To describe the party as merely a celebration of the Emmy nomination was, in fact, a criminal understatement.

When 'Last Train to Clarksville' went gold, it was the result of the writing, arranging, and performance of people the Monkees had mostly never met. The guys laid down the vocal tracks after everything else was done. So, while technically they shared in the sales award (which was, at the end of the day, what a gold record is) it felt hollow and dishonest. It was a reminder of how little effect they had on what they cared about the most – the music. And now that they had had the successes of live concerts to vindicate their musical talent, the notion of selling recordings under their names that they barely took part in making stuck in their throats more than ever. Not to mention the gloating rights it gave to Don Kirshner… the "hit maker" had another hit under his belt, and he was more than a little entitled to take credit for it. After all, he was the one who hired everyone to do the "heavy musical lifting" as he called it. What he still failed to get, that even Bob Rafelson got, was that the show sold Kirshner's hits, not the other way around.

So while the gold record was, in Mike's words, a triumph of marketing and deceit, the Emmy was nothing of the sort. Nobody but David, Mike, Peter, and Micky could play those roles, no matter what the original idea had been. The show was meant to be a chronicle of the surreal adventures of four guys trying to make it as a band… and that is exactly what they had created. Their individual talents and personalities were by now indelibly stamped on the series, and as their primary director Jim Frawley had noted in the beginning, "There are no stunt doubles for improv." Since the show's inception the guys had developed a flair for pick-up physical comedy that fit perfectly with the out-there style of the show. And even if they faked playing music on the set, well that's what would have happened no matter who had been cast. "Real" music had never been conceived as part of the onscreen gig. Until now…

As promised, Bob had spoken to the hotel manager, who had passed on to his events coordinator that this party was to be an additional celebration for the Emmy nomination. With Bob's approval, the coordinator had invited some members of the French entertainment press, and a couple of journalists from the Paris offices of U.S. newspapers. The press reps had contacted Chip to ask some technical questions about videotaping, which would be permitted only as excerpts. Chip, in turn, went directly to Davy, Micky, Peter, and Mike to tip them off that this could be the opportunity they'd been waiting for. With another album being proposed for the not-too-distant future, the guys had been working together to come up with a catalogue of songs they planned to lobby for inclusion. Written and/or selected, arranged, and performed by themselves with session musicians for support only, each of them contributing according to his talents and interest. An impressive collection of stuff had been thrashed out in the past few months and, except for Chip, nobody else had been clued in.

Bob had readily agreed when the guys asked to play some music at the party: nothing formal, just as the spirit moved them. It had been a productive week, and everyone had worked harder than dogs, and he figured they deserved to get the chance to indulge their savage addiction to wanting to be a real band. He imagined it would be the stuff they had already performed live, and figured it wouldn't hurt for the French press to get a bigger taste of it and expand the market. In the end he got his wish, but not exactly in the way he'd expected.

For the first time in living memory, it appeared everyone in the room was happy at the same time. Even the waiters were laughing at the jokes, those they could understand anyway. The models were there in their most mod finery, and Genie, Pam, and Bonnie were dressed in the hippie chic collection designed by Genie herself. The guys assembled at one end of the ballroom from time to time to pick up their instruments and play. The new stuff was mostly covers of blues mined by Micky, some traditional stuff collected by Mike and Peter, and a few Broadway-style popular songs from Davy.

"I didn't think it was possible," Bonnie observed to Genie as the guys gathered for another set of songs. "Nobody is grouchy tonight!" It wasn't that the show's cast and crew were "difficult", as the show business cliché went, but it was all such a juggling match that at one time or another there was bound to be somebody getting smacked in the face with a stray ball.

Pam indicated a table where Bob, Chip, and Kirshner were drinking and talking. "I don't know about that, Mr. Kirshner looks a little, uh, less than festive?"

"Don't call him 'mister'," Bonnie corrected. "He hasn't earned that much respect. Off the record."

In fact, Don Kirshner was swimming in a simmering sea of self-pity, or as close to it as someone with his ego was capable of. In his mind, the show's success had been guaranteed by the music marketing. And this Emmy nomination, well it may not mention the music and how his much-maligned (by the four witless young men and Bob's harpy of a glorified receptionist) plan had succeeded in capturing a gold record, with more to come no doubt… but the fact remained that it would be just another loopy sitcom without his efforts. But tonight these TV-made fake musicians weren't playing a note of the Boyce & Hart and Diamond stuff. Apparently Bob was indulging them in their delusions of musical capability as a reward for not behaving like the carping ingrates they usually were. How he managed to keep a leash on Nesmith this past week was anyone's guess… probably getting laid regularly was keeping him in some kind of balance. Christ, those two deserved each other, Kirshner mused poisonously, though he could predict that Nesmith would leave Little Miss Know It All flat as soon as some particularly toothsome groupie wagged her tits in his face. Oh joy, they're tuning up again. Oh well, let 'em amuse themselves… I'll catch up with the French writers here before we leave and give them some advance stuff on what I have planned for the next album.

By now Bonnie and Genie had joined Bob at his table with Kirshner, and Pam had ventured away to compare notes with a couple of Parisian fan magazine counterparts who spoke English.

"Geez, Don," Chip was saying, "you look like you're at your maiden aunt's prayer meeting. Loosen up, will ya? It's a party!" He raised his champagne flute to Don and Bob. "To the Monkees, and the cage-full of crazies who make it happen!" Inside, he was smirking like the devious S.O.B. that circumstances had forced him to become. "One more set, it won't kill you to listen."

Micky announced, "Okay, we got three more here for the last set, letting Mike take the lead because he's the biggest and carries a gun. Nah, no gun. Not tonight, anyway. Members of the press, see Bonnie Morris for fact- checking before you leave tonight."

From there, Mike took over. "Okay, for those of you keeping score: I'll start off with what is according to some," he found Bonnie and raised an eyebrow to her, "a new contribution to my catalogue of 'leaving songs'. Our mixer and engineer extraordinaire Chip Douglas sitting in for this one."

Chip picked up Peter's bass as Davy grabbed one of Mike's extra guitars. When Peter reached for his banjo, Bonnie couldn't help but snicker into her hand. As the partiers were thoroughly into their partying at the moment, the guys broke into a goofy burlesque of a count-in.

When that got everyone's attention, the song started with a three part lead in: guitar, then banjo on top of that, then a slide-in bass riff that kicked into the main song. It brought Bonnie and Genie half out of their seats. Continuing as an improbable fusion of string band and bass-laden rock, it featured a bitter lyric in a rolling tempo that shouldn't have worked with the upbeat instrumentals. But oh, how it worked… In the sharp cutoff after the bridge, Mike leaned into the mike with eyes closed to top the lyric with a combination groan and sigh – "auhh" – then there was a half beat cadence into a dead-on perfect drum roll into the final verse, which featured overlapping harmony lyrics. Even Bob was leaning forward, mouth open, as it built to the final, perfect cutoff. The room went wild.

"Holy crap," Bob muttered under his breath, then turned to Bonnie with a "what the hell" look. She could only shrug honestly and mouth "I have no idea" as she pounded on the table along with everyone else. Everyone else, that is, except Kirshner.

When Chip rejoined the table he managed to not look too smug as he asked, "So, brand new. Sound okay?"

"We need to talk later," Bob said, still recovering. "Where have they been hiding this shit?"

"Wherever they could, man." He shot a look at Bonnie. "Bonnie didn't know a thing, in case you think she's plotting against you."

Bob shook his head, still a little stunned. Then he turned to her, and demanded, "Nobody told you anything? Not even Nesmith?" Even Genie looked like she didn't believe it.

"I swear, nobody said a word! Well, when I brought the Emmy telegram to them, Peter said something about some surprises tonight but in the end I figured he meant that they'd be playing at all."

"Emmy…" Don muttered, "the Emmy came after the gold record, lest we forget."

"Give it a rest, Don," Chip advised. "Nobody has forgotten the gold record, okay? Since you got 'pulse of the market' let us know if you hear another one coming tonight."

Up front, Mike was talking again. "This one's me tryin' my hand at a 'c'mere' song for a change."

The song that followed was undeniably a love song, but equally undeniably clear-headed and free of cliché, as Mike's songs tended to be. There was a crazy mix of tempos in alternating phrases that made it pretty much the opposite of a typical rock/ballad love song that could be heard from other rock bands. Bonnie was engaged in watching the guys' individual instrumental styles when Genie nudged her.

"Hey, y'know this one is yours…" she advised in a stage whisper.

"Huh? Don't talk crazy." Mike wrote dozens of songs, some angry, some bitter, some not so much. Sure, this one was different, and he played on her characterization of his stuff as a joke, but c'mon.

"Look at him, will you?"

So Bonnie did, as he sang the bridge piece whose lyrics expressed the kind of wake-up-call that could change a casual emotion to one less casual. And she could see he had his eyes nailed on her. It wouldn't have been obvious to anyone that didn't know them. But there he was, brown eyes and every word locked on her, and she felt herself falling in a direction she hadn't considered in a very long time. When the song finished she looked away... at Genie, at the room, at anywhere at all except Nesmith. There was privacy in a song that didn't exist when it ended, and she was unwilling to expose that to a roomful of strangers.

When the applause died the last song began quickly.

"Okay, to restore the balance of the universe, we'll finish with a tearjerker by Jack Keller and Bob Russell, so you can't blame Mike except he's singing lead," Peter introduced to everyone's laughter. This one was arranged and played as pure country western, with Davy on acoustic guitar and Peter's bass gently subdued. Bonnie had heard this one before, covered by another artist, but the dynamics of Mike's vocals injected an emotional edge that brought her back to that evening at his place, when he sang the Buffy Sainte Marie song that somehow had heralded the change of everything they'd had between them. He ended the last note by breaking to an octave higher, and sliding down again, pure high-lonesome and crystal-perfect.

It was something nobody present had never imagined hearing from a pop group invented for TV. That none of the outsiders were aware of the instrumental deception of the previous album made the triumph even sweeter. The guys tried to get to Bob's table, but they were surrounded by press, who wanted to know more about their new music and mix of styles. Micky caught Bob's eye, but he just nodded to give them the go-ahead. He knew nobody was stupid enough to give up the truth about the other recordings, so why not see where this new music might lead?

Kirshner, who had sat stone faced through every song, broke his silence. "Well it's fine for a party, but it won't sell records."

"Oh for Christsake," muttered Bob. He'd had about enough of Kirshner's self-serving whining. At least when the guys whined, it was because they actually believed what they wanted would improve things. Kirshner's whining was born of ego, and it sometimes threatened to overwhelm his usefulness.

"No, Bob, let the Hit Maker talk." Bonnie had had just enough to drink, and more than enough to hear, to shut her verbal filter off where Kirshner was concerned. "So tell us, Don, what part of that applause and what part of that press mob are you missing?"

As always, Kirshner had an answer ready. "Personal taste, or lack thereof, notwithstanding… the show has thrived on the record sales. Kids listen, they buy the records, and they tune in to the show to hear what the next hit will be."

Chip rolled his eyes and nearly laughed. All Bob said was, "Don't let that gold for Clarksville screw up your perspective, Donnie."

But Bonnie was on a roll, fueled by all the times in all the meetings she'd kept her mouth shut when this trumped-up musical vending machine spouted off as if he were God's gift to anything but marketing the music he'd reduced to widgets. She stood up and glared down at where Kirshner sat smugly swirling his scotch-rocks and smiling. Chip and Genie sat still as statues, not saying a word.

"Easy, babe, why don't you go see how the guys are doing with the press," Bob suggested, wanting to head off what he saw coming… and knowing it was far past too late.

"Oh no, Bob, I agree with you one hundred percent, we need to help Don with his perspective." He looked up at her sharply as she continued, "Let me put it in simple words for you… the records don't sell the show. The show peddles your bubble gum. That gold record? The one written, and played, and produced, by everyone except the guys? It sold because of the show. But this?" She motioned to the now-empty makeshift bandstand. "This will sell itself, and will sell the show, and so on, with no need to fake it. Your 'hit machine' is no longer necessary. The fans, the sold out concerts, and now the press know it. And you'll never tip them off that it ever was a fake, because that'd blow your gig right out of the water." She looked at Bob, who didn't look ready to intervene. "My guess is we won't need to be peddling your bubble gum much longer."

Kirshner straightened in his seat, looked at Bob, then back to Bonnie, and laughed. "Oh, now it's 'we'. The glorified secretary and babysitter has inherited musical credibility by way of what… sleeping with the Texas whiner?"

"Don, knock it off," Bob warned. Disagreements aside, he didn't like the ugly direction Kirshner was taking.

"Sure, sure…" he nodded mildly. "I'm just wondering… which one of those last three you believe, Bonnie? Which one of those wonderful new songs do you think came from the heart?"

"Huh?" She was confused. Even in the heat of the moment, the question made no sense.

"I mean, do you think he's gonna walk out on you? Or maybe you really think you 'just may be the one' for a guy who's grabbed every piece of ass from here to L.A. Or… maybe you should pay attention to the last one. Maybe he'll dump you after he's knocked you up, and write his own 'tearjerker'." He greeted the shocked silence from his tablemates with another cynical laugh. "Hey, she advised me on my specialty, I'm just advising her on hers." He looked up at Bonnie with a reptilian smile. "Right, 'Morris'?"

Bonnie motioned to a passing waiter and grabbed a flute of champagne from his tray. She raised it toward the bandstand, took a sip, then dumped the rest on Kirshner's head and stormed away.

The cool-unto-death Don Kirshner was apoplectic with rage. He glanced around the room to see who if anyone had witnessed the scene, then snapped at Bob, "You're not gonna let that bitch get away with this!"

Bob regarded him with undisguised disdain. "As a matter of fact, I might just give her a raise. You may have helped us make some big money, Don, and yeah you know better than anyone else how to spin gold from shit-covered straw. But the people who work for me, and those guys," he pointed toward the dispersing crowd around Davy, Micky, Peter, and Mike, "all of them have done more for me, and with me, than you and your 'hit machine'. You think I'm gonna let you talk like that to one of my people, you're dead wrong. She may or may not be right about what we need from you, but I sure as shit know what we don't need. So when we get back to L.A. we're gonna have a contract meeting, you and Raybert, and you'd better have more than a stable full of bubble gum writers and session musicians in mind. Bonnie was right about one thing, because she heard it from me first: the show sells the records. Not the other way around. Now why don't you go the bar and get yourself another drink. Yours is a little watered down with champagne."

The guys barely missed colliding with Bonnie as she rampaged out of the ballroom. Only Peter had caught a glimpse of the exchange at the table, including Kirshner's Moët shower.

"She just dumped a drink on Kirshner," Peter informed the others. "And it looks like Bob didn't do a thing. Whatever happened, it must have been wild!"

"I'll go find out how wild," Mike said as he followed in the direction Bonnie had taken. He found her in the hallway outside the ballroom, hiding behind a potted palm. She was pale, trembling with rage, and on the verge of tears. Unsure what to say first, he asked, "So… didn't care much for the set list?"

"That sonofabitch Kirshner, he's so twisted out of shape that he has nothing to do with what happened tonight… he was spouting off as usual and I told him what Bob had always told me, that the show sells the songs, not the other way around, and I told him that now that was gonna change. That this stuff you just did, that now everyone knows it'll sell itself, and…" she ran out of words, so wound up on a mix of emotion from the argument, from what Kirshner said, from the songs… to her supreme embarrassment she burst into tears. "He asked me which song I believed, the leaving one, the c'mere one, or the dump-the-pregnant girl one…" she fumed between tearful gasps.

Mike's eyes widened… Jesus, she couldn't be thinking… He bent to peer into her face. "C'mon, you didn't believe him, did you?"

"No! I'm not stupid, it's just… please tell me you didn't write that second one for me."

"Huh? What, you're feeling pressured by one song? Don't worry, the future does not hang on it!"

"No, for christsake." She was calming down – why did he always manage to do that without trying? She rubbed fiercely at her eyes and tried to explain. "It's not pressure, it's just, well what you said in that song, the way you looked at me, I don't think I can handle the responsibility of being a muse or anything, a reason to change your style or your life."

He stood up, and stood back. "You're kiddin'." He looked at her closely, as if she'd just sprouted a second head. "You can relax, Morris, I didn't write it for you. I never write this stuff for anyone. In fact it's been lying around in pieces for a couple of years now, and just recently came together. I just sang it to you. Okay? And I might add that you were lookin' back pretty hard yourself."

Lying around in pieces... and just recently came together. The thought gelled in both of them at the same time.

"Uh, so maybe we're at 'making some more space', like in that other song, you think?" Bonnie asked.

"Hm. Looks like maybe." He was smiling "that" smile, the one that reached his eyes, the one that turned her guts to jello every time.

"So much stuff is swirling around, the music, and that asshole, and this… I have no idea what to say next that'll make sense."

Mike's smile grew, and he pulled Bonnie further into the corner behind the palm tree.

"Start with something simple. Try… 'I kinda think maybe I love you, Nesmith.'"

"But this is crazy, all this shit happening, I don't know what…"

"'I kinda think maybe I love you, Nesmith.' Give it a shot." He could see the words triggered the memory in her of another conversation in a small sound booth, either not long ago or a million years past, it was impossible to tell. "Hey, have I ever steered you wrong?"

"I kinda think maybe I love you, Nesmith."

"Well that's a mighty coincidence, because I kinda think maybe I love you too, Morris. Now how about you give me some sugar to seal the deal."

She reached up around his neck and he pulled her off the floor for a lingering kiss.

"So," he whispered in her ear, "howdja like that little gasp I did in the first song? That was for you… I know how that stuff turns you on."

She pulled back a little, still hanging in his arms. "I've heard better."

"Cruel, evil minded," he finished the statement into her open mouth. After about half a minute of midair makeout, they heard the sound of subdued applause. Not putting Bonnie down, Mike lifted his head to look for the source. At the junction of the hallway and the lobby entrance, the night concierge Marcel stood with one of the bellhops, both smiling and clapping in approval.

"Thanks folks, we'll be here all week," Mike deadpanned. Then to Bonnie he added, "And I got something special planned for tomorrow night." He set her down and asked with a wink, "Assuming you're free?"

She answered with a wink of her own. "No, but I'm cheap."

"Well thank God for that, it's a while til the next royalty check. Hey now, speaking of cheap," he leaned close and growled, "how about we go upstairs and do something we won't regret?"

"Gonna have to be later. I have an idea that might save the night for everybody."

So they rejoined the party, where Bob agreed to re-stage the Kirshner champagne bath for the sake of PR.

"Hey, Don, it's a celebration of the Emmy, and the gold record! What's not to like?" Chip asked wickedly.

The guys, along with Bonnie, Genie, Bob, and Chip, arrayed themselves behind a very disgruntled Kirshner, eight brimming champagne flutes in hand.

Pam, who had borrowed Micky's camera, was delighted to call the cue.

"One, two… three… dump!"

Two hours later as Don Kirshner boarded the redeye from Orly to L.A., Bob was in his suite planning a press call and some new preliminary recording sessions to fit in between tapings after they returned.

Chip was partying in the suite with the guys and the models and other assorted crew. By this point it was obvious that any horizontal recreation that happened wouldn't involve the models… they'd unexpectedly become more like siblings to the guys. But that was okay, as always others would be willing.

In room 212, Mike Nesmith was pleasantly surprised to find that an octopus had replaced his armadillo. After they did something, several somethings, that neither one of them regretted one bit, Bonnie remained wrapped around him as if she had eight long arms instead of just two.

"You know Kirshner is full of shit, right?" Mike asked Bonnie just before sunrise. He knew that she knew him better than that, but he also knew that his personal history sometimes tilted the scales toward 'asshole' even if it were (he hoped) no longer true.

She answered by snuggling closer and kissing his neck. "Look, Nesmith, I ain't seventeen, and I ain't pregnant." She moved her mouth along the edge of his sideburn, ending under his ear, and was rewarded by the real-life version of auhh. "And you ain't going nowhere on my watch."

Meanwhile in Genie and Pam's room, the two conspirators/romantic consultants slept soundly. Two garment bags, one tied with red silk ribbon, hung in the closet, soon to prove that ten days in Paris without romance simply would not be tolerated.

A/N: for anyone who hasn't figured it out already, the three songs are 'You Told Me', 'You Just May Be the One', and 'If I Ever Get to Saginaw Again'. If you've never heard that last one, check it out on Youtube; it's a killer.