Funny Face | a paul mccartney story

seven | surprises

You might, by this time, start wondering why this story is of importance. To me, it is, but to others it may not seem that way. The relationship between Paul and me had taken off, and was even approved of by the rest of the group. That didn't matter, though. I was beginning to question the importance of myself in this life.

Having been abandoned in this world by those closest to me, and having to fend for myself, I never would have imagined being a vital part of anyone's life.

That being said, Paul never gave anything for me to question. I was his world and he was becoming mine. But I had no idea who he was. This came to light while I was having breakfast with Cyn the morning of 9 December.

"It was amazing. Just me and him. The music... I haven't been so happy in a long time..."

"I'm glad." Cyn smiled. "And at least he's not making you dye your hair blonde and dress in fishnets and tight skirts."

"What?" I chuckled.

"Like Bardot..." then it hit her. "Oh, God, he hasn't told you, has he?"

My face fell. "Paul has a thing for Brigitte Bardot?"

"And John alike. You think I dress like this of my own accord? No, no. This happened back when we were in school. He even did it to Dot-- oh hell, I'm sorry. See, this is why the other girls don't like me."

"No, wait, wait. Who the hell is Dot?"

"I've already said too much, Melody."

"Cynthia, please! Tell me!"

Cyn sighed and opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by Paul's voice shouting "hello!" from the front door as he let himself inside. He was taking me to the hospital for us to visit Ringo who had just had his tonsils removed.

"Dot Rhone is his ex-girlfriend." She quickly whispered.

"I know that!"

"Hello, ladies." Paul smiled as he walked into the kitchen. He was wearing a light turtle neck sweater and denim trousers that were just a bit too short for his long legs. "My love."

He put a hand on the back of my chair and leant down to give me a quick peck on the lips. His soft, pink lips...

He pulled away and looked into my eyes. He knew something was wrong.

"What is it?"

I stayed silent, so he turned to Cyn.

"What did you say?"

Cyn pursed her lips and her eyes widened slightly.

"Cynthia..." his voice became desperate.

She sighed, "Dot..."

You could hear the breath hitch in his throat at the name, and I could feel the tears burning the rims of my eyes at the thought of it being someone important to him.

"What did you say about her?" He whispered.

"Bardot." I replied, earing a sympathetic look from Cyn.

He sighed and hung his head. "Okay..."

I drove to the hospital, giving him all the time in the world to concentrate on his story. In the car, he told me about Dot. She was his first steady girlfriend way back in 1960- long before he met even Jane Asher. She was sixteen, he was seventeen, and suddenly, they were expecting a baby.

Her mother was distraught, claiming that her daughter was "too young to push a pram." Jim McCartney, however, was absolutely thrilled to have a grandchild who would be born autumn of that year.