European Vacation Tour. 2

As we flew into the French airport at Le Bourget a sense of excitement washed over the entire plane not just myself, although I was still bubbling with anticipation.

France was home of so many iconic places, history oozed from every street, every cobblestone and beauty abound. All promising to draw the eye in every conceivable direction, pictures I gazed upon from the book I borrowed from the library on France were about to become real.

We all couldn't wait.

George V Hotel was opulent and so classy, gold fixtures and many beautiful pieces of artwork had me ogling, and touching everything as we walked into the suite.

"Hey look at the size of this bathroom, I could get lost in here" John was right, the grand marble covered room was excessive in size just like the rest of the suite "Now Abbs don't you go thinking this is our usual digs. Brian's idea of a usual hotel room is a lumpy single bed and no bar heater!"

I'd followed John into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub beside which was a huge vanity overflowing with toiletries.

"Ok so thats why you were upset over the Paul and my bunking arrangement!" I leaned over and grabbed a fancy soap smelling the sweet jasmine scent, John however grabbed a towel flicking me on the backside as I leaned to put the soap back, making me yelp quietly although the acoustics in the bathroom made it rather loud.

The Beatles were booked to appear at Paris's famous Olympia Theatre in the Boulevard des Capucines for three weeks from 16 January until 4 February. There were ten acts on the bill and it was never quite clear who was the actual bill-topper: The Beatles, Trini Lopez or Sylvie Vartan so the boys were very laid back and relaxed about the whole tour.

John promised me walks by the Seine, Eiffel Tower climbs, coffee and chocolate cake at little secluded cafés and baguette, wine and cheese picnics. He spoke volumes of romance and time together.

I was hopeful and equally fearful as I watched the ever-growing tide of people that took the boys away from me.

The shows that ran twice daily made larger dents in their time and energy too.

I did feel blessed with a walk along photography session the boys had on the streets of Paris. Although I was always either, off to the side or a few metres behind. I made the most of the sunny day that had us walking blocks and blocks seeing the sights and people with the Arc De Triumphe looming over us, or in the background of many of the photos taken.

I gathered postcards of landmarks and tried to speak French making the natives laugh but nod encouragingly at my futile attempts. Miniature Eiffel Towers and Arc De Triomphe Statues were purchased and secreted in my bag for memories when I was home.

And Montmartre, a high hill in Paris covered in historic architecture, gave us sweeping views of the city and art history that seeped from its walls, with the number of artists that resided here or nearby, painting daily. A long list of who's who in the annuls of time, had us all entranced.

But the walk, the hill and the shows were public times- four boys, manager, assistants, press, fans, police officers, and me.

"I'm sorry luv not today. I'm completely knackered, what with the press and those shows. Tomorrow yeah?" John rolled over and I was left with a back in my face.

"Yeah sure" Climbing out of bed, I washed and dressed for another day of gazing at Paris from the balcony. I didn't think I was being mean encroaching on Johns sleep. I had been patient and waited over nine hours before waking him, but still it wasn't enough.

And Twelve shows later....

After countless requests, hints and a dose of pouting too.

I called time on asking for his attention and sat sketching on the balcony as the tide moved in and out of the suites we occupied.

I say tides because that is what it was.....

As the Beatles would crash through the door after a energetic preformance, whether tired or not, the waves of media, tarts and society's elite followed.

Then, when the next show was scheduled, the Beatles left and so did the waves of 'guests'.

Days of sketching turned into nights of noise being drowned out with a pillow. Paul would wander in most nights tipsy and chattering a mile a minute, scotch breath in my ear rattling on about the Moulin Rouge dancers half naked and preforming in the hallway.

John seemed more interested in entertaining and smoking joints. We hadn't slept in the same bed since the first night. He was blaming Brian in the main. As in 'Brian would flip'.
Then Paul for not waking up and leaving.

And finally he blamed me.... because I slept through his overtures - one night!
One night I took a pill to sleep as the partying was so very noisy and I had a headache from the constant racket.

Never him....

Never because he pushed me away when he was smoking his joints in the middle of a group of 'friends' that were sometimes on something stronger.

Never when he was given free access to my room while Paul camped with Richard.

John didn't even bother when I tangled my fingers in his and carefully untangled him from the Mayor of Paris that was prattling on and on in broken English about meeting the Queen mother.

All I achieved that time was giving him free reign to move back to the joint circle... Away from me.

Oh we 'did it' but it was on his terms always and sometimes Paul lay no more than 3 feet away in his own bed.

I prayed he was asleep but when he would roll over and put a pillow on his head, I knew he wasn't.... That was the time was after the joint circle.

I felt.....

I felt used and, and... unloved.

Another night he grew randy as we kissed on the balcony sat on the chairs positioned along the back wall. John 'locked' the door with the leg of the small round patio table and I put a smile on his face but rapid banging occurred on the balcony door as I went to get up from my kneel and suddenly we were no longer alone. Embarrassingly straightening myself up and acting like I hadn't done him down below as three men joined us. All lighting cigarettes and talking to John about the fans several floors south of us. Me- discarded like a used match. Forgotten as he turned with them to view the scene below.

So much for romance or even feeling a tiny bit loved.

The heady romance of Paris was turning into a deep well of empty promises and heartache.

Drawing the lads faces each day was my only therapy but it was also annoying....

No one posed as they weren't there. Memories of smiles and eyes shining coming to me as I visualised their young famous faces.

*****

I took off for eight hours yesterday and not one person from Brian all the way down, missed me.

No not Brian.

Not Neil.

Nor Paul, Richard or George.

And most definitely not John.

I walked the streets finding the Louvre firstly, eagerly seekng out the famous Mona Lisa portrait, giving her ample minutes of my time then, with hungry appreciative eyes, I strolled the many long halls gazing and learning about other rare paintings that were on display.

My camera was as handy as my sketch book, allowing me to take away a little piece of Paris, for when I got back to London.

A young French couple walked with me for a time and we haltingly conversed with a mixture of pointing, common phrases, then lots more pointing and laughter. Eating a lunch of bread and cheese beside the lake in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower was lovely, the sun warming pleasurably on my skin and my mind cleared briefly, just letting me be. The couple left shortly after for a visit to a relative. They had asked me to join them. I declined. So I lay on the bright green grass sketching people, birds and the wonderful tower in the background, of course.....

Ducks gobbled the leftover bread from my hand and a young French lad took my picture as I sat on the green grass. The magnificent Eiffel Tower, in all her glory, stately stood behind me.

Hours passed.

I walked toward the George V mid-afternoon, ate dinner alone at a small café. The meal went down smoothly with a glass of French Red. I paid, smiled and rushed back to the hotel thinking I would have been missed. The boys would have been back for an hour or more by that point.

I entered the suite to be met, once again, with teems of strangers....

"How have you sketched the Eiffel Tower at that angle, from here, Abbs?" Paul flipped through the pages as I ducked to the loo. Paul's 3am in the morning chats occurring yet again, my bladder needed emptying after he woke me with lights blazing. He sat on the end of my bed thumbing through the pages of sketches.

"I was there today"

"With who?!"

"With whom..."

"Abby?"

"With moi"

"Alone, that's not right Abbs, one of us should have been with you. You can't walk the streets alone."

"Where was 'worried Paul' when I entered the suite after being out for a whole eight hours today"

"Eight. No way! You were here, I saw your bag on the chair" Paul pointed to the bag, my special BEA bag from the flight over.

"I have a handbag Paul..... It's ok. See no guillotine, no French lads floundering at my feet" I laughed at his wide-eyed reaction.

"Well John said he was organising all sorts of romantic stuff"

"Yeah, all sorts of parties and sleeping" I through my pillow aside, the noise outside our room was a subdued din now. "John, you. You're all busy. I get it. I knew from the start"

"I feel a heel" Paul collapsed on his bed and sighed heavily, flopping a hand over his eyes.

"A new song title?!"

"What? NO. I. AM. A. HEEL. Tomorrow.... I'll sort something with John" Paul dropped off to sleep and I lay watching the ceiling fan oscillate quietly over us. I turned on my side and watched Paul for the longest time before finding sleep myself.

It got better for one whole day with John...

Attentive, cuddly, a walk at midnight, moonlight and holding hands.

A lock and key was purchased in readiness for the Pont des Arts. For when we went for dinner near there tonight. We would attach it after dessert.

The love locks, had for eons, been clamped on the bridge rails by thousands and thousands of lovers.

*****************

"It's fucking Bridget Bardot. We can't go out now can we"

John stomped away, back out into the overflowing living room after having being with me briefly as I got showered and readied for our night out.

I stood alone, my pretty red dress on, my hair up in a complicated French knot.

Minutes later he returned, throwing the lock on the bed. It sat dead centre, all alone.

"We can go out, its just you don't want to." I retorted to his back as he walked about the room.

"That's right" He yelled then tossed a bottle of water towards the wall beside me the contents raining all over.

It was as if he was itching for me to see red and fight.

I know it was hard to have the time for me with all the to-ing and fro-ing.

The commitments.

The tour schedule.

The reporters.

And the people. All the many people that invaded night after partying night. People drinking the suite dry. Smoking joints. Doing all sorts of  outrageous things. Turning the grand room into a mighty trash can of empty bottles and dead cigarettes.... but he had agreed to make time, just this once, for me.

"Surely we could go and come back in time" I mustered up plausible alternatives for the night but with John's thick headedness I was pushing uphill with anything I said.

"For Christ sake, take Neil would you"

And with that little gem offered, he left.

Neil Aspinall, the boys right hand man, and I, out on John's and my romantic dinner date.

Neil and I were now, apparently, to go on this romantic evening and clasp the lovers lock on that famous bridge.

I grit my teeth.

He would not make me cry.

I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

So that's what happened.

Neil took me for dinner, we were both  awkward and then embarrassed at being serenaded by 3 violinists at the restaurant. And the moonlit walk along the Seine had Neil silent and quiet while I stewed on John. Stewed on his careless tossing of our night, away.

We climbed into the lift and stood far apart, each in a corner watching the same numbers rise to the floor the rooms was located on. The bellhop, sensing the frosty atmosphere, forever watching his feet.

The noise hit us as the lift doors parted to open and even by Beatles standards, it was loud.

The loudest I'd had the enviable pleasure of hearing.

Neil walked quickly ahead and stepped into the room jam packed with revellers. Dozens of girls dancing in sequined mini dresses, Moulin Rouge costumed preformers and classy women standing around with glasses of blood red wine.

Men were in the minority tonight, well they were every night but tonight, tonight there was hardly a male in sight...Immediately I felt apprehensive....

Was getting me out of the hotel a ploy? A trick.

When he saw me, George hugged my body to him as well as he could. Six sheets to the wind, and hovering close to the edge of a state of blind drunkenness.

Richie sat on the chaise, three girls entertained- one for each knee and one snuggled under his arm, Ritchie chattering away loudly.

Neil pushed me towards my bedroom and I almost fell. He couldn't even put a hand under my elbow to go down a flight of narrow stairs earlier this evening at the restaurant.... so now, him pushing me away from the roomful of people, was maddening.

I followed him deeper into the mix of female bodies, blaring record player and booze.

In hindsight, I should have meekly gone into the bedroom and shut the door; not followed.

But I did, and it cannot, ever, be undone.

Cigarette smoke mixed with that sweeter weed aroma now as we approached the balcony. It, equally as overflowing with bodies. Skinny, buxom, beautiful bodies, faces of catwalks and billboard beautiful. The heady marijuana smell was radiating from the second lounge area so I pushed on, saving my sketchbook from under a pile of half empty glasses on the way. Neil turned about but didn't see me as I was leant over for the book.

Paul was surrounded by a bevy of pretty faces although he didn't seem to be inviting any of them closer, he wasn't sending them packing either. The whisky glass in his hand looked like it was more interesting to him.

John wasn't in this room either, and as Neil knocked on the furthest bedroom door and tried to listen through the heavy timber I watched from across the room, unable to walk away. Neil never bothered entering completely, instead he started talking through the crack of space made by the door he held a few inches ajar. He finished conversing and walked away.

I rushed forward, toward that door, unable to stop my feet. He was inside with that Bridget no doubt.

I was set on finding out.

For better.
For worse.

Heady heat hit me first. That heavy feeling that hung in the air as bodies copulated. As the light dimmed from the now partially closed door at my back I immediately rued my decision of impulsively entering.

She moaned and his name fell, dripping lustfully from her lips. Her body postitioned over his, breasts bouncing, hair swishing. Hands smoothered her breasts yet all I could think was... Did it feel the same when I said his name?...

"Fucking hell, would you piss off Neil. I told you to keep the fucking door closed" John spoke through gritted teeth a hiss of moan flooding his words as he kept the woman steady and moving, now with hands spread over her hips, pulling her buttocks, ever faster.

Ignoring the intrusion, his mind, completely taken, was with her.

She arched as she took the deep thrusts he pleasured her with.

"Baby so good" His words deep, murmurings of encouragement to this nights desire. He gave her everything he had promised me. She bounced. She rocked. She clutched his fingers to hers on her bum.

It a train wreck. For me alone.

I was the train wreck.

My voice silent, my heart wrenching.

My feet solified beneath and I couldn't turn from the sight.

The desire in his words knocking my world sideways.

Seeing it with my own eyes, securing our fate.

And my voice returned at the same moment he seemed to recall the recent intrusion. He turned his sated face toward 'Neil' ...

"Sorry to disappoint... it's not Neil"

The softness of my whispered words made me mad at myself.

A baby, that's all I was, in a world of full grown men. I stood planted to the spot like an imbecile; unable to make movement into, or, better still, out of the room.

"Fuck Abbs. Shittttt" His eyes blew wide and he went to move from the bed but his conquests' ending temporarily took up his mindspace, overtaking his thoughts, as she moaned and tensed to her own sated finish.

My mind returned, my feet finally moved.

I fled the room as he made a move to roll her off his stupid dick.