The fragility of us
There was something bundled at the foot of the bed. I reached down and pulled out one of his shirts. I sniffed it, basking in his scent. Looking across the vastness of the empty bed, I felt my eyes fill with tears. Picking up the phone, I dialled his number. No answer. Curling up, I sobbed into the pillow. The next morning, I barely touched breakfast. He arrived after ten o'clock.
'I'm here for the rest of my things,' he said, pushing past me into the bedroom.
'Please, Paul, don't go.'
He stared at me, no trace of affection in his eyes.
'I'm sorry, Louise. It's not going to work.'
He packed some things into his bag and left me crying on the bed. I hated missing him so much, I did, but I couldn't help it.
Things had been so different when we met in 1965. I'd been a carefree twenty-one year old, laughing and playing on the beach with my friends. Being massive Beatles fans, we were thrilled when they arrived to have some promotional photographs taken for a magazine they were being interviewed in. When that finished up, they came and sat with us. We could barely talk, such was our awe. Paul sat next to me and sprinkled sand in my hair. When I squealed and tried to run away, he wrapped his arms around me and drew me to his chest.
'You're not going anywhere,' he said. They invited us to have dinner with them that night. Paul sat next to me and talked to me the whole time. I had to admit that I was smitten by the end of the meal. We spent a lot of time together over the following weeks, but it was mostly casual flirting. I didn't think it would lead anywhere. Then one night, we were out in a club. He kissed me and told me he loved me. I said the same, and we were an item after that. Things were difficult, what with his high profile and busy schedule, but we tried to see each other as often as we could. One day, we were out having lunch when a group of girls approached us.
'Who's the ugly bitch, Paul?,' asked one, earning an appreciative cackle from her friends. Paul glared at her.
'Leave us alone.'
One of the other girls picked up the salt and poured it all over my food. We left hastily to their jeers. Outside, Paul took my hand.
'Are you alright?'
'Yes,' I said, though I was shaken by their malice. Paul asked me to go on holidays with him in France in July, 1967. It was the best summer of my life. We ate delicious food, danced every night, and fell more deeply in love. Things were not quite so rosy when we returned home. Paul became more distant.
'Why are you so callous, Paul? You hardly touch me anymore.'
He picked up his bass and twanged at it.
'I'm busy right now, Louise,' he said, making it clear that he wanted me nowhere near him. I stormed out, fuming at how heartless he'd become. I'd always gotten the impression that the other Beatles didn't like me. George barely spoke to me, Ringo was always preoccupied when I was around, and John looked angry whenever I walked into the room. I asked Paul about this.
'They think you're bad for me,' he admitted, wincing. I was outraged.
'Bad for you? What's that supposed to mean?'
He shrugged. I decided to confront John. I knew they'd be in the studio the next Saturday morning. I swept towards him, hands on hips and bristling for a showdown.
'What's your problem, Lennon?,' I demanded. He wrinkled his nose.
'We're busy right now, girlie,' he said, his words dripping with condescension. To my disgust, Paul giggled. I glowered at him and left them to it. I ignored Paul's calls over the following days. I was tired of his aloofness, and frankly ready to end it with him. We drifted on together, though, both becoming more and more disinterested with each passing month. Things nosedived when the band split. Paul became more hostile than he'd ever been before. It was as if he blamed me for the whole thing.
'Look, Paul, it's not my fault you broke up,' I snapped.
'Shut up, Louise, you bitch,' he retorted. I was wounded. He'd never called me a bitch before. He, too, seemed shocked by his words, and hugged me.
'I'm sorry, love.'
I pushed him away.
'Oh, spare me, Paul.'
'Fine, be like that.'
He grabbed his wallet and keys and left. Two hours later, he stumbled in the door reeking of booze. He tried to kiss me.
'C'mere, love, give us a kiss.'
'When you're sober,' I said. He collapsed in a snoring heap on the couch and I sighed.
'I think we should end it,' he said the next day. I was stunned. I knew things hadn't been easy, but I couldn't believe this was it.
'Oh.'
'Neither of us is happy, Louise. There's no other way.'
Suddenly, I felt a surge of anger. I jabbed my finger into his chest.
'You're the one who's ruined things, Paul! I tried so hard to make you happy and you just pushed me away.'
He didn't respond. He simply walked away. And I'm still crying on the bed. More fool me.