“Paul McCartney in Love Again!” read the headline.
I never read the supermarket tabloids. But without thinking, I grabbed this one and held it to my heart.
“Oh, no,” I whispered. “Not again.”
I set my eye cream, celery, gingko biloba and fat-free yogurt on the conveyer belt. Then, bravely, I opened the magazine.
There they were, the happy couple, dressed in long trench coats, walking arm in arm through a misty English park. She was beautiful. Naturally. A model and an advocate for the disabled, the caption said. And Paul? Even well into his 50s, he looked so, so . . . let’s just say he did it for me.
He always has.
I first fell in love with Paul McCartney when I was 12. Curled up on my lavender chenille bedspread, windows opened wide, I set my 45 of “And I Love Her” on repeat for about a year. Other songs soon followed: “If I Fell,” “Eight Days a Week” and “Yesterday.” Throughout my adolescence they played in my head, creating a personalized Beatles soundtrack for the real and imagined memories of my youth.
Briefly, I entertained an infatuation with Dave Clark, of the Dave Clark Five. It only lasted a year or so. By age 14, I was back on track. And I’d come to a startling conclusion: One day, when the time was right, Paul McCartney and I would wed. Though he is 10 years older, I knew we were meant for each other. Unfortunately, Paul didn’t know this.
Poor Paul. Without me at his side, he spent his idle hours courting models, actresses and singers. I forgave him his dalliances, knowing how empty and shallow those relationships must have been. I completely understood Paul’s need to fill the days until he found me.
Sweet, sensitive, vulnerable Paul. How was he to know I was out there, the only one who truly understood him? I alone would know how to comfort him on those tedious trips around the world.
Yet throughout my adolescence, Paul and I found ways to be together. He was there the day I got my first kiss. Sure, it may have been John McPheron sitting with me on that hot summer day, underneath my crabapple tree. It may even have been John who kissed me. But after kissing me, someone sang “If I Fell.” Logic suggests it was John. My heart, however, is convinced Paul was the one singing.
Paul and I carried on like this for years. When I reached high school, we communicated through art. I painted posters of Paul in his Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band uniform, in his Yellow Submarine, and riding on the Magical Mystery Tour bus. He sent messages back to me through album covers. A wave, a smile. I knew they were meant for me.
Meanwhile, I prepared myself. In an effort to look like Jane Ashley, Marianne Faithfull, Hayley Mills or whoever Paul was whiling away his time with, I ironed my hair, rolled up the waistbands of my skirts and bathed my lips in white lipstick. I saved up my baby-sitting money and bought a pair of white go-go boots.
When Paul and the Beatles dallied with an Indian guru, I bought the perfect Nehru-collared Indian print dress. I memorized every Beatles lyric. Staring into the mirror, I’d mastered saying, “Hi, luv,” with a perfect Liverpool accent.
After high school, I left home and went to college. Then the unexpected happened: I fell in love. Since he hadn’t found me in time, poor Paul ended up settling for Linda Eastman. How well I remember the day she and Paul married. I stared at the TV footage of them in New York, leaving city hall.
That was the first time Paul broke my heart. Of course, I never blamed him. I knew, like millions of love-struck girls, he’d just been a pathetic pawn in Linda’s evil, calculating plan.
Some people blamed Yoko Ono for the breakup of the Beatles. Not me. I knew Linda had orchestrated the whole thing. So, when Linda picked up a tambourine and started performing with Paul and his new band, Wings, I let him go. To me, he’d always be a Beatle, not a Wing. I wished him well but told him goodbye.
And then I waited. I always expected him to leave Linda at some point. From time to time I read accounts of their life, looking for signs of disturbance. But as the years passed, even I had to accept that Paul and Linda might actually love each other.
Remarkably, they appeared to be happy. Practically inseparable, they performed together, traveled together, raised a family and built a life together. Even after their children were gone, they were rarely apart. As individuals, they continued to grow.
Several years ago, I finally forgave Linda McCartney. It was the year her vegetarian cookbook hit the stands. I got a copy as a gift. Before scanning the recipes, I spent time staring at the smiling face on the cover. For the first time I really saw Linda McCartney. Not the tambourine-playing performer, rock ‘n’ roll photographer or animal-rights advocate, but Linda the loving wife and caring mother. Standing in her warm, cozy kitchen, she looked radiant, kind.
As I got out the ingredients for her low-fat corn chowder, a new emotion filled me; admiration. Linda’s only crime, I realized, had been falling in love with a man millions of other women adored. It had taken work and perseverance to succeed at such a high-profile marriage. I wondered how she had managed to raise such extraordinary children in that environment. Most of all, I admired her ability to never lose sight of herself. Maybe, I thought, Paul hadn’t been as miserable as I’d imagined.
A few months after receiving her book, I read that Linda had breast cancer.
I followed the story closely, reading every account. One article said that, in all their years of marriage, Linda and Paul had been apart only a couple of weeks. A chill ran through me. Everyone should be loved that way, I thought. The day Linda died, in Paul’s arms, I grieved for them both.
“Do you have your value card?” the grocery clerk asked. “Oh, yeah,” I said, fumbling through my purse.
As the computer’s scanner beeped each item through, I lost myself in thought once again. Looking down at the crumpled magazine, I re-read the headline. “Paul in Love Again!” Could that be? Could Paul really have found love again after losing Linda only a year ago? I skipped through the article, looking for clues.
Near the end, the author asked, “Paul, what do you think Linda would say?”
Without hesitating, Paul replied, ” `Be happy, boy.’ I know that’s what Linda would say.”
Me too.
