Open Writing

“Bernard, my darling,” said Natasha, taking my hand in both of hers. “Can you do something for me?”

I know some men in these circumstances would immediately say “Anything, my sweet, absolutely anything at all” but I never make promises of this kind. I never sign blank cheques.

“Tell me more,” I said.

That’s not a refusal, is it? Nor is it a commitment.

“I want you to introduce me to Paul McCartney.”

We were sitting opposite each other in the Gallery Café of the British Museum in London. You may think that this is a bit of unnecessary detail that will be deleted from the redraft. On the other hand, you may be one of those sad people who like to reconstruct incidents they read of in stories or the newspapers. Don’t worry I am not going to tell you about the British Museum or how to get there. It has an excellent website.

I’d better explain that Paul McCartney was a very popular musician and popstar at the time of this story. If you are reading this in the noughties, when it was written, you may not need to be told this. If, however, you are reading it in the 2050s or 2060s, which, the way things are going, seems about the time this story will get itself into print, then I am saving some hack the job of annotating it with footnotes such as Sir (James) Paul McCartney (1942-2015), English songwriter and bass guitarist ….. whose declining years were blighted by lawsuits and financial arguments involving several ex-wives. He died in poverty and obscurity in a cardboard box under Waterloo Bridge.

But back to the story.

You need to know a bit about Natasha. At the time of this story she was in her forties, still a stunning beauty, tall, short black hair, grey-green eyes, lively, well used to the company and admiration of men, a great and practised flirt. Hence the hand-holding I mentioned earlier.

Now I said, “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“You mean you won’t?”

“I mean I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know him.”

“Look, my darling, he’s from Liverpool, isn’t he?”

“I believe so.”

“And you’re from Manchester, aren’t you?”

“Correct.”

“So you have something in common. You are both from the North of England. You speak the same language.”

“I don’t speak Scouse.”

“What is that?”

“Never mind. Why should you want to meet Paul McCartney?”

“I think he is a genius. In Russia we used to collect Beatles records and listen to them for hours. He is a sensitive and very talented man.”

“Then join his fan club. You’re not alone. He has a huge following.”

“I don’t want to join his fan club. I want to marry him.”

I looked at her unsmiling, deadly serious face before I withdrew my hand from her grasp and gently touched her cheek.

“It’s the Prozac, is it?” I said. “You’ve been on it far too long. You should be weaning yourself by now. Talk to your doctor.”

“Listen,” she said impatiently. “Paul McCartney is getting divorced, isn’t he? It’s in all the papers and on television.”

“I believe so,” I said, “but I am not following the story closely, I admit.”

“Even after the divorce, he will still have an awful lot of money, won’t he?”

“He certainly won’t be on the breadline.”

“And he will be looking round for a new wife, won’t he?”

“I shouldn’t be too sure about that. And in any case, if he’s got any sense, he’ll take his time.”

“Which is why he needs to meet me.”

Over the years I have trained myself not to walk away or even excuse myself because I need the toilet urgently.

I spoke quietly.

“Have you talked this over with Michael?”

“Michael?”

“Your husband. Remember?”

“Of course not. He’s far too busy. That will come later.”

“After you get a proposal from McCartney?”

“I don’t know exactly. We can’t go into that sort of detail yet. Shall I tell you what I think we should do?”

“Since I don’t know the man or, as I’ve said, speak the same language, yes, I would like to know the scenario you have in mind.”

“Well, you know Michael and I have our second house in Hastings? Hastings is not very far from Peasemarsh where Paul lives. And he goes into a pub there from time to time. I read about this in the paper. It shouldn’t be difficult for us to drive to Peasemarsh and find out which pub he calls in at and which nights.”

“Us?”

“You and me, my darling. Then you can get talking to him. You’re very good at that, you know, being friendly. You’re so gorgeous!”

“I see where this is going. You’re Paul McCartney, aren’t you? I’m Bernard from Manchester, not all that far from Liverpool, as you know. Oh, and this is my friend Natasha. She’s a great fan of yours.”

“And the rest is up to me.”

I looked at her, trying to make up my mind.

“This is a sure-fire winner, Natasha,” I said wearily. “Wedding bells within the month, I reckon. Sweetheart, this is one of your more insane ideas. Like I said, go and see the quack. He should be able to think up something. You could start off as a voluntary out-patient, I suppose. But I have no doubt they would be prepared to section you.”

“What are you talking about? Why won’t you help me?”

It’s now that I really will cut out the detail, because it was repetitive, at times vituperative and totally unprofitable. It went on for quite some time, I can tell you. And when we parted I knew that I had not heard the last of Paul McCartney.

About three weeks later we met again (see earlier for details) and she returned to the theme. With some satisfaction, it seemed to me.

“Bernard, my sweet, I met Colin again last week.”

“Ah,” I said, searching my memory. “That would be the Colin you met pre-Michael through the dating agency, would it? The Colin who at your invitation has popped down to see you in Hastings a couple of times whilst Michael was working his socks off in the city?”

“My darling, you make it all sound so sordid.”

“Which it is, but go on.”

“He took me to Peasemarsh.”

“That must have pleased you no end. How did you both get on with Sir Paul? Do they know each other? Did things go according to plan?”

She frowned.

“No, he doesn’t know him and no, he wasn’t in the pub anyway. But we’ve come up with another plan.”

“Tell me more.”

“If you were a neighbour of Paul McCartney it would be easier to get to know him, wouldn’t it?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Well, Colin, has agreed to become his neighbour.”

“Wait a minute. McCartney lives in seclusion in a large house surrounded by parkland bristling with security people.”

“So Colin is going to buy a farm next door.”

“A farm?”

“Well, it won’t be a very big farm. But I’ve been to the local estate agents and got details of places which border Paul McCartney. I‘ve asked him to hurry up, because we don't have much time.”

“You mean, because other women may have Macca in their sights?”

“I don’t know what that means exactly, but I think you know what I mean. Would you like to see the papers I’ve got from the estate agents.”

She fished around in her bag and produced papers with photographs, descriptions, dimensions and so on. Including prices.

I shuffled through them.

“Sorry to appear a bit of an idiot, but what does Colin get out of all this? Apart from you, I mean.”

She bridled.

“Colin does not get me at all. He gets ten percent.”

“Of what?”

I am very slow on the uptake.

“Well, when Paul and I get divorced, I will negotiate a very large - what do you call it? - settlement. Several million. And Colin will get ten percent of that.”

“Ah, I see,” I said slowly.

Again I was faced with this deadly serious face which I matched when I said,

“Have you given any thought to how much Michael ought to get for agreeing to a divorce? It would be a bit unkind, don’t you think, to leave him out of the share-out.”

“You’re right, “ she said with every sign of treating the question as seriously as she had been treating everything else since the first mention of Paul McCartney. “I don’t want to be unkind to Michael, because he has been very kind to me.”

“Possibly,” I said, “because the idiot loves you?”

“I don’t have time for love, my darling. I have to think of myself. I need money.”

“Some people, Natasha, might describe you as a grasping, selfish, unprincipled bitch.”

“Is that how you think of me, my darling?”

“I’m a charitable sort of guy, dear. I just think you’re off your head. That, I reckon, is the kindest assessment you could expect from anyone.”

“And you, dear Bernard, what are you? You are my best friend.”

“I am your only friend,” I reminded her.

She thought for moment. Then she nodded.

“I think that’s true. Without you I don’t know what I would do.”

“There’s the besotted Michael, of course. You remember him - your husband.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, taking my hand again. “I can’t imagine what life would be like without the two of you. When I am married to Paul McCartney I hope you will come and visit us.”

“Well, let’s not count our chickens before they are hatched. Sufficient unto the day, as they say.”

“You talk in riddles, my darling. But I do love you, you know, in my own way.”

“That’s as close as either of us will get, I suppose.”

And I meant it.