We finally return to the table, wielding four trays, carrying one roast beef sandwich, one Chef’s salad, two turkey sandwiches, four sodas, four cookies, four rolls, napkins, forks, spoons, knives, and salt and pepper packets.
I hand Lydia her tray and set mine down on the table, Paul does the same for John.
We then dig in. I had picked the turkey sandwich, knowing that’s the safest bet. After all, the last time I had ordered a roast beef sandwich they had put horseradish in it and I nearly threw up.
Of course, Lydia actually enjoyed the horseradish along with the roast beef and as a result ordered it again. Paul opted for the salad, consisting of lettuce, tomatoes, and strips of turkey, ham, and cheese.
Not really sure of what John would like, I suggested we get him the turkey sandwich, my favorite.
The table is incredibly small as it is, and when covered with four trays, drinks, and elbows, becomes tiny. We finish eating and decide on the next stop—paintings.
We quickly walk through the medieval paintings and art, none of us particularly interested in anything except the intriguing darkness of the room, stain glass windows, and immense gate on display.
Renaissance is next, followed by a skip to Impressionists. I find myself once again mesmerized by the same paintings I always stare at—Monet’s Houses of Parliament and haystacks, Degas’s ballerinas—even Post-Impressionistic Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
Paul stands beside me seemingly equally entranced, yet I wonder if he truly has the same passion for the paintings as I, or is just trying for my own benefit.
We move on to the Surrealists and I gaze in wonder at Picasso’s work.
Paul and John have their art. They are two of the most famous people on this earth because of their incredible masterpieces of music. I seem to be lacking in my attempts at writing music, yet am somewhat successful in my own interpretation of it, taking someone else’s work and re-issuing it through singing. I enjoy drawing yet know I am no extraordinary artist. Lydia tries her best and I’m certain that someday she’ll get her own recognition, whether of small or large proportions.
I wish there were something artistic I were known for. Something that I could pride myself in. I enjoy literature and writing, but is there any future in something like that? I majored in psychology, but do I really want to be a psychologist? I enjoy acting and singing but could I possibly make a living off of it? If only.
“What are you thinking about luv?” Paul asks.
“Art,” I say.
“Yes, but thinking about ‘art’ seems to have caused you to zone out. Does what you’re thinking about now have anything to do with why you were crying earlier?”
“No, not at all.”
“Would you rather not discuss it now?”
“Yes, maybe later.”
We remain at the Met until it turns dark and we find ourselves unable to glance at another piece of artwork.
After retrieving our coats and using the facilities, we sit outside on the main steps in order to organize plans for tonight.
Since John is a bit hungry, he and Paul walk down to the outdoor food stand to buy a pretzel, leaving Lydia and me to ourselves for a few minutes.
“Well?” she asks.
“Well what?” I ask in return.
“Would you prefer I stay in my apartment until they leave at the end of the week?”
I hate to be reminded that they are leaving and at the same time worry about Lydia staying at her own place—especially if it’s with John.
“Lydia, I don’t know.”
“What? What could possibly be bad about that? You and Paul need some time together—you should see him look at you! It’s so adorable! Oh, two lovebirds! It’s so romantic!”
“Alright, alright. Back to the main point. I am still unable to believe that I am spending time with John Lennon and Paul McCartney of The Beatles. But eventually the amazement will wear off, either that or I’ll wake up, whichever comes first. Secondly, I don’t want to intrude on your privacy, especially considering how relatively little time you’ll be seeing each other. Thirdly, I don’t mind staying at my place. I know how to protect myself against the idiots I live with and there’s always John to protect me. Unless of course, he returns to his Honeymoon Suite tonight—by himself. Oh wouldn’t that be a pity—not the fact he’s going to Honeymoon Suite by himself but the fact that I wouldn’t get to spend time with him. After all, I currently have no intention of sleeping with him. Can you imagine the guilt I’d feel about sleeping with a married man?”
At least she clearly sees the fact that he is ‘a married man.’
“But then again—oh never mind. Are you seeing my point?” Lydia continues.
“Yes but I worry about you smoking.”
Lydia sighs. “Oh come on, Julia.”
“No seriously. At least you understand he’s married and have second thoughts about sleeping with him, but come on, smoking now? We made a pact not to smoke. We had tried it and didn’t like it, but if you remember correctly, that wasn’t the only reason we decided to stop. Aside from it not working, we were skeptical on how safe it was. On how worth it, it was. Lydia, don’t you remember? Are you really that effected by a man you admire?”
“Beatles are not infallible, you know. I mean, if you were able to resist any temptation you might have had from the crazies you live with and everyone we hang out with in the Village, why on earth would spending a day with John Lennon change your mind?”
“Well—he’s John Lennon.”
“Alright you have a point there. I agree, it’s a stupid chance to be taking. It’s just that John made it sound alright and completely and utterly harmless and made me feel like an idiot for not using it.” She sighs. “Fine, I won’t do it again. And I mean that. I’m sorry you felt so left out earlier, I shouldn’t have let that happen to you—but I was out of it—completely out of it. I was so high I couldn’t think. At least now I can think. And that just goes to show how questionable that stuff is. I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t care that you were left by yourself for God knows how long. I promise Julia, you don’t have to worry about me.”
I sigh with relief and smile.
“But that does mean,” Lydia continues, “that you can trust me in my own apartment. I’ll just not smoke, I deline when offered and then you and Paul and can spend time doing whatever your little hearts desire.” Lydia raises an eyebrow and I laugh.
The same Lydia I’ve always known, my intelligent best friend is back again.
Soon enough, John and Paul return. John is holding four pretzels and offers us some. Lydia and I both decline, neither of us being hungry. But John and Paul both gobble them down, making me wonder if it’s a Beatle trait to have an endless pit for a stomach.
There is a bit of a silence and John smirks at Paul. “Lydia, you want to out to dinner?”
She smiles, “Alright.” She plays along with John, “But oh, wouldn’t that leave poor Paul and Julia behind all by themselves?”
John feigns upset, “Oh no, I didn’t think of that. You two don’t mind, do you?”
I laugh and Paul grins. “Oh, it’s alright, we’ll make it somehow.” He sends me a suggestive glance. “I think we’ll find a way to enjoy tonight. We’ll see you guys tomorrow morning though, right?”
John smiles, “Yeh, how bout you call us?”
“Alright. Tomorrow it is then,” Paul says, tipping his imaginary hat and standing up. He offers his hand to help me up, I accept, and stand.
I send Lydia one more worried glance before we go and she mouths, “Don’t worry,” as Paul carries me off.
Paul and I walk aimlessly down the dark streets of New York City until we decide that going out to dinner may be a good idea. Paul and I sit down on a nearby bench to organize our thoughts.
A cool breeze flows through the air, and Paul pulls me close. “So luv, where would you like to go tonight?”
I smile. “Anywhere as long as it’s with you.”
Paul grins. “We could try for the Rainbow Room you mentioned, but they don’t have food so we’d have to eat somewhere else first. And don’t forget, I’d have to change my clothes, which are back at the hotel.”
“What about me? I’m certainly not dressed well enough to go there.”
Paul looks down at my dress and smiles. “Believe me luv, you are. Anything you wear would be fine. Of course, you are wearing a dress—a rather nice dress if I may say so myself.” I smile as Paul whispers, “Very sexy. There’s no way the Maitre d’ wouldn’t let us in.”
I laugh. “The only reason he would let us in is because you’re Paul McCartney.”
“Oh luv, you underestimate yourself. But I really should change before we go out there. Think we could eat at a place nearby the hotel, then afterward I could change my clothes and we could try our luck at the Rainbow Room?”
Paul explains the location of the hotel and I suggest a restaurant. We take a bus over and enter.
It’s a rather nice Italian restaurant. We are seated immediately at a table and are given our menus. Paul smirks and leans over, “How about getting the oysters?”
I blush but end up getting the linguine in clam sauce.
The dinner is excellent and before we know it we’re already at the hotel. We use the elevator. Paul gets out his key and unlocks the door. The room is truly as hideous as it was described. I doubt I’ve seen anything so tacky and the thought of John and Paul having to sleep together in that same revoltingly red heart-shaped bed starts me laughing. Paul doesn’t understand why I’m laughing and I explain my thoughts. He replies with a chuckle but quickly throws his suitcase onto the bed to pull out a nice suit.
“We didn’t have much time to unpack before your show,” Paul explains.
I nod and turn bashfully away as he undresses, sitting myself on the opposite side of the bed. I look at the carpet and find myself blushing.
Paul, now fully dressed, stands before me and my heart skips a beat.
This gorgeous man, this incredibly talented, intelligent man, with a beautiful voice, is my boyfriend.
I look into Paul’s eyes. He smiles and sends me a wink.
I giggle and he kisses me. Before I know it, I’m once again to pinned to a bed, and realizing that if this continues, we won’t get to out dancing. Not to mention, John could always walk in on us.
I stop Paul, who begrudgingly gets up, and once again straightens his clothes. We then set off for the Rainbow Room.
Once there, the Paul and I are stopped by a rather busy Maitre d’, who doesn’t bother to look up. “Name please?”
“We have no reservation,” Paul says. “But uh, McCartney, Paul McCartney.”
The Maitre d’ looks up. “Oh then of course,” he smiles. “Right through this door.” The man points and we enter.
I had never been there before and had only heard about it. It’s a gorgeous room. The entire place is dark, with select lighting at the bar, small tables, and the dance floor. Easy jazz is played by a live band.
Paul, knowing I don’t drink, orders a Shirley Temple. For himself, he orders a glass of wine. Listening to him order makes me feel like a little girl. I can’t help but think ‘he’s the adult,’ ordering the ‘adult’ wine and here I am, ordering the same soda I’ve had since I was two.
The man sitting before me is so experienced in the world, that I, though only a year younger, am nothing but a baby compared to him.
The waiter turns around to retrieve our order, and I stop him. “Um sir, I’m sorry. May I have a glass of wine instead, please?”
“Certainly,” he says, changing the notation in his little pad and walking away. Paul looks surprised. “I thought you didn’t drink.”
“Normally I don’t, but I thought I might try for a change. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, not at all. I just don’t want you to think that just because I drink, you have to. It’s perfectly alright if you don’t want to.”
“No, I want to.”
The glass comes and I take a sip. I hate it. It tastes awful. What am I doing? Nonetheless, I smile, and take another sip.
Paul offers to dance and I willingly accept. Anything to get away from that horrible tasting poison. Then of course, since when would I ever decline a chance to dance with Paul?
Paul leads me onto the dance floor and pulls his arms around me. I stare into his eyes and he stares back into mine. I find myself smiling inwardly as well as outwardly. I rest my head on his shoulder and know there is no other place I’d rather be than here.
A fast song plays and I wonder if the giddiness I’m feeling is a result of the wine, Paul, or a combination thereof. I may have only had two sips, but I certainly am not used to the alcohol.
We return to the table after a few more dances, in need of a rest.
Paul speaks, “I’ve really been enjoying today. I love being with you, near you. You know that, don’t you?”
I smile. “Yes, but I love to hear it.”
“Do you? Well luv, I’m only here for a few more days then I have to leave. What am I going to do without you?”
“I don’t know Paul. I hate the thought you leaving.”
“Could you come back with us? Could you possibly?”
“Paul, I work. I need a future. I have graduate school to consider.”
“Graduate school? What for?”
“For my future. Whatever job I intend to continue with means I must go to graduate school. Especially if I intend to be a psychologist.”
“But why did you need to be a psychologist? Luv, you have me. I could cover your financial needs for life.”
Is this a proposal or does he just expect us to live together for the rest of our lives? Living together is something I never thought of. It has interesting possibilities but that could also mean I’d never marry. I would never become ‘Julia McCartney’ I would forever remain, ‘Julia Anderson, girlfriend of Paul McCartney,’ which, I must admit isn’t bad, but I’d much prefer marriage. I’ve always wanted one of those typically huge white weddings, being legitimately wed. Not to mention, there’s no way my parents would be happy about me just living with Paul. They’d feel it isn’t substantial, and they’d be right.
Without the title of ‘Mr. and Mrs. Paul McCartney’ fans and other women could still see Paul as free territory and no matter how loyal Paul may try to be there would always be temptation. Then again, even married, wouldn’t Paul still be tempted?
Yes, but it would be different. John carries his title as ‘married man’ and it is for that reason some women are at least wary of his ‘taken’ status. Paul would be loving, would be loyal, but it would just be more definite if we were binded together by marriage.
“Paul, I couldn’t just have you pay my finances for life. It just doesn’t work that way. I want to make something of myself. I need a profession. Being ‘girlfriend of Paul McCartney’ isn’t a bad title to have, but to keep that as an occupation is a bit much. After all, you don’t consider ‘boyfriend to Julia Anderson’ your life’s occupation. You are a musician. A very successful musician, and aside from being with me you spend time doing something you love more than most things in the world—music. It’s unfair to limit me to dedicating my life to you. And Paul, please, I mean that in the best of ways. I would love to spend time with you, but it can’t be all I ever do. I could never become Cyn.”
“Oh Jules. No, you would never become Cyn. Luv, I understand. The whole time I was with you in England I never slept with another girl. During those past four months, I’ll admit I wasn’t exactly faithful, but I had thought it was over, all over—and I was miserable. None of those girls ever made me happy. You make me happy. You are my one and only girl. And if it’s an occupation you want, you can have it. But luv, it just seems so unnecessary for you to worry about graduate school, if it would mean us being separated, especially since with me, you’d never have to worry about money. I mean, if you must, you could go to graduate school in England. Stay with me there, you could be educated and everything.”
Still no mention of marriage.
“What about my family? What about my friends? Paul, I’d love to just be able to run off with you England and never have to worry about anything again but that’s just fairy talk. Come on Paul, realistically, you could never leave England for America because of your career, not to mention, your friends and family, which means I would have to give up everything to go to England with you, never certain of my future—“
“Luv, no, no. Don’t think like that. I would never leave you. Will never leave you. You’d be safe in England with me. You could stay with me at Cavendish Avenue and everything.”
“Yes I’m sure my parents would love it. I call them up, ‘Hey Mom and Dad, remember that guy I told you I was dating back in England that broke my heart? Yeh, him. He’s back again, it was all a big misunderstanding. Yeh, he’s back again but only for a few days and that’s why I’m putting my life on hold and going to England with him. For how long? Oh, I don’t know. Forever? Well, maybe not. I don’t know’—“
Paul looks hurt. His eyes flinch with sadness. “Jules, I don’t get it. What are you saying? Do you not want us to be together?”
Is that what I was saying? Is there any possible way I was really thinking that? I love Paul, want to be with Paul, but is there any way that’s truly reasonable?
“Paul no. No, there’s no way I’d want that. I want to be with you. I just don’t think I could just suddenly leave America for England, no idea where I’m going, no planning of my future. I need time. I need to think. I need more time just dating—no commitments, just loyalty and dating. Seeing you, hearing you, feeling you.”
Paul nods. “Alright luv, if that’s what you need you may have it. Anything to make you happy.”
I beam as Paul strokes my hand on the table. “Want to dance?”
I smile and we once again walk onto the dance floor.
The evening is a dream and before I know it, we’ve returned to my apartment. We sleep together and I fall asleep.
I am in Paul’s kitchen in England. I’ve just returned from a long day of work at the recording studio. My songs have really taken off. I have a major hit that everyone seems to love called, ‘Pipe Dream of Love’’ and I find myself humming it as I retrieve a cup of hot cocoa from the refrigerator. I walk down the hall after waiting all day to see Paul. He was recording all day as well and I haven’t seen him since last night. I slowly approach our room. The hallway is dark and eerie but I know once I make it to his room, everything will be okay.
Paul and I had planned it so that he would cover me financially, of course with my new rock hit, it’s seemingly unnecessary. I hear something from the bedroom and become tense. I open the door and to my dismay find Paul on top of Pam in bed. I scream. They both turn. Pam looks unmoved but Paul reaches for me. I run out screaming and crying and—
“Jules luv, are you alright?”
I open my eyes to find the room is still dark, but Paul is leaning over me. No Pam. No England. No hit record called ‘Pipe Dream of Love.’
“Wha?” I manage to mumble.
“Jules, you were screaming. You just suddenly starting screaming. You woke me up and I got startled. Are you okay? Did something upset you?”
By then I’m fully awake and adjusting the darkness of the room. “I had a nightmare.”
“About what, luv? Will you tell me?”
“Well, I had dreamt I was in England with you. I started out in your kitchen. For some reason or another I had somehow come up with a rock hit called ‘Pipe Dream of Love.’ I had just spent the day in the recording studio. And so had you, but we still hadn’t seen each other since the night before. We were just living together. I was headed from the kitchen to the bedroom. The hallway was eerie. I opened the door and there you were—in bed, with Pam.”
Paul pulls me to him. “Oh luv, have you no faith in me?”
He digs his chin into my shoulder and I don’t let go.
“I would never, never do that to you. I love you. I love you more than anything in this world and there is no way I’d ever cheat on you. ‘Pipe Dream of Love’?” He pulls his body away for a moment to look into my eyes, yet still holds me. “Do you really think that this is what this is? Just a pipe dream? Oh Jules, what could I possibly do for you to prove otherwise?”
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. I had never actually felt that way.”
“But luv, you had to if that came into your dream. It make not have been something you consciously thought but it’s in your mind, subliminally. Luv, I do anything, anything to prove my love to you. You are the most precious thing in my life. I’d give up fame, money, and music just to have you. You are my music. You are my Jules. You are my treasure.”
My eyes are tearing and I wonder if it’s from the beauty of Paul’s speech or my own internal upset. “Paul, I love you. I just don’t see this working out. You loved Jane, she loved you, but you still cheated on her. You knew her for years, loved her for years. But you still cheated on her. Jane was beautiful. Jane was a famous actress and model. She at least had credentials. But that didn’t seem to matter. I, on the other hand—what am I, Paul? What am I? I’m nothing. I’m a girl from New York, with no direction in life, who stumbled upon your best friend in a park one day on my way to find Pam. Pam a girl who I was stupid enough to befriend. I’m just another girl on your list. I’m Date Number 7,987.”
Paul pulls away and turns on the lamp beside my bed. The light is blinding but I eventually adjust.
“Julia Elizabeth Anderson, I don’t ever want to hear you speak like that again. He sits me up. I look into his eyes, mine full of tears, his full of sincerity. I love you. Jane was a mistake. I’ve told you before that I made one of the stupidest fucking mistakes I ever could have made with her. I never should have betrayed her. It was wrong and selfish. And I’ll admit to that. But it shows me something. It teaches me something. I have learned that when you come upon a jewel, you treat it properly, with respect, allow it to shimmer and sparkle, and only enjoy that jewel. She was nowhere near the jewel you are and I have no idea how I found the luck to find such a jewel. My Jules, I am undeserving of you and what you are in my eyes. I want to spend every waking moment with you. I want to spend every sleeping moment with you. Every day I wake up and thank the world that I have you. You, my Jules are the most special thing that ever happened to me. It goes beyond the Beatles, beyond fame, beyond the world. My love for you is something I can’t hold back no matter how hard I try and ever glance I take at you I feel it grow stronger. Luv, I don’t know what else I can say.”
Never before Paul has anyone said anything so incredibly romantic to me.
I grab Paul and start kissing him crazily. I can’t control myself and don’t try to. Paul retaliates with his own kisses and before I know it we’ve once again made love.
Afterward, I turn to Paul, look him directly in the eyes and speak. “Paul, I love you, I was fool to think of you as anything other than what you are. There is no way this love could be infatuation. I just want to spend more days like this. I want to be with you. I want to spend time with you. I want to know everything about you.”
Paul smiles. “Oh luv.” He kisses me. “Luv, I was going to tell you this earlier, but I was afraid you’d say no after our discussion at dinner.”
“Will you join us on tour?”
“Will you, Julia Elizabeth Anderson, come with us, The Beatles, on our next tour in August? That’s why I had to make a call yesterday morning. I had been speaking to Brian, our manager I told you about. It took a bit but I convinced him to consent. But first he said I had to get the permission of George, Ringo, and John. So while you were in the shower I contacted George and Ringo and they said they were fine with it. Though you had never gotten to really know them in the month you were in England, they felt you were a nice enough girl and they had liked what they had seen of you. They loved your voiced as well. That’s why I needed to get to Lydia’s, you see, to speak to John, that is. I had to get his permission. And, needless to say, he gave it to me, within the first second I asked it. So, that means, everything is okay with everyone—except you so far. It would entail you having to spend time with us, sharing a hotel room with us, well, we’d probably share a room, and the others would share rooms. You’d have to follow along with our crazy schedule but we’d be together.”
Wow. I’m completely speechless. It sounds wonderful, aside from the thought of having to wake up at insane hours and be planed to a new destination every few hours. It would mean I could spend time with Paul, and not only Paul, The Beatles. I could get to know all of them, and I could be completely comfortable knowing I was the only girl Paul would be sleeping with.
But what about my parents? I still haven’t told them that Paul and John even came to New York, how can I suddenly just throw this all on them?
Oh, I don’t care! I’ll explain the situation to them but I’m going whether they like it or not! There is no way I can pass this chance up. Hmm, would it take Paul meeting my parents for them to be satisfied?
“Paul, I’ll go. I’d love to go. I still have to speak with my parents, but the fact is, I’m 22. I’m my own person. I’m legally an adult and can do whatever I want. I’ll go.”
“Oh luv, that’s wonderful. But Jules, I don’t want to do something that would get me on bad terms with your parents. What would you say to me meeting them this week?”
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