocaine paranoia kicked in, he almost always asked John to sleep in his bed. Not to -- well, sometimes John would fantasise about taking Paul back to that bed and making love to him until Paul felt like himself again – but that wasn’t what happened. Paul only wanted the company; the anxiety meant he didn’t want to be alone, and John was more than willing to be there. He’d crawl into bed next to Paul, never touching, but content to hear Paul breathing and know that Paul’s nerves were soothed by his presence.
Sometimes when Paul woke up, he’d turn to John, sleepy and anxious, and ask for reassurances. Was I talking too much last night? or Is everyone mad at me? John would shake his head and tell Paul not to worry, he’d been great, everyone loved him, he was the life of the party. Paul would look relieved and they’d go back to sleep.
Those were the last times that they’d shared a bed. Clearly, Paul didn’t remember, and John wasn’t about to remind him.
John turned off the light, abruptly, and he heard Paul laugh softly. “Okay, sure, guess I’m done reading.”
“You can turn on the one on your side if you want, it won’t bother me,” John said.
“No, it’s okay, I’m tired anyway.”
“Good night, then.” John said, and surely even Paul was smart enough to realise that meant he didn’t want to talk.
Paul hesitated for a minute like he was going to say something else, but just said, “Night, Johnny.” He turned over on his side, facing away from John. Unfortunately, there was a sliver of moonlight coming in through a gap in the blinds, and it provided enough light that John could still see Paul – his t-shirt stretching over the muscles in his back, his smooth neck peeking out from under his tousled hair.
How the fuck was John supposed to sleep like this? He felt overly warm, even though there was a ceiling fan. He was afraid to move, or make too much noise breathing – he didn’t want to draw attention to himself, invite conversation.
The worst part was, he wanted to talk to Paul. He wanted to ask Paul about crying at Cavendish that day. He wanted to tell Paul about the song he’d written for Sean. He wanted to know if Paul had read George’s book, and find out if it had hurt Paul’s feelings, too.
He squeezed his eyes shut. If this was how he was thinking on night one, this was gonna be a long fucking week.
to be continued....