Chapter Text
Sometimes the realising of a thing can happen slowly, over many years. Like snow building on the peak of the mountain, thin layer by thin layer, year after year. Until one day the slightest, most innocuous, thing sends it sliding down the hillside to kill everyone in the village below.
“Shall we watch this then?” Paul called from the living room.
Jane held in her sigh. She supposed there was still some fascination with seeing footage you’d taken yourself. Paul especially seemed better able to contextualise an event once he’d been able to replay it one way or another. Jane had seen more than enough of herself on screen, more than enough of Paul too. She’d rather have him in person, not dreaming of being in the past.
But she knew she was lucky to have got away with waiting this long to relive India. Not that she’d minded their time there, in the end. The heat had been too intense and the teaching ineffective. But she’d had a nice time. Paul had been affectionate, when he was there, and everyone else had been in good spirits. So she supposed it wouldn’t be an ordeal to see it again.
They’d been waiting for John’s reels of footage, apparently Paul felt they’d give a wider perspective. But he’d come back with them, victoriously held aloft, earlier that afternoon. The time was upon them.
“Yes,” she agreed, stepping into the room with him.
He was sitting crossed legged on the floor, playing with the projector. A wave of affection swept over her, making her feel guilty for her disinterest in watching the reels with him. He looked so focused, so dedicated to his task, that it was impossible not to love him.
“Drink?” she asked, smiling down at him.
He looked up, eyes wide, as though he hadn’t noticed her enter. “Yes, thanks,” he said, eyes going back to his task.
She poured them both a generous glass of wine, and then decided it would be better just to take the bottle. By the time she was back in the living room, Paul had risen from the floor to sit on the sofa.
“Ready?” he asked, as though he’d been waiting hours and not seconds.
“As I’ll ever be,” she grinned, going to sit next to him.
He took a glass and the bottle so she could curl up next to him. The warm, solid feel of him was always such a comfort. She closed her eyes, pressing close for a moment.
When she opened her eyes, the screen was flickering. The footage was amusing in its own way. Paul had an eye for the interesting. He’d framed some lovely shots of them all against the blue sky. She enjoyed seeing the way they all interacted. The shared jokes, and slowly tanning skin. George and Pattie dancing. Donovan strumming his guitar while a group watched him intently. Paul and John, facing one another as they played. So in sync it was like they were one person with four hands. She wondered who had taken that. Richie perhaps.
Nothing she didn’t know. But nice to see anyway. Enjoyable, especially with Paul’s arm snug around his shoulder.
“Shall we do John’s next?” he asked, jumping up from his seat, jostling her from her peaceful almost-doze. “Break it up a little.”
She shrugged. Wondered how long this would take them. Drank her wine.
Then the reel started. It took her a few moments. More than a few moments, really, to understand what was strange about the footage.
She turned her head towards Paul. He was watching the screen, a blank expression on his face. He didn’t look surprised. Not concerned. Not amused. Just… like himself.
She frowned and looked back at the flickering pictures. There was a shot of gardens, flowers forefronted, but then, behind those, was a familiar figure. Dressed in white, his dark hair unmistakable. Just as it had been in every other shot.
The next was Paul with his guitar. He was looking very serious, until the person behind the camera must have spoken. Because he looked up suddenly and laughed. His whole face changing, like the sun had come out from behind a cloud. The Paul on the screen said something back, laughter clear in the words, despite there being no sound.
“He was taking the piss out of the lesson,” Paul supplied. He seemed so amused with the memory. So pleased and content to have it captured forever in grainy footage for him to watch back. Proof of something that seemed harder and harder for him to reach.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again before deciding against it.
Back on the screen Paul was walking down a path lined with flowers. She knew, because she could see a flash of red hair, that she was standing beside him. But she wasn’t in frame. Just Paul.
Always Paul. Over and over and over. Laughing. Listening. Talking. Dancing. Walking. Sleeping .
That was the shot that finally did it. He was dozing on the grass, under the shade of a tree. His face relaxed and eyes closed, eyelashes dark half moons on his cheekbones. The shot started from a distance, and then it was clear the person was walking toward the tree. The shot never lost Paul for even a second. He just got bigger and bigger, until his sleeping face filled the screen.
It lingered there for a long moment. Then, the Paul on the screen opened his eyes. And smiled.
“Oh,” she said, the exclamation slipping unbidden from her lips. “He loves you.”
It wasn’t that she hadn’t known that. Surely she must have.
But, then perhaps no. Perhaps she truly hadn’t seen it.
She’d thought he wanted Paul, wanted his attention and time. To be the one that Paul chose. But only because he wanted to win or in her more petty moments, because he just wanted Jane to lose. She’d assumed they were locked in a game more along the lines of two children fighting over a toy that neither had cared about moments before.
In this context she was the rightful winner. She loved Paul. She was going to be his wife. She knew him better than anyone else ever could. She cared for him like no one else was capable of. Especially a spiteful, loutish, hooligan that more often than not lately made Paul miserable. He’d come back from the studio or from a meeting, face pale and drawn. John was always at the bottom of those mournful looks and sagging shoulders. He was the enemy, or the very least, an obstacle to overcome before they reached their peaceful and happy end.
But that wasn’t what she was seeing on screen. It wasn’t a friend capturing moments of a nice holiday. Not a band mate trying out some new video equipment. It wasn’t even just affection and care for a writing partner.
It was love, actually.
She felt slow. And she hated that most of all. She had always prided herself on her ability to keep up. She didn’t miss important details and above all else, she understood people. That’s what made her good at her job.
So how could she have possibly missed something so vital?
“What are you on about?” Paul said, irritable, as though she’d interrupted his concentration. Perhaps he’d been speaking and she hadn’t noticed.
There was a great deal she hadn’t noticed it appeared.
“He’s…” she trailed off. Considered her options.
The world had just shifted dramatically under her feet. How could Paul not see it? Perhaps she could be forgiven for not seeing what was staring her in the face, but Paul should have seen it. John was his friend. His partner. His tormenter and best friend. He had to have known. Must have been keeping it from her.
“You don’t see anything strange about this footage?” She kept her tone careful, as neutral as she could manage. Her hand was gripping the wine glass so tightly she was almost worried it might shatter.
He frowned. “You mean he’s got a lot of the shots a bit wonky?”
She let out a squeak of laughter. She couldn’t help it. Paul was right, in fact, a lot of the shots were framed strangely. But it was clear to her why: so that only Paul would be in them.
“They’re all of you,” she tried, watching his face closely. Waiting for the crack to reveal that he’d known all along.
Paul’s frown only deepened. “Yeah,” he said slowly, as though she were being slow. “Because we were making the film together. John’s in most of my stuff too.”
She opened her mouth again. Closed it. That was true. John had at the very least been in the background of most of Paul’s footage. Some of it was close-ups of John playing, his hands on the strings of the guitar. The flash of his smile, as he said something into the camera.
But not all of it. Enough, perhaps, that Paul wouldn’t even notice that John’s contained nothing but him. Not even John’s own wife made an appearance.
Paul was watching her so openly and there was no deceit in his expression that she could see. He truly had no idea what she was talking about. She took a sip of her wine that turned into a gulp. Her mind was racing, looking back over every interaction with John over the last few years, trying to make sense of this new piece of information.
She remembered his simmering anger, the hard looks and sniped comments. The unmistakable jealousy.
Goodness. It hadn’t even occurred to her to consider the reasons behind it all.
Perhaps at first she’d flattered herself that the others, John especially, were jealous that she’d chosen Paul over the rest of them. But that hadn’t lasted long. It became clear quickly that John simply disliked her a great deal. Which she has rapidly decided was fine with her. She disliked him back just as much.
Paul had never seemed to notice their seething animosity. Another of the things in Paul’s life that it was easier for him not to see and so he didn’t. It was frustrating, the way he’d let John be rude and never called him to task. But then he didn't defend him to her either, a half hearted Oh that’s just John wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement.
He didn’t want them to fight it out for him. It was more that he seemed content to keep them totally separate. In perfect balance with one another, both neither happy nor unhappy enough with the sharing of him.
An awful thought occurred to her. Had John arranged this very moment? As a warning to her or an enticement for Paul? Things had been strained between them since they arrived home.
“Did he give you this footage?” she asked eventually. She credited her years of acting for her ability to keep a somewhat disinterested tone.
“Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Said he couldn’t find it. But last time I was around, Cyn found it somewhere or other. So I said John said I could take it.”
She nodded. Discarded her first theory, and began working on several more. But nevertheless, a few other pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Paul didn’t know. Even then, watching himself shot from every angle. Gentle. With the utmost care. By someone who saw him. Understood him.
Loved him.
Rapidly a whole host of other memories were being rearranged in her head. John’s dirty looks and dirtier comments. The way he’d never shown even the slightest interest in spending time with her.
“I see,” she said. “I think… Perhaps you’d better not say you’ve seen it.”
That wasn’t what she wanted to say. There were a million things she wanted to ask, to pull apart and put back together in the right order. But this was not the time. She’d not decided what to do with her new-found knowledge.
She needed a plan.
— — —
Of course, there was nothing she was at liberty to do with her new found, and wholly unwanted, information. She didn’t think Paul would hear it, even if she chose to share it. It didn’t even feel right to; it wasn’t her secret to share. Besides which, it would achieve nothing but additional heartache to expose John when it seemed clear he had no intention of revealing it himself.
She knew it didn’t truly make a difference, there was no material difference between before and after she knew. Paul was still going to marry her. John was still married to Cyn. Their courses were already set and obsessively thinking about it wouldn't change that.
But nevertheless, she couldn’t seem to stop racking her brains, trying to determine how she had missed such a huge bit of information. How could she have misread John, and his relationship with Paul, so badly?
She’d heard the rumours. She’d been there at Paul’s 21st birthday party, which had made them hard to miss. Looking back, John’s behaviour that whole night seemed to retroactively make much more sense. He’d been irritable and spiky with anyone that dared speak to him way before Bob had decided to mouth off.
“The fuck are you?” John had slurred, when she’d greeted him. He was alone, holding a bottle in each hand.
Thankfully by that point she’d stopped expecting better of him. “You know very well,” she’d sighed. “We’ve met several times.”
John didn’t respond. She should have left it there, but politeness dictated that she at least try to make conversation. “Aren’t you going to dance with the others?”
Back then she’d still thought that with a little preservation she’d be able to win him around.
John had glared at her. “You won’t last you know,” he’d said, leaning forward and pointing a finger at her. “He wants to show you off now, shiny new toy. But it won’t last. It never lasts.”
She’d felt a spike of upset before something clicked over. She really only tolerated a certain amount of rudeness before her ability to care ran out. She’d always been that way, even when her parents told her off. She simply would not accept more than what seemed fair before she shut down. After which she simply found the other person amusing, because really, they were showing themselves up terribly to get so angry.
So she’d smiled breezily at John. “Well, that will make it awkward given he’s agreed to live with me.”
Then she’d walked away and not spoken to him for the rest of the night. Neither had Paul come to that, certainly not after the incident with Bob.
She hadn’t thought about it for years, but now she wondered if she’d been too quick to dismiss it as drunken machismo. She'd been young then, inclined to believe everything her dashing, older boyfriend told her. Then she hadn’t wanted to bring the whole thing up again once it was done. Paul had been so hurt by the whole incident. Not just by John ruining his birthday but by going away with Brian at all. It seemed better to draw a discreet veil over the whole thing.
So she pondered the new information, slotting her new understanding into past and present circumstances. Like the fact John wasn’t returning Paul’s calls.
Things had been tense since India. She wondered about Paul’s strange mood on their trip back. She’d assumed he just hadn’t wanted to come back to the realities of London. Things were a mess in almost every aspect of his work. But now, she thought it might be more. Had something happened to create Paul’s sudden change of heart, his sudden outpouring of love and recommitment to her? Had that something also precipitated John’s sudden silence and Paul’s growing anxiety?
“Shall we pick out flowers?” she asked, innocent, searching for a topic that wouldn’t set Paul off over breakfast, a couple of days after the realising. Those topics were hard to find now.
“What?” he asked, frown etched deeply across his brow, when he looked over the top of a newspaper at her.
She had a moment where she saw the rest of her life stretching out in front of her. She swallowed. Blinked it away.
“Flowers,” she said, “for the wedding.”
“Oh,” he seemed confused. “Whatever you want is fine.”
She sighed. Sat back in her chair. At least it wouldn’t be a fight. Perhaps he’d have wanted something ridiculous like lilies and it would have caused such a fuss that they’d have to call the whole thing off.
Still, she wished he’d show a little more interest. Not just in the wedding. But in anything that wasn’t music and Apple.
Or John.
She carefully picked up her mug. “Have you heard from John?”
The newspaper ruffled, crinkling as Paul’s hands tightened on it. “Why would I have?”
“Just thought you’d want to finish off all those songs.”
He didn’t reply. Pretending not to hear things that weren’t convenient was a talent of his.
Or perhaps both of theirs.
How many things had she heard over the years that she’d neatly dismissed, because she knew better? She’d always prided herself that she was on the inside, that she had specialist information. But perhaps she’d just been biassed. Blinded by her own love and self importance.
Early on, she’d overheard a conversation that had stuck with her. It had been at some event, formal, but without any purpose that she could recall. That was the time before she’d had the good sense to dodge such events when she could possibly help it. Years later, she’d still sometimes thought about it, how wrong the speakers were, as emblematic of how so few people really understood Paul and John.
Of course now, the memory had been recontextualised, and gave colour to everything else.
“Those two are inseparable,” the first voice said. It was raised above the general din to be heard by their companion.
Jane turned to see two middle-aged women standing just to the side of her. Northern accents, hair piled high on their heads. She followed their sight line and was unsurprised to see John and Paul. They were usually the focus of conversation at these events. It gave her a sense of pride. Paul deserved the attention; he was the most talented person she’d ever met. They were talking, heads bent low over the piano.
It was an image that she could still see, crystal clear. She wasn’t sure why, because it was one she’d seen plenty since and even before. The two of them often got lost once they started in on something. The world seeming to vanish. Even her. It was clear that’s what had happened that night, their expressions were focused and intent. But only on one another as they chatted back and forth. Paul laughed, suddenly, as though he’d been startled into it.
And then John had smiled. It wasn’t a great showy thing, not full of bravado and smugness like so many of his smiles. This one was soft. Pleased and gentle. He’d tapped Paul on the back of his hand, once with his index finger, and pointed off into the crowd. Paul had followed his gaze, grinned up at John like he was the sun, and then off they’d gone together.
“So similar,” the companion of the first woman had agreed from beside Jane, “even their differences are complementary.”
The first hummed in agreement. “It’s why they’re perfect together.”
Jane had, by this time, been shaking her head. Internally, of course, she wasn’t rude enough to risk being seen. But it was the sort of nonsense she’d heard so often, that she wondered where it even came from.
“Makes you wonder about fate, them finding one another.”
“Hmmm, and someone like John, with all that tough man act, not minding being told what to do one jot, so long as it’s by him.”
“Love’s funny like that.”
They’d both laughed and Jane had rolled her eyes. She’d known enough about the fights by then to understand they’d simply underestimated Paul. He didn’t need John to love him to win any argument. Nor to be worth his weight in the relationship. And then some.
Looking back, though, perhaps they were right. Often enough it was John that would end up calling to apologise, and plenty of issues that ended with Paul as the victor. Perhaps one of them being in love with the other wasn’t needed to have made it work, but it would certainly explain a lot of their relationship. It might even have been what had drawn them together in the first place. And now, perhaps, it was also what was pushing them apart.
Love was strange and sometimes, in certain lights, it looked like something else.
“Perhaps you could call John,” she tried, some days after her first attempt at engaging on the matter.
Paul was playing the piano. He didn’t stop at her interruption. That meant she was meant to try another route or possibly leave. She did neither. She sat on the sofa behind the piano stool and lent forward, her elbows resting on her knees.
“If it’s upsetting you,” she continued, “whatever happened - I’m sure you’ll be able to sort it out.”
There was no outward sign Paul had heard her, not even harsher notes coming from the piano. But she thought she could see his back straighten as his posture stiffened slightly.
“It’s silly to let it drag on,” she continued, knowing she was likely pushing her luck, “especially when you’ve got more important things to worry about.”
“John’s not going to care about all the Apple stuff,” he said, dismissive but at least it was something, “he’s not cared before.”
She took a deep breath. “I meant the wedding.” She was careful not to sound frustrated. “You want him there, don’t you?”
Finally he stopped playing. Then he turned around, slowly, and gave her a level stare.
“John won’t be at the wedding.” He said it with such conviction that she was taken aback.
It took a long moment for her to comprehend what he was even saying. “Why ever not?”
Paul was giving her a look that suggested she might have grown a second head. “Why would he be?”
There really was no good response that wouldn’t have required shouting or longer than she cared to give. So she took her cue and left.
But she thought about it, turning it over as part of a new puzzle piece in her mind. Paul was so completely sure his best friend had no intention of coming to his wedding. But he didn’t seem upset, hadn’t even thought to mention it before.
Could it be that Paul was perfectly aware of John’s feelings for him? Was that why he insisted on protecting him, on being his greatest defender? Despite the fact John neither seemed to thank him for it nor often deserved it.
She remembered after the whole fuss in America, Paul had been almost vibrating with anxiety when he’d returned. Furious, although without a clear direction to point it in, ready to bite anyone’s head off that even hinted at the topic, but most especially anyone that sought to put the blame where it actually lay.
“If only he’d learn that not every thought of his needs to be said out loud.” She’d said it really just to be supportive, to show her total commitment to Paul in a difficult time.
“It’s not John’s fault no one in America has ever learnt to read!” Paul had snapped, immediately, like he’d been waiting for an excuse to pontificate on the whole mess again. “The whole thing was completely made up, you know? He didn’t mean we’re better. He was trying to-”
“I just meant,” she cut in, before he could truly work up a head of steam, “that he doesn’t always know when to keep his mouth shut.”
“So he deserves to be attacked? Mobbed or blown up on stage?” Paul looked so completely outraged that Jane had been too taken aback to even argue.
But the reaction had struck her as out of sorts; an unnecessarily aggressive attack. She’d naturally chalked it up to the tensions of the preceding month. But perhaps it was more. Perhaps it was a symptom of Paul’s guilt, a need to protect John from everyone else because he couldn’t protect him from the hurt he was causing simply by not returning his affections.
It would certainly make more sense that Paul knew, even if he refused to admit it. Surely if anyone should know, it was Paul. But then she would think back on all the interactions she’d seen between them, and decide that surely he couldn’t know. It would almost make him cruel if he did, the closeness he’d allowed over and over.
If only she knew for sure if anything had happened in India, it might shed some light on everything since. But regardless of the reasons, with John’s ongoing silence, tension built and built and built in Cavendish. Paul fretted and pretended he wasn’t anxious. Jane also fretted and also pretended she wasn’t anxious either.
She watched Paul work himself up and up into a frenzy of barely contained anxiety as time wore on with no resolution. A few times a time she’d open her mouth to tell him, to offer a potential explanation for John’s silence. But it wasn’t her place. He had to be the one to see it. When he was ready.
Perhaps he wasn’t ever going to be. Soon he’d be a married man. With a family. There was no room for a best friend that was in love with you. No matter how much you cared for him.
“It’s natural,” she tried.
“What is?”
“Growing apart from your best friend when you get married.”
Paul looked like he’d been hit. “I know that,” he snapped. “Of course. He got married first. I know how it is. Why are you telling me this like I’m a child?”
The mood grew dark and somber in the house, the exact inverse of how it was meant to be before a wedding. Where Paul had been so affectionate, so desperate to make it work before, he seemed distant, irritable and strange.
Perhaps she’d always known, on some level, that something wasn’t right. Paul had been pulling away again. After everything. After his tearful confession on the way back from India, after his begging her for a final chance. For a wedding and then a marriage. For a life together.
It had seemed strange then and as the time went on and Paul’s mood darkened, it only seemed stranger.
And then the second realisation slid down the mountain to sweep her away.
It didn’t happen how you might imagine. No, it happened exactly as you might imagine. She found him in bed with someone else. One in a long line of someone’s, naturally, but this one, this one, was different. This was meant to be their after. Paul had made his confessions, pledged his allegiances, made his peace. They were meant to be living their happily ever after.
Worst of all, the thing she could never forgive, was that she’d believed him. Foolish, silly girl that she still was.
What might have made it better, at least tempered her simmering rage, would have been finding him with the source of the issue. If she’d walked in on him with the person he was in love with, the person who wasn’t her, that would have been one thing. But no. That would make too much sense for Paul. Too direct. Instead it was just some American that he’d already been seeing when he thought she didn’t know what he got up to.
Pointless. Meaningless. Other than the meaning under the obvious.
They didn’t even have the good grace to look surprised to see her when she walked into her bedroom to find them. They were smoking. The whole room reeked of pot and sex.
She didn’t look at them. Just went right to the window and threw it open.
“Get out,” she said, cold, looking out at the grey, bleak sky. “I need to speak with my fiancé.”
The woman had slipped wordlessly from the room. She heard the rustling of clothes and then soft, hurried footsteps across the floor before the door clicked shut.
“Jane,” Paul began, tone already slightly pleading. He looked genuinely confused when she turned back to him. Like he didn’t understand what was happening. Or perhaps why he’d done it. “I’m sorry. I know what we agreed, but I just… I needed to get it out of my system.”
She laughed. It was a mirthless, awful sound. Sharp and short.
He was lying. Even if he didn’t realise it. Because it was suddenly so clear.
He’d never wanted to marry her.
He loved her. She was certain of that. There was no need for him to fake that and it wasn’t in him to do that to someone, to fake such deep feelings for so long. No. Paul McCartney didn’t do what he didn’t want to.
But what she realised, as she walked into her bedroom to find him with someone else, was that he’d been lying to himself. To her as well. But really she was an innocent bystander in a battle of wills Paul was waging with himself. There would never be a winner, just an endless catalogue of casualties. Because, he was never going to give up the Beatles to be with her. Not the music. Not even the fans. But most importantly, the number one thing she had never been able to get him to consider leaving behind, was John Lennon.
For a while it seemed he might let societal norms dictate a winner. And Jane had put up a fierce battle. But when it came down to it, in the final moments before victory, Paul had thrown a hand on the scales to ensure there would be no victory after all.
It was a relief.
The realisation washed over her in waves. And it was good. Freeing. After all, there was nothing she could do about it. The love of her life was in love with his writing partner.
Who loved him back.
She wanted to laugh. So she buried her head in her hands and did just that.
“Jane,” Paul said, trying to get out of bed.
She shook her head. “I’m going home. Don’t contact me.”
Memories with new meanings ran through her head, containing all the signs she’d missed. The looks. The in-jokes. The bloody songs . They were so pathetic. So stupid she almost despised them for it.
She packed her suitcase, her mouth closed tight around all the furious words that wanted to spill out of her. She should just leave. Keep her knowledge to herself. Let them implode like they already were. A couple more weeks of silence between them and Lennon/McCartney would be so splintered that nothing could fix them.
Fucking good . They deserved it.
They’d ruined four lives between them. Probably more.
She turned to leave.
“I’m sorry,” Paul whispered.
He wasn’t trying to stop her. This had been his plan all along. He wanted her to leave him. To be the one making the decision. Just like poor John was apparently doing on the other side. She felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for him.
Perhaps she was getting off easy. She wasn’t legally bound to him. Forced to see their names joined forever more in every history book. Small favours.
“I did…” Paul tried again. “I do love you.”
She paused to slip off her ring and held it out to him.
He took it silently. Looked down at it sadly, but there wasn’t any fight in him. No begging her to stay. He looked young, almost fragile.
She loved him. Hated him too, naturally. But loved him despite it.
“He loves you,” she said. Unexpected to both of them.
The words were cold and hard. She didn’t owe him tenderness.
“What?” His eyes were huge, like Martha pretending those weren’t her muddy paw prints on the sofa.
“Don’t play dumb, it’s very unbecoming of you.” It took a great deal of effort not to cry. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Neither of them. She drew herself up, taking a steading breath.
“Where’s this coming from?” Paul asked. He sounded so genuinely confused that she was explaining before she knew it.
“You saw the India film! You saw it. I know you know what it means just like I did. You can pretend all you want, but it’s destroying…” She gestured furiously. “It’s destroyed us. It’s going to destroy you and him. He’s in love with you. You know it. You know it just as you know you’re in love with him. That’s what this is about. That’s what you’ve both been moping about since India, that’s why you’ve been delaying the wedding for years.“ The rage was so fierce that for a moment it threatened to boil over. She took a deep breath, pushed it away. “For goodness sake sort it out before you ruin anyone else’s life.”
Then she turned and she left. Head held high.
She was free.
TBC