Two Of Us ⎯ Paul McCartney

32. I Miss My Goddamn Go-go Boots

February, 1969

When I was a teenager, I didn't really know what I wanted to do with my life. I'd always sort of wanted to be a musician, because I didn't really know another job I could fall back on. The one constant in my life had always been music. But with all the stuff that I'd been dealing with over the past month or so, I'd almost forgotten that I had a whole career in the music business, and it made me feel kind of guilty that I hadn't exactly bothered to deal with it — my job was the whole reason I was in London in the first place. Paul had reminded me about the release party that morning, and now here I was, sitting and talking to a photographer as she asked questions about the record. Who would've thought?

" — reminds me of that New York-LA singer-songwriter vibe, y'know?" The photographer was saying after she'd snapped a photo of me. "Laura Nyro, Carole King. Joni Mitchell. I really dig it."

"Thanks," I said with a sheepish grin, my fingers absently drumming away against my glass of water. Paul and some of the guys who worked at Apple had reserved the top floor restaurant at the tallest tower in London for my launch party, so I'd been doing my job and going around and talking to people all evening, the sprawling view of the nighttime London skyline stretching out below. I'd originally expected there to be a couple record company execs, maybe producers, and some journalists, but nope. No, Hendrix and Clapton were both there for some damned reason, Marianne Faithfull was standing at the bar talking to Anita Pallenberg and Keith Richards, Cilla Black was speaking with a journalist. I'd spotted Donovan at a table with Mick Jagger, but that oddly didn't bother me as much it might've a year ago. I'd met him the previous summer, and he'd written a few tracks for my record, so it wasn't such a surprise for him to be there.

"You're from LA, though, aren't you?" The photographer asked, switching out her lens. "I s'ppose you've met all the people out there."

"Yeah, I guess you could say that," I told her, glancing to my right for a second. "Cass Elliot's really nice. And the guys from the Association are great."

Before she could say something else, I heard my name, and then Paul slid next to me into the booth I was sitting in, draping an arm over my shoulder. "There you are. I've been looking for you everywhere, love."

The photographer I'd been talking to gave us a smile, lowering her camera. "Well, I'll leave you two to it. It was nice meeting you, Lynnette, congrats again on the record."

"Thanks for coming," I called after her, settling back in my seat.

"Who was that?" Paul asked once she'd gone, leaving the two of us alone. "She seemed nice."

"She was nice." I nodded absently. "She's a photographer from New York. Does stuff for Rolling Stone and Town and Country magazine."

He tugged me in a little closer, leaving a sloppy kiss on my forehead before drawing his head back to look me in the eyes, searching my expression. "You doin' alright? It's not too much, is it?"

"Nah. It's pretty neat, finally having my record out." I nodded thoughtfully. "I seriously can't believe it."

"Just enjoy yourself, yeah?" Paul gave my arm a reassuring squeeze. "Tonight's about you."

I just looked at him for a moment. He'd finally shaved at some point in the last week or so, but he was otherwise still the same. He'd never really drastically changed how he looked, like John did. He was still the same guy that I'd met in the summer of '67 in LA, with his lovely hazel eyes and stupidly charming ways that everyone — including me — seemed to fall for. Sometimes I found it a little hard to believe that my Paul was the Paul McCartney of the Beatles. Maybe that was what I liked about him — fame didn't really seem to have a huge effect on him. But then again, I really couldn't say, I hadn't known him before 1964.