Mascara Misery

22nd January 1966

"George."

George Harrison paused in the act of making a cup of tea and looked around at his mother, who was standing in the kitchen doorway, her own cup of tea clasped in both hands. "Hmm?" he asked.

"I think you should go and see Pattie," she said.

George frowned. "I've just seen 'er. Wassup?"

"Oh, she's just a bit... stressed," she replied, and took a sip from her own cup.

"What about?"

"Well, if you go in and see her..."

George's frown deepened. He turned to leave the kitchen, but then thought better of it and decided to finish making his own tea first. There were priorities, after all. He added sugar and stirred well and only then did he cross the kitchen with his own fresh brew. Louise moved aside to let him pass; he shot her a look of combined annoyance and puzzlement as he left. He took a gulp of his drink as he padded down the corridor, and when he reached the bedroom he pushed the door and went in.

"Who's that?? What do you want??"

George paused in the doorway, cup suspended halfway to his mouth in astonishment at the shrill screech which had greeted his entry. He had no time to even think how to respond when she turned around and saw him.

"Oh. It's you." The grating screech subdued itself down to a disconsolate mumble. She turned back to her mirror, but not before he'd caught a glimpse of a tearstained face and some black smudges below her eyes where, even he was aware, mascara had once been. He frowned again, this time in some alarm. He crossed the room to where she sat in front of her dressing table, a disordered pile of makeup in front of her.

"Pattie! What's wrong?" He reached out a hand towards her shoulder, and touched her tentatively. "Are you alright?"

"Does it look as if I'm alright?" He withdrew his hand as if it had been burned as the explosive and high pitched tone assailed his ears again. For one shameful moment, George found himself wishing that his mother hadn't called him in but had just dealt with this herself. He felt she was eminently better suited than he. But, it really wasn't his mother's job, he was heavily aware. He dropped to his knees so that he was on her level as she sat at the dressing table in front of the mirror, and reached his hand round to hold the back of her chair. It felt safer somehow; it wouldn't shriek at him.

"Pattie, what is it? Are you feeling ill?" He peered at her anxiously. She shook her head. "You're not ill?" She shook her head again, and her hair fell over her face, hiding his view of the smudged mascara and the tears. "What is it then? What's up?"

She sniffed, and he saw her brush her hand over her nose. He automatically plucked a tissue from the box next to her and held it out in front of her face. She took it and blew her nose.

Somehow, it felt like an encouraging sign. He tried again. "Tell me?" he tried, gently.

There fell a pause, and he deemed it best to give her as long as she needed. Any attempt to hurry her might well bring about a return of the shriek. But, as he knelt next to her, waiting, a thought popped into his head and so chilled him that he had to speak up again. "Pattie – you're not upset we got married, are you?"

"No!" The emphatic reply was so immediate that the chill dissipated right away, and he breathed again. One day felt a bit too soon to want a divorce...

"So, what...?"

"I can't do my make up!" she howled and, so saying, she burst into new tears and buried her head in her hand.

Fortunately, she wasn't looking at him and so didn't see his mouth drop open with astonishment. He had absolutely no idea what this was about, but one thing he did know was that she was very good at make up. She did a lot of it. It seemed to take hours. He'd learned not to say anything about that... "You can't..." He trailed off, but she shook her head.

"It won't go right," she snuffled, and blew her nose again.

George sat back on his heels next to her chair, and took a thoughtful sip of his now cooling tea. He thought carefully. He'd known her makeup go wrong before. It often happened, or so it seemed. What she always did was take it all off and start all over again. It took even longer. He'd learned not to say anything about that either. But he'd never seen her burst into tears when it happened. So, this must be about something else.

He drank some more tea.

He took a deep and careful breath. "Pattie. You're never this upset about putting on make up." He paused again, and then proceeded, very carefully. "What else is it? Eh?"

And then she did turn to him; she tried to speak but choked up, and he knelt up again and this time put his arms around her, ignoring black mascara and running nose. Then, eventually, "The ps cbfcce."

He moved back slightly. "The what?"

"The press conference!!" And the tears started again.

"The press conference?"

She nodded sharply.

"But you've done press conferences before?"

She shook her head. "No I haven't."

"You have." George was dismissive.

"No! I haven't."

This was getting stranger. "But you've seen them. You've had interviews..."

"Not like this!!" The voice was a howl again, and it was a howl of fear. "The whole world will be looking at me. Me! You've said yourself they want to see me. Me! And I'll have to talk! And..." And she broke down again; now that he'd gained a better understanding of what on earth this was all about he felt safer in holding her more closely.

"And...?" he prompted.

"And I've got to look good!!"

Okay, there it was. She was in a complete panic about the press conference. Now, at last, George felt on surer ground. He sat back on his heels again, but took her hand in his and squeezed it gently.

"Pattie, listen." He waited to see if he had her attention, and when it seemed that he did he continued. "Once you stop panicking about this stupid press conference you'll be able to do your make up fine. So..." He forestalled an interruption by holding up his free hand, and continued. "So, we need to get you out of the panic. Look. I'm going to get you a cup of tea. And while I'm getting it you're going to roll a joint."

She whirled round to face him. "I can't get stoned before..." But again he stopped her.

"You don't have to get out of your head, silly. Just enough to make you feel better. Okay? Now, I'll get the tea, and you start rolling."

Pattie blinked tearfully up at him and, at last, he saw the glimmer of a smile. She nodded, and George pushed himself to his feet.

"OK?. Ill get the tea. And, Pattie?" She looked up at him enquiringly as she wiped her nose again on the back of her hand. He chuckled. His glamorous top model wife.

Wife. He liked the sound of that. She was his wife. As from yesterday. And for always.

"Get rolling." So saying he left their bedroom and returned to the kitchen to make the promised tea – and to tell his mother what it was all about. Although, he did have a suspicion that she'd probably worked it out long before he had.

Women, he reflected. Silently.