"Wakey-wakey, c'mon," she pulled at the covers to little effect. "Up-up-up-up!"

Incoherent muffled grumbles and grunts were all that came from under the bunched up sheets and blanket.

It was six-thirty in the morning. Bonnie had been up since six, had showered and was already dressed in jeans, Raybert Productions t-shirt and sneakers, and was ready to roll. The van was picking them up at seven-thirty for transport to the location in the Luxembourg gardens to shoot the last sequences for the episode. They were ahead of schedule, and Bonnie didn't want to blow it all by dragging ass today. Problem was, Nesmith's ass wasn't just dragging, and it was nailed firmly to the bed.

"I am begging you, if we get done on schedule today, we have two whole days left to do whatever we want, you can sleep for forty-eight hours!" She sat on the bed next to the long, rangy, inert lump.

"Pleeeeze?" she cajoled, leaning close enough to pry a corner of bedding away from the sliver of face that wasn't buried in the pillow.

One brown eye glowered at her as he growled like a cornered wolverine. The growl ended in something very like a whine.

"Just one more day, and it's all over," she promised. He just burrowed in deeper, so she abandoned affectionate persuasion and cut straight to ugly. "Goddammit…"

She grabbed one of the decorative bolsters from the floor next to the bed and started swinging on him.

Whop –

"I see a light at the end of this long dark tunnel and I'm telling you we are gonna get there today… now get your skinny…"

– whop –

"Texas ass…"

– WHOP –

"outta bed!"

The lump in the bed wove and dodged like a mole running under a sky-blue lawn.

"I AM NOT KIDDING."

WHOP-WHOP-WHOP

After the last three whops Mike sat up slowly, like a vampire rising from his coffin. Hair askew, eyes slit, he glared at her in silence.

"Just one more day, Nesmith, honest," she promised sweetly, inches from his malevolent stare, and then her voice dropped to an icy monotone. "And you are not gonna fuck it up." She lobbed the ruined bolster onto the foot of the bed. By now the richly embroidered pillow looked like a high-priced sackful of dirty socks.

"That's comin' outta yer paycheck, missy," Mike grumbled, nodding toward the shapeless lump of brocade satin. "Cruel, evil minded," he went on, but she bounced off the bed before he could finish.

"Blah, blah, blah. Thought that was just your style." She grabbed the change of clothes he'd brought with him last night and tossed them on the bed. "Shower, shave, and dress, or I'll drag your scruffy uncombed bare-ass self downstairs as-is."

"Just mean enough to do it too, y'slave drivin' wench." Mike wrapped the sheet around himself and stumbled to his feet, muttering, "Havin' yer wicked way with me every night, and workin' me to the bone every day…"

"I didn't hear you complaining last night, or maybe 'oh yeah baby like that' was a cry for help?" Bonnie laughed, then indicated the sheet he'd wound around his waist. "And it's a little late to be demure, cowboy."

"Hah, if you think yer gettin an eyeful of me when yer actin' like this," he declared and leaned down into her face, "you got another thing comin'." He stomped into the bathroom, trailing a white silk train behind him along with the words, "I'll be ready in five." Then through the closed door sailed the words, "And I ain't no cowboy!"

She imagined a similar scene was playing out in the suite down the hall. Well somewhat similar, as Chip worked to rouse the other three.

There had been no wild party the night before, to be sure, because Mike had been right in part. The guys and their female counterparts were being run ragged in every scene, every day. Even the boat ride on the Seine had involved a good share of leaping and running. In fact, Micky had lost his footing and fallen in the river, and had to be fished out by the charter crew. The only people who weren't busting a sweat, or even batting an eye, were the Parisian bystanders who hadn't a clue who these lunatics were or why they were filming themselves running like maniacs from beautiful women. The only energy left over at the end of the day was enough to get them all through dinner, and maybe Micky and Peter out for a short espresso with their French counterparts. Even Davy was too beat to "go bird hunting" as he called it, though it appeared last night he made an exception.

Bonnie and Mike had had just enough life left in them on one or two nights to enjoy each other and the enormous bed and the huge china tub in the bathroom. Most nights it was just crash and sleep, but last night they'd made it (in every sense of the word) into the wee hours. She'd had to pry her eyes open too, but for christsake it was one more day and they were done. It wasn't just Nesmith, she knew. Men in general could be such whiners.

"Okay," Bonnie called through the bathroom door, over the noise of the shower, "I know you think I'm being a drag, and a slave driver, but c'mon, it hasn't been all bad has it? We've been able to go out with the other guys, and the girls we hired who turned out to be pretty nice, and the guys didn't go all grabby-ass with 'em, and you took me to a couple real groovy places that first night, right? It hasn't been all bad, seriously. Look, I'm sorry I pounded on you just now…" She was feeling a little guilty; everyone had been running themselves up one street and down another alley, just endless exertion, and the only "fun" during the day was fake. "I'm sorry, okay? I just gotta do my job and part of that is getting you guys where you need to be on time, I mean if I wasn't here, Chip would be rousting you, right?"

Then her brain shifted gears. Why am I groveling like this? Work is work; we all signed on for the same thing. She repeated that mantra as often as Mike repeated his rants against the Music-Smothering Powers That Be.

"Now that I think of it, I don't know why I'm apologizing, it's not like you're seventy years old and being beaten with sticks, for christsake…" The shower turned off, and the hairdryer commenced. "I'm not the enemy here, y'know? Don't think I don't appreciate what we got, you'n'me, whatever it is, but still sometimes you act like I'm just like all the people you rant about so much, the PTB, you know? We both got our jobs to do, and I refuse to feel guilty about doing mine well, even if you guys don't all get what you want whenever you want it…"

She was segueing smoothly from guilt to resentment as Mike emerged from the bathroom: showered, shaved, perfectly combed, and dressed in his jeans and Triumph t-shirt that he'd swap for wardrobe when they got to the location. He walked to where Bonnie stood talking and gesturing, and just stood over her for a minute until she stopped.

"You through?" he asked flatly.

"What's that supposed to mean? I just wanted to…"

He leaned down and shut her off with a kiss.

"Morris, sometimes you talk too damn much. Let's fix you up with some coffee before you drive me crazy, and get this last day of bullshit over with."

Disarmed, she caught a whiff of sandalwood as he walked by her. "Hey, you smell good."

"I smell like you… I ran out of my shampoo so I used yours, and that soap." He stopped near the door, sniffed his arms, and tried to pull some hair closer to his nose. "Oh, groovy, I smell like a Hindu whorehouse."

"Thanks a bunch. And it figures you'd know what one smells like…" she muttered as she led the way to the elevator.

"Damn, there was no good side of the bed for you today, huh?" he punched the lobby button then declared with exaggerated dignity, "And for your information, I have never been invited to a Hindu whorehouse."

The doors slid open.

"Why bother, when they come to you." She headed off his protest, "Hey, you're the one was going on about all those women… shouldn't have opened your big mouth."

"Hey Phil," Mike called to the day concierge Philippe, and pointed at Bonnie as they crossed the lobby, "can we quick drug her up with some coffee so I don't have to shoot myself to get some peace?"

"I just love how you kids sweet talk." Micky appeared from nowhere and shoved a large covered paper cup into Bonnie's hand. "Here's your fix, black as your mood." He ducked as she swung an open hand at the back of his head. "Hah! Too quick for you."

"Day ain't over yet, slick," she advised as they piled into the van to go the location. Once they were rolling, she leaned forward far enough to reach her chin over the back of Mike's seat and told him quietly, "Sorry, Nesmith."

"S'okay, Morris." He turned his head in time to brush her mouth with his own, like the first couple of times he'd kissed her. "Gotcha." When she dropped her forehead down on his shoulder he smiled a little and told her, "one more day. Then groovy things are gonna happen, and you are definitely invited."

"Bloody hell will you two break it up?" Davy griped. He'd been out too late and had drunk too much the night before. "It's already hard enough not to puke."

Genie and Bonnie shot a glance at Pam.

"I know, I know, off the record!" she acknowledged cheerfully. Having gotten her background, day-to-day, and most of her commentary notes on the "hard work of looking fun" under control, she had only the direct interviews to get done. Today's more relaxed filming schedule seemed like the best time for it; the shoot so far had been so frantic that the "no comment" looks Bonnie had warned her about at the airport that first day had been confronting her at every turn. Today was her last chance to have them all handy, and it was the best day for it too. This was going to be a great article; she could feel it. Different. Not the same annoying crappy questions as all the other magazines asked. Still… caution prevailed, she reminded herself. She'd definitely be leaving Davy for last.

Peter's Interview

"Got a minute?" Pam asked Peter, and sat down next to him in the makeup area where he waited for his call for the "park walk" shots. They were doing the guys separately with their "dates", then one traveling shot at the end with everyone walking away.

"Sure, but I think I'm up any minute."

"That's okay, this'll be short. Just two questions, I'm asking you all the same ones."

Peter sat back and smiled. Pam had been the exact opposite of what he and the other three had expected. She never bugged them when they were really busy, hadn't asked any personal questions, and in fact had barely asked them anything at all one-on-one. He knew Genie and Bonnie had a lot to do with it, but still he'd seen the girls (never guys) from the other teen mags who could slip even the tightest "herding", and ask the most squirmingly personal questions as if it was their right to know.

"Shoot."

"Okay. I bet you've answered a million times how your life has changed since you became a Monkee, what's it like to be a Monkee, all that. How about telling your fans… what's it like now when you're not being a Monkee? How has that part of life changed? If you knew before what you know now, would you still be here doing this?" When Peter blinked at her and didn't answer, she thought maybe she'd asked the wrong thing. "I don't mean like meeting girls, or parties or anything. Look, if this is too personal, you don't have to answer."

If this is too personal for the "friendliest Monkee", she thought to herself, there goes my whole interview strategy.

"No, no way, you're not crossing that line at all." He looked away for a minute, watching as Micky did his stroll with Michelle, stopping now and then for a friendly (staged to be romantic) kiss. He shook his head, and looked back at Pam. "Nobody's ever asked that. I don't know if I've even thought about it much. Well, the first part… and I hope you can write this so it doesn't sound bad…"

"I'll write it any way you want to say it, Peter."

"Okay. Nowadays, since we hit it big, when I'm not being a Monkee, you know, not on the road or on the set or at some press thing… it's more, what's the word, precious to me than it was before when I can not be connected to the gig. I mean everybody has work to do, and they love their days off. But when I was a dishwasher, I could just clock out and that was that. On to my friends, my own life with no boss. Now it's not so simple. I leave the set, or the tour is over, and we have 'time off', but like, everybody is the boss now, everywhere I go I have to think like I'm on the clock. If I mess up, you know, everybody does sometimes, but if I do and somebody sees it, it can affect so much. I guess the simplest way to put it is before, I only had to be aware of myself and my friends when I wasn't working, you know? Now, when I'm not being a Monkee… I just can't completely ever let that go, can I? I mean, even my name isn't really my own anymore, it belongs to everybody." He stopped and asked Pam, "Is this what you meant? I'm not complaining, I mean I have what I came here for right? I'm grateful I got the chance, but I think I didn't understand what that meant. I'm just trying to answer the question."

"Don't worry, Peter, you did it perfectly. You're saying that now you're on the clock even when you aren't."

"Yeah. And I guess that's something I didn't think about before, well before all this. I thought of press, and fans in public, and photographers, and stuff like that. I knew that work life would change. But I never thought about how downtime would change. Sometimes it's like the only time I can just let go and never worry about what happens if I screw up is when I'm absolutely, completely alone. Because even my friends know friends, and everyone in this business is connected. I don't mean I don't trust my friends, I mean… everyone's connected. Everyone's a coworker, one way or the other. When I was back in the Village, I was the only dishwasher I knew, once I clocked out. Now, everybody's a dishwasher. You dig? Suddenly clocking out looks just like clocking in, because not even the faces are different."

Pam turned off her suitcase-sized reel-to-reel tape recorder. "That sounds hard. Harder than the kinds of work that everyone thinks you guys are so lucky for not having to do anymore." When Peter nodded in agreement, she reminded him, "You didn't answer the second question. If you knew then what you know now… would you be here? Or still in the Village?" She switched on the recorder again.

His smile faltered. "I don't know. I really don't." He looked off into the park again, where the set dressers were sweeping the paths and the lights and reflectors and all the other stuff was being reset for his take. When he faced Pam again, he asked, "What do you think the fans will say about that?"

"They'll say 'Peter Tork is kinda like me.' They'll see you as somebody that didn't have it all worked out in advance, and that doesn't have all the answers. The kind of guy they'd like to sit with on a park bench, and just rap."

Peter's smile brightened. "Pam, you are gonna be an outtasight writer, because you are an outtasight listener." Bob waved to him from the camera dolly. "My turn to fake the garden walk. Oh well, at least the garden is real."

Micky's Interview

"Wow, that's a deep one." He paused to wipe off the remainder of his makeup. "I guess when I'm not being a Monkee I'm just being me. Hanging with my friends, partying…" here he made a sly face, "you can call that "socializing' if you want…"

Pam laughed. "Don't worry Micky, your secrets are safe. This is more about you than what you do."

"Oh. About me… so maybe you mean what do I miss now that I had before? Hm. Well unlike Mike and Peter I'm an actor, have been since I was a kid though you're too young to have seen me from the start." He shrugged. "It's always been about grabbing what time you can between scenes, figuring out who's real from who's working you. Not too hard after this long. But they always come together, though. That's the thing. The real people and the ones working you." He shrugged. "Life's like that, kinda mixed up and messy. Anyway, you can't miss what you never had. I never had anything but scenes and lines and characters that aren't me."

"But what I've seen of you when you're not on the set… it's a lot like your character on the show."

Micky dumped his towels in the portable hamper, and told her, "See that? I just dumped my face, but this time it's only makeup. This gig, this Monkees gig, in a funny way it's the first time I've really had nothing to dump after they yell 'cut'. Because there was no real character to learn, just had to be me, pretty much." He stopped then, and looked at the remainder of makeup on his hands. "Kinda weird, isn't it. Before I could wipe it all off and leave it at the sound stage. Now, I just take off the makeup." He laughed a bit ironically. "Looks like I don't get paid enough… they're getting me, and I used to get to keep that for myself."

Pam switched off her tape recorder. "I guess in your case, it doesn't make sense to ask if you'd have done it differently, huh? I mean, you've been acting all your life. This couldn't be much different. So you don't have to bother with the second question." She was surprised when Micky reached out and turned the recorder on again.

"Well I have an answer for it anyway. If I had the chance to decide again, I'd hold out for a character that isn't me. Because once this is over, and everything's over sooner or later or changes to something else, I don't think your readers will be surprised by that… once this is over, I can't be sure how much of myself I'll have left to take with me, and how much will have been transferred to new ownership." He switched off the recorder again. "Is that okay?"

Pam nodded. "That's better than okay."

"Good. I gotta say, kid, you're a better interviewer than most. And that's comin' from a lifelong victim of 'em." He smiled and winked to let her in on the joke. "Okay, I'm outta here. I got some jazz clubs to catch up on before the party later on."

Mike's Interview

"And here I thought you might be different. After you hooked in with Genie and all, and helped me out, I thought maybe you wouldn't be one of those dig-in-deep in your personal life kinda fan magazine reporters."

Well it's not as if I expected him to be easy…

"That's not what I mean. I'm not talking about what you do, I'm talking about how you think about it. Do you think how things are when you're not being a Monkee, is that pretty much the same as before? Or not?"

"Well I'll tell you one thing, at least now I'm in control when I'm not working. Before… the only time I wasn't in control was when I wasn't working, playing somewhere I mean. Because I couldn't control the rent, or the bills, or the crap food we had to eat to save money. But once I hit the stage, no matter how shitty the pay was, at least it was all me. Now… see that nonsense they have us doing out here? Playing at being on a date, kissing a woman I've never met until this week?" Not that I haven't done a whole lot more than that with women… girls… that I knew a whole lot less… "Now when I'm not at a gig or on the set I can do what a want. Go where I like, see who I wanna see." He waited for a comment about Bonnie, but Pam just waited, tape running. "Well that last one, that's a little harder now I guess. And it's for damn sure I'm not in control of it." I just know I want it to keep going… I know it takes more than paying the bills and coming home at night like I'm doing her a favor being there like I did with Phyllis... "Well I told Bob I'm not gonna play kissy-face for the show, it's an insult to everybody's intelligence. So we played it for laughs. That'll work, I think. And no, it's not because of… y'know, the things that you're gonna leave out. Not because of that. Anyway, it's no crime even when you got what you signed up for to push to get it better, I think. Not just for me, but for the whole project." Wouldn't I love to fill 'em all in on the fake music that they're buying, even when they're paying for the real thing in concert… "I keep trying to push for that, to get it better, some people take that the wrong way. But it's all groovy, I'm glad I'm here, love playin' onstage and all." That'll keep the kiddies happy, I guess, at least the ones that didn't go a few rounds with me in bed… they have their own private illusions to cherish…

"So you're saying if you had the choice to make over again, you'd still be here?"

He slid up his shades and cut a look toward the costume van, where Bonnie was lounging with Genie. She had no idea what he had planned for the following night… and he was trying to imagine the look on her face when she found out.

"Mike? Would you do it all over again the same way?"

The shades came down again, and his smile surprised her. "In a heartbeat, sunshine."

Davy's Interview

"Are you kidding, luv? I'd do it again without even thinking. I've been acting most of my life, but this time it's really paying off. More money, more fans, more success than I imagined in my wildest dreams. I wouldn't do a bloody bit of it different."

"Great, thanks. But you didn't answer the first question. What's life like now when you're not being a Monkee?"

He leaned so close she could smell his aftershave, and she had to force herself not to lean back. She really wasn't worried about him, but she wondered if he knew that.

"I'm always a Monkee, luv. Hate to think what I'd be missing if I wasn't."

Well the fans will love that one, anyway, she thought.

"Thanks. I've got everything I need now, just need to type it all out."

"Care to come out for a drink? I can tell you anything you'd like to hear."

Wow, not coming on too strong, but no doubt what he's asking, if I were willing. Like Micky said, love 'em and leave 'em is a problem on the front end, but maybe not so much at the back end.

"I'm sure you could. No thanks."

He nudged her with a playful grin. "Hey, just kiddin'," he assured her, not convincing her at all. "Hope you had a groovy time with us. Can't wait to read it."

Pam wandered over to join Genie and Bonnie, who had just finished up their lists for the wrap.

"Got everything?" Bonnie asked.

"And then some! Hey, thanks, both of you. I took your advice with the interview questions, pretty much. The answers were a surprise, and believe it or not the answers can almost go to print as-is, with a few edits for language."

Genie locked eyes with Bonnie, and they declared in unison, "Nesmith." Then all three cracked up.

"Really," Pam insisted, "I don't know how to thank you."

"Of course you do," Genie winked at her, "we both know it."

"What?" Bonnie asked. "All week I've gotten the feeling that something is up, that something is planned, but I'm the only one left out."

"Trust us, luv, you're the last person who's being left out."

Genie and Pam laughed conspiratorially as the three of them went to the van to meet the guys for the trip back to the hotel. Later would be the wrap party there, complete with models and crew and all "survivors", as Bonnie called them.

"See, Pam, I told you that Paris would be romance-free," Bonnie reminded Pam.

Her two companions nearly doubled over, and Pam finally gasped,

"Whatever you say, Morris, whatever you say."