Yeah Yeah Yeah (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

35. No More Bloody Photographs

April 1967
Paris / Los Angeles

Alice

The tiny bar in Montmartre was always too crowded, overly smoky, and slightly dodgy. But the drinks were cheap and the people-watching never failed to amaze, which is why our flight crew always ended up there during Paris layovers. All ten of us had squeezed into a booth made for no more than 8, which made for very close quarters.

"That bloke's been staring at you for at least 20 minutes, Dutch," Teagan said across the table. She was half-sitting on the co-pilot James' lap, which he didn't seem to mind. He was young and blonde and had been getting a bit too flirty with all of us, especially considering he was getting married in two weeks' time.

I glanced towards the bar to see a man in his mid-30s with fashionably long hair who was indeed watching me. We made eye contact briefly, and I immediately turned back to my friends.

"Never seen him before."

"Well, he looks like he wants to see more of you... if you get my drift," Teagan said with a lascivious wink.

"We all get your drift, doll," I replied with a laugh. It was stifling in the small room, and it felt like the walls were about to close in on us. I'd never had problems with being in confined spaces, but coexisting with Paul's rabid fans for the past year had unleashed previously unknown claustrophobic tendencies. I was like a secret agent, always scoping out the exits whenever I entered a room just in case I needed to make a quick escape.

The new girl, Leila, sashayed back to the table with a tray of drinks. She wore a dress that left too little to the imagination. I remembered being 18 and wanting to get the attention of every man in the room. Now, at the ripe age of 24, I preferred that no one notice me. She handed out drinks and asked us to budge up, squeezing into the booth next to me. There wasn't enough room, so Lucy almost fell off the other side of the banquette and one of my legs ended up atop the first officer's thigh.

Leila leaned closer to me, which was a feat considering how close she was in the first place. Her voice dropped a notch.

"I've got to ask... what's he like?"

A cigarette dangled from my lips as I searched for a lighter, which Patrick quickly produced from his pocket.

"What's who like?" I asked, inhaling deeply.

She giggled and moved even closer. "Paul."

From across the table, James groaned. "For chrissakes, Leila, you can't just come out and ask. We're supposed to pretend she's a commoner like the rest of us."

I laughed. "I am like the rest of you. Did no one else see Mr. Paltrow get violently sick all over me on yesterday's flight? Because I remember it quite vividly."

Teagan shot me a sympathetic smile and tried to direct the attention away from me by recounting something stupid her boyfriend had done the week before. With a sigh of relief, I turned back to my drink but discovered that Leila was still staring at me expectantly.

"Oh..." I hadn't realized it was a real question, more of a metaphorical one. "Well, I suppose he's just like you'd expect him to be."

I'd learned long ago that there was no use in answering the question honestly. No one cared that Paul had a weird hang-up about money or that his hair refused to lay straight until he spent at least ten minutes each morning trying to tame it. I'd been asked a variation of the question countless times, so I'd finally asked Pattie Boyd for the best answer. "Be as mysterious as possible," she'd replied with a wink.

Even though I'd given her no new information, Leila smiled and nodded in satisfaction. I wondered what notions about Paul McCartney I'd just confirmed for her. Before I could spend too much time considering it, Lucy stood and pulled me up to join her.