Chapter 26

“John, I can explain about Claude,” I said worriedly.


“Maggie…” he tried to interrupt, but I was bent on trying to convince him he didn’t have anything to worry about.

“He brought me home from the hospital the other night and…”

“Maggie…” John repeated.

“And he just really didn’t want me to be alone. He’s stayed out there on the sofa the whole time, I swear to you, John. And the only reason I didn’t call Christine is because I haven’t felt like…”

“Maggie… It’s all right, love,” he said, pulling his shoes and shirt off and crawling into bed with me. “I’ve spoken to Claude. Everything’s fine. I appreciate that he was here to take care of you.”

“You do?” I asked, catching my breath.

“Yes,” he said, staring into my eyes with deep concern. “Christ, Maggie, I’ve felt awful ever since we spoke on the phone the other day. I couldn’t stand not being able to be here with you. Holding you in my arms. Caring for you. It was all I could do just to keep breathing. I wanted so much to just leave the whole blinking thing behind me. It was bloody killing me.”

“Oh John, it’s been killing me too. The pain of it all is just too much to bear,” I said past the lump that had quickly formed in my throat. “I’ve just been so worried that when you came back you’d be too angry with me to even see me,” I blubbered.

“Are you soft? Why in the hell would I be angry with you? Christ, love, I’ve been so fuckin’ worried about you all this time I could barely function,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion.

Then we held each other and sobbed. John pulled my head to his chest and ran his hands through my hair. I could feel his tears wetting the top of my head and I cried even harder, my own tears soaking his chest. Eventually I cried myself back to sleep. I woke up sometime later, and reached over to my bedside table, but my bottle of Quaaludes wasn’t there. I climbed out of bed and looked on the floor and underneath my bed to see if maybe it had rolled away somehow, but I didn’t see it anywhere. John coughed and startled me and when I looked at him, I noticed the bottle in his left hand. I walked around to the other side of the bed and slowly slipped the bottle out of his hand only to find it was half gone. How many had he taken? Frightened, I shook him a little to try and wake him up. John’s eyes fluttered open and then closed again.

“John…” I shook him again. “John?”

He opened one eye to look at me, mumbled something incoherent, and then closed it again.

“John, how many of these did you take?” I rattled the bottle in front of him.

He whispered something, barely moving his lips, but I couldn’t understand what he said.

“John? John, how many of these did you take?” I asked again, grabbing his shoulder and shaking it.

“Apparently not e-fucking-nough,” he grumbled, without opening his eyes.

A smart ass even when he was barely conscious. At least I knew he was still alive.

I went to the kitchen and made a pot of tea and some toast. I hadn’t eaten anything in days. I still didn’t feel much like eating, but I figured if I was planning on taking more pills, which I definitely was, I needed at least a little bit of food in my stomach. After I had eaten, I took a couple of Quaaludes and joined John back in bed.

And for the most part, that is how we spent the remainder of July. John at my place, and the two of us getting high in one form or another, to numb the pain we were both feeling. He rarely went home anymore and I didn’t bother trying to talk him into it. I needed him to be with me. Our friends occasionally stopped by and expressed mild worry for our health, some hypocrites even telling us they wished we’d take it easy on the drugs! But neither of us listened to them. We had each other and if our behavior was alienating ourselves from our friends, then so be it. Lydia called several times with new jobs she had secured for me, but I always told her to reschedule. At one point she said if I declined or rescheduled one more job, I’d have to find another agent. The next time she phoned with a new job I told her that her final task for me would be to find me a new agent and then I promptly hung up on her.



Things were very glum indeed and the beginning of August only brought more upset. We were informed that an American publication had gotten hold of Maureen Cleave’s article about John and had reprinted only part of it, taking his comments about Christianity entirely out of context. Some radio announcers then took it upon themselves to call for an organized “Beatles burning.” And a few days later, the rest of the world had caught wind of John’s comments. The Beatles were censored from South African and Spanish airwaves. On Saturday, August 6, a headline in London’s “Evening News” said: A CLAMOUR AGAINST THE BEATLES SPREADS OVER THE U.S. John was beside himself. They were about to start an American tour and this was not the sort of press they needed. Brian told John he was going to have to apologize, but John just couldn’t understand why, as he felt he hadn’t done anything wrong. And I agreed. He shouldn’t have to apologize to the idiots in my country who probably never liked The Beatles in the first place and were just using this as a way to get others to see them in the same way they did: as long-haired troublemakers. John had only stated his opinion and everyone was entitled to their own opinion. The whole thing was complete lunacy. Even so, Brian made it clear to him that some sort of apology would be absolutely necessary, or else it was the end of The Beatles.

The boys were to leave London early in the morning on August 11 for Chicago, Illinois. I wasn’t going to go, but John pleaded with me, so I packed a bag and joined them at the last minute, much to Brian’s chagrin. However, I sat quietly in the back of the plane with Mal and Neil, and let the boys sit alone together up front to work out how they were going to handle the upcoming storm of press agents; though, there wasn’t much talking the entire flight to the States. John and Paul sat quietly together, George and Ringo across the aisle from them. After quite some time, I did hear Paul speak,

“It’ll be alright, you know?”

“Easy for you to say, mate. You’re not the one being bloody crucified,” John replied.

When we arrived in Chicago, there were cameras positioned, even in the corridors of the hotel. Newsmen were absolutely everywhere. I was to sit in a back room and watch the press conference on a television that had been set up. Just before they were supposed to go out, however, Brian came into the room where all The Beatles were, to give John a last-minute briefing about the way things would go and the implications if he went out there and behaved his usual “mouthy” self. He finished off his speech by telling John he feared The Beatles might be assassinated on this tour. To everyone’s surprise, John instantly burst into tears and my heart wrenched for him. I wanted badly to console him, but I knew it wasn’t the time or the place. There was tension, uneasiness, in the room as John sobbed loudly. He had never intended for any of this to happen. He hadn’t meant to cause anyone any trouble.

“I’ll do anything. Whatever you say I should do, I’ll have to say,” John said.

Then, as suddenly as he had become so emotional, he quickly composed himself and the boys left the room, John trailing behind. We shared a kiss and then embraced for what seemed like an eternity.

“I love you,” I whispered into his ear.

“You’re the only reason I’ve the strength to get through this you know?” he said, pulling away to look into my eyes.

“John?” Paul poked his head back into the room.

“Right,” John said, and then he nodded to me and followed Paul out of the room.

I sat down on the sofa, alone in the room and watched the boys enter Tony’s suite where the press was already waiting for them. As I watched John lean into the microphone looking terrified, I wished I could give him strength through the television set. But as the reporters’ repeated the same questions over and over again, I realized that John’s nervousness was wearing off. In fact, I noticed he was “apologizing” without really apologizing at all. It was absolutely brilliant. I couldn’t have been more proud of the way he handled himself. And Paul, luckily for everyone, being the PR man he was, was a great help in putting a spin on what John was saying, just enough to confuse everyone into thinking John had given a full apology. I breathed a sigh of relief. The newsmen liked The Beatles. The Beatles kept them all in business. The press wanted this whole thing to go away as much as Brian and the boys did. And once they had gotten their story, they were satisfied and then turned their questions to music and the boys’ tour.



I toured around the country and up into Canada with them for the rest of the month. John asked me a couple of times, when we had neared my hometown, whether I was going to contact my parents to let them know where I was, but I declined. To be honest, I wasn’t sure when I was ever going to be ready to contact them again. As far as I was concerned it was John and me against the world. A dismal prospect, made all the more depressing when I thought about the fact that it wasn’t even really “John and me.” It was “John and Cynthia.” I wondered if there would ever be a time when it was “John and Maggie,” but as hard as I tried to look into the future, I just couldn’t see it happening. This only served to dishearten me further, which aided in my nearly total retreat into the hazy world that my constant drug-use created. I tried to force ideas about the future out of my head and instead focus on the present. But my current present was utter chaos.

Everywhere we went, the press was constantly hounding the boys about John’s comments on Christianity, they were receiving a steady flow of death threats, and the kids at their shows were completely out of control. John hit the nail on the head when he said they had become like a traveling circus. It was plain to see that none of them were having fun anymore and the quality of their music was suffering miserably. They decided amongst themselves that the end of this tour would be the end of the Beatles’ touring days. Between shows and on rare days off, the drugs flowed freely. Everyone was so high it was a miracle anything got done. Still, they forged on. In mid-August, they played a show in Tennessee where the Ku Klux Klan mounted guard outside. Inside, some foolish teenagers set off a few firecrackers nearly giving me a heart attack. I, like the boys on stage, was sure it had been an assassination attempt, though the boys handled it much better than I did. Stage-side, and under the influence, I became completely hysterical, sobbing and shaking uncontrollably. The whole thing was wreaking havoc on my nerves. Neil made a phone call and before I knew it, a doctor was there, giving me a sedative to calm me down.

“This girl’s going to have a nervous breakdown. Her system can’t handle so many drugs. You must send her to a clinic immediately,” I heard the doctor say.

“Thank you for the advice, Doctor. We’ll see to it that’s she’s taken care of as soon as possible. You really have been an enormous help,” Brian said, handing the doctor some money and ushering him out of the room.

After the show, Brian pleaded with John to send me back to London, and I can’t say that I disagreed with him on this particular matter. Newsmen everywhere nagging John about his Jesus statements, me constantly having to dodge photographers to ensure that it didn’t get out that I was traveling with them when Cynthia was not, death threats, and out-of-control teens, all added up to make this one of the worst experiences of my life. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take. But John would have none of it.

“If Maggie leaves, Eppy, then so bloody well do I!”

Brian wanted to keep John as happy as possible under the circumstances and John was in no mood to be reasoned with, even by me, so I stayed. And the tour continued on. Unrelenting. The boys even played in rainy and windy conditions, though one performance in Cincinnati was so wet that they all would surely have been electrocuted if they had gone on. Paul literally became sick at the prospect of going out there under such dangerous circumstances and I couldn’t blame him. But, it was the first time a Beatles performance had been cancelled, and I could see on Brian’s face, that he saw it as the beginning of the end. Finally, they made it to Candlestick Park in San Francisco, the last stop on their tour, and, what everyone pretty much agreed to be, their last concert altogether.

Once it was over and we had all boarded the plane for home, George said pretty much what the others were all feeling,

“Right. That’s it. I’m not a Beatle anymore,” which was followed by total silence.

What did that mean, really? We all wondered. The mood was very somber the rest of the flight home.



A few days later Brian released an announcement that John had taken a role in the new Dick Lester picture that was set to begin filming. Dick had approached John ages ago about the role and John had accepted, but I had completely forgotten about it in the midst of all the commotion. The film was to be shot in Germany and Spain. Cynthia was accompanying John. I was not. Brian was sure to make that very clear to me. John and I spent the last few days together before he left but, as I was in an agitated state, he and I were finding it somewhat difficult to communicate with each other. I didn’t want him to go, but I knew it simply was not plausible to ask him to stay, nor was my tagging along. So, on September 5, John left for West Germany with Brian, Cynthia and Julian set to join him a few days later. I moped around the apartment like a lost soul for several days before finally picking up the telephone and ringing Lydia.

“Oh, the prodigal daughter hath returned, hmmm?” she asked in an uppity tone of voice.

“I need work, Lydia. If you can’t get it for me, I’ll find someone who can,” I said sternly.

“Oh will you?” she scoffed. “Do you know how long it has been since you last worked, deah?”

“It’s only been a few months, Lydia.”

“Precisely. And a few months is a lifetime in this business. You are a virtual nobody already…”

“Oh, please,” I interrupted.

“It’s true. Twiggy has completely saturated the market. Everyone wants models with figures like pre-pubescent boys.”

“Well, if you’re implying I need to lose weight, Lydia, it’s not happening. I have no desire to look like those models. I like being a woman.”

“Well, dahling, it’s either chop off that long hair and become a twig, or get back in the papers with The Beatles.”

“Oh! As if I haven’t been in the papers enough? No thanks, Lydia.”

“Maggie, I just can’t think of any other options we have at the moment. Still, I’ll see what I can do. But, mind you, dahling, I am no miracle worker,” she said in a caustic tone of voice.

“You do that,” I snapped at her as I slammed down the receiver.

Lydia couldn’t think of any other options, but I suddenly had an idea. I picked up the telephone and began dialing. I hadn’t been in the business long, but I had made some connections. One very important connection.

“Claude?” I asked, as soon as I heard the phone stop ringing.

“Hey, kiddo! Haven’t spoken to you in a few months. Not since… anyway, how’s it going? You okay?”

“Me? Oh… I’m all right. As good as can be, I suppose.”

“You don’t sound so sure,” Claude said, in his familiar American accent. “What’s going on?”

“What? Oh, nothing really,” I said, suddenly becoming very self-conscious. “Um… everyone’s gone and I…”

“Maggie, what’s wrong?”

“I need work, Claude.”

“Well, that’s no reason to be all freaked out, kid. With a face like yours, work is always going to be just around the corner.”

“I’m not so sure about that. I’m afraid I’ve burnt a lot of bridges. Lydia’s not sure she can get me any work. But mostly I think it’s just that she doesn’t want to. I’ve turned down a lot of jobs that she practically handed to me on a platter.”

“You’ve been going through a lot.”

“Yeah… Thanks for everything, by the way. I’m not sure I ever properly thanked you.”

“It was no problem. I’m just glad you’re all right,” he said sincerely. “Now, about work,” he continued, the tone in his voice changing considerably. “I’ll be going to America in a couple of days to take some promotional shots for a new television series that just began there. I think it’s called ‘Star Trek,’ or something. Some sci-fi gig. So, I think we have a few options here. You with me, kid?”

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“Okay. First, I’ll be over there at least a week, so if your need for work is urgent, this option may not be suitable.”

“What option?”

“Well, while I’m there I can see about getting you a gig on that show if that interests you at all. Or, we can see what I have going when I get back here. I’m sure I can find a use for you,” he laughed. “Or, if you prefer, I can call around here and see what I can find for you before then?”

“All of those things sound wonderful. I just need to work, Claude. Everyone’s gone and I need to stay busy or else I’ll go crazy.”

“You said that before, kid, ‘Everyone’s gone.’ What do you mean?” he asked.

“Oh, John, Christine… everyone. They’ve all gone and left me here.”

“Where have they gone?”

“John’s in Germany, Paul and Christine went on vacation. George and Pattie are going to India in a couple of days… just… everyone left. I feel so alone.”

“You want to go to America with me?” Claude asked, surprising me with his suddenness.

“Oh, I don’t… no, I better not... Not this time.”

“All right. Well, can’t blame a guy for trying,” he chuckled.

I tried to force a polite laugh, but it just wasn’t there.

“Hey, kid, you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine, why?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t know. You just don’t sound… And you said you’ve turned down a lot of jobs lately. Without sounding too nosy here, why was that?”

“Look, Claude, I have to go. If you hear about any work, let me know,” I said and then hung up the phone.

I didn’t feel like getting into a discussion about my depression, or hearing another lecture about my need to slow down on the drugs.



The next day Lydia miraculously called with work. I took a couple of uppers and headed out the door. By the time I got to the shoot I was bouncing off the walls. I could barely sit still during hair and makeup and I could tell I was really annoying the makeup artist.

“Look, lovvie, if ya can’t sit still, you’re gonna get this eye liner all over your face. Now, I don’t think you want that and I certainly don’t want that ‘cause I’d probably be losing me job over it. Understand?” she asked in a high-pitched Northern English accent.

“Sorry,” I said, trying to consciously control my fidgeting.

The shoot seemed to last forever. The photographer had to take and retake the same shots over and over for one reason or another. I was going completely crazy. I was just about to leave when he finally declared he was done for the night. As I gathered my things, a few of the other models asked if I wanted to go with them to Dolly’s Nightclub on Jermyn Street. I didn’t know the girls, but I was much too wired to go home, so I agreed and we left the studio together. Outside we were stopped by reporters.

“Working on a comeback, Maggie?”

“A comeback?!” I asked incredulously as I pushed my way past the reporters whilst the other girls mugged for the cameras.

The photographers snapped a few photos of the other girls, but followed closely behind me.

“Where are the Beatles tonight, Maggie?” one reporter asked.

“My guess? At home,” I answered without turning to face him.

One of the girls I was with called to me, as she had hailed a taxi and had it waiting. I headed toward her.

“Anything special in the works?” another reporter questioned.

“I’ve got a little part in a movie that’s coming out at the end of the year,” I answered as I got into the cab. And just before closing the door, I added, “Now, do be dears and, fuck off.”

The girls laughed wildly, but I was incredibly annoyed.

“That was brilliant, Maggie,” one model called Tatiana said.

“How did they know you were in the studio anyway? They always follow so closely?” the girl named Rebecca asked.

“My agent’s a ruthless bitch,” was the only response I gave before sinking into a funk.

“I wish my agent got me press like that!” Rebecca exclaimed.

I was in a bad mood for the rest of the night. Why had Lydia tipped off those newsmen as to my whereabouts? She knew I didn’t care a thing about whether I was fading in popularity. I just needed the money. And at the moment, I just needed the work to get my mind off of my loneliness. After drinking, moodily, in the corner of the club for a while, the blonde girl, Alexandria, a virtual Twiggy clone, tugged on my arm and led me to the bathroom where several girls were doing lines of coke. I was hesitant because I had never tried it before and knew it could be pretty dangerous, but I needed something to take my mind off of things. I took the little straw they had fashioned, held it up to my right nostril and snorted the whole line. I could instantly feel it burning the back of my throat. I could taste it. It was horrible. Then, all of a sudden, pure euphoria. It was as if everything bad in my life had suddenly disappeared. Nothing could bring me down. I began to laugh and have a good time. I wasn’t even angry at Lydia anymore. I was in Heaven.

“I have to go,” I suddenly decided, surprising the other girls.

“Oh not yet,” Rebecca moaned.

“It’s too early, Maggie. Stay,” Tatiana said.

“No, really. It’s an emergency.”

“Should we go with you?” Alexandria asked.

“No, no. It’s nothing serious. I just have to get out of here. But first, may I have another?” I asked her.

Alexandria nodded, then, smiling deviously, proceeded to get another line ready for me to snort. She fixed herself another while she was at it, then handed me the straw. I placed it to my left nostril this time, as the other was still burning a little from the first time, snorted the line, and then handed Alexandria the straw. Some girl I didn’t know handed me her glass of chardonnay to wash the taste down and ease my throat a little. I drank it appreciatively, kissed each of them goodbye, and then made my way out of the club. My heart was racing as I exited the club. The effects of the cocaine were almost instant and very similar to that of the uppers I took. But with the cocaine, I also felt very happy and extremely aroused. There were reporters outside the club when I left and they began asking all the usual questions, but I couldn’t care less at that point. I just giggled as I passed them to hail a taxicab.

“Where to, Miss?” the driver asked.

“Just drive,” I responded, turning to give the photographers the bird through the back window.

I began to think of John, off with Cynthia, happily enjoying a family holiday together in Spain. I knew that wasn’t the case, but in my drug-influenced state-of-mind, that’s the way I saw it. I pictured them making love on a beach somewhere and a sudden and completely unfounded fury swept over me. Why had he left me? How dare he go away with another woman? And sleep with her too?! I was more than a little angry, and I suddenly knew where to tell the driver to drop me off. I had to get back at John. I had to make it clear to him that I was not willing to sit at home and be the woman who would always be there whenever he wanted me.

We finally arrived at my destination and I paid the driver and went up to knock on the door. Claude answered with a curious expression on his face.

“Maggie?” he asked. “What brings you here?”

“Hello,” I said, in as throaty and sexy a voice as I could muster, letting the shoulder of my dress fall slightly so it exposed my naked skin and the black strap of my bra. “I was just in the neighborhood and I thought I’d stop by,” I said, pushing my way past him and into his house.

Claude giggled, “Now, come on, kid. That’s almost as corny as one of my lines!”

I put my hand on his chest and slid it down his stomach to the waistband of his pants.

“Maggie, what’re you doing? Are you drunk?”

“Shhh,” I said, unfastening his pants.

“All right! That’s enough,” he said, pulling away from me. “What’s this all about?”

“Sex,” I answered, moving closer to him and planting my lips on his.

Claude put his hands on my shoulders and pushed me away.

“Look, kid, you know there’s nothing I’d love more, but you’re not yourself right now and I can’t take advantage of that no matter how much I’d love to.”

“Oh come on, Claude. You want me. I want you. No one’s taking advantage of anyone. We’re all adults.”

“All?” he repeated. “And just how many of me are you seeing right now, kid?”

“Oh shut up, Claude, and make love to me!” I demanded, whilst trying to remove my dress.

Claude moved closer to me and pulled my dress back up. I shoved his hands off of me and then slapped him hard across the face. For a moment I saw a flash of anger across his face that reminded me of John. He grabbed my hands and tried to restrain me, but I fought hard against him.

“Maggie, why are you doing this? What is wrong with you?” he pleaded.

“Get off of me!” I screamed, breaking free of his clutches. “You bastard!” I yelled, storming out of his place and running down the front steps.

Claude came after me, chasing me down the street, as I run screaming for a taxi. There was a couple who had previously been huddled up together against a wall making out, but when they saw me, they broke apart and stepped in, thinking I was being followed by an attacker.

“All right, Miss?” the young man asked.

“Should we phone the police?” the girl questioned.

“No, just keep him away from me,” I gasped, then, realizing a taxi had stopped for me I quickly thanked the teenagers, hopped in the cab, and rode away.

“The Scotch,” I said to the driver, in no mood to go home to my empty apartment.

When I arrived, I began drinking everything anyone handed to me. It was time to drown my sorrows. John didn’t want me, I had convinced myself in my current state of mind, and neither did Claude. But someone would. And I was determined to find him.



I woke up the next day with a start. My head was pounding and I put my hand to my forehead to apply pressure. Besides being hung-over, I had the most awful feeling. What had happened last night? And more importantly, where was I? I looked around the tiny bedroom, a twin bed against one wall, minus any bed clothes, clothing strewn about the place, a couple posters of Little Richard hanging on the wall and an over-flowing trashcan in one corner. I could hear voices coming from another room. Several. And all male. I felt nauseous and when I started for the bathroom, I suddenly became very aware I was completely naked. I pulled the top sheet off the twin bed I was on and wrapped it around me as I made for the exit. When I opened the door I was unprepared, but after the night I had just had not a bit surprised, to see three unfamiliar faces.

“Excuse me, where is the bathroom?” I asked.

The boys sniggered a little. Then, one of them pointed. Humiliated and sick, I made my way through a tiny living room, probably no larger than the bedroom had been, and past, what I imagine was intended to be the kitchen, though I’m not sure I could see any appliances or even countertops beneath the mountain of dishes, food containers, bottles of alcohol, newspapers, clothing, and stacks of albums. I opened the door the boy had indicated as being that of the bathroom, only to find a half-naked young man whom I recognized, but wasn’t sure from where.

“Ah, you’re up!” he exclaimed, grinning enormously. “Fantastic! You’ve met the lads, I guess?”

“I’m sorry, I’m going to be sick,” I said.

“Say no more. Say no more,” he said, a worried expression on his face as he quickly exited.

And I had been right. Not a minute after he had left was I sick. Afterward, I sat on the bathroom floor with my bare back against the wall, racking my brain for where I knew that boy from. Before too long it came to me. Sometime late last year I had gone to the Marquee Club with John and we had seen this young guy perform. His name was David Jones and he was playing with a group called The Lower Third. The band was okay, but David really stood out. John had even commented on how good he was and afterward he told him so. David was obviously younger than the two of us, but just as obvious was his star power. That was the last time I saw him before last night.

When I thought I had finished being sick, I left the bathroom and made my way back to the bedroom so I could get dressed.

“You all right?” David asked, hurrying over to me and following me into the bedroom.

“Yes, I’m fine, thanks,” I responded.

“Great! That’s good to hear. I really had a wonderful time last night. You were… amazing.”

“Oh yeah, me too,” I agreed, without looking at him. “But, I think I’d better be going now.”

All I could concentrate on was getting the hell out of there. I hadn’t had a one-night stand in ages and I felt just awful.

“Oh,” he said, a dejected tone in his voice. “Maggie…”

“Yes?” I answered, searching the floor for my clothes.

“Do you… Well, I mean, not to sound… But… you don’t even remember my name, do you?”

“I do!” I answered triumphantly.

Thank God I had remembered him from several months ago, because I certainly had no recollection of running into him last night, and especially none of sleeping with him.

“You’re name is David Jones,” I said, looking up at him and into his eyes.

They were crystal blue but one pupil was much larger than the other and, to me, made him look rather demented. Also, his ears stuck out a bit and combined with his delicate facial features, he looked slightly elfish. He wasn’t unattractive, though much thinner than I was used to, but when he smiled I remembered why, on that night when John and I had seen him perform, he had been the member of the band who seemed to stand out the most. His smile was electric. And contagious. I smiled back at him.

“Was,” he said, grinning broadly.

“Hmmm?” I asked.

“My name was David Jones. It’s Bowie now.”

“David Bowie?”

“Yeah. Like the Bowie knife!”

I must’ve had a puzzled look on my face.

“Oh, you must know. You’re the American here, after all!” he laughed. “Jim Bowie. From the Alamo!”



I ended up hanging around David’s apartment longer than I had intended. He was quite engaging and when I talked to him, my hangover somehow went away. He made me feel at ease. He seemed to understand that what had happened had just been a one-night affair, and being a young man, that was just fine with him!

Unfortunately, the headline: HAS MODEL MAGGIE JONES FOUND NEW SQUEEZE? along with a photo of David and I from the night before, told me that the press didn’t share David’s same sensible understanding of what was what. The accompanying article, however, barely even mentioned him. Mostly it was speculating whether or not I still had a career, with small mentions of my recent “erratic” and “offensive” behavior.



“How can this be good for my career?” I shouted at Lydia over the phone.

“As they say, dahling, all press is good press,” she said in her typical patronizing tone of voice.

“That’s bullshit. I look completely wasted. The article basically trashes me and doesn’t even have anything to do with the headline or the photo!”

“Maggie, my love, I have nothing to do with what is printed about you.”

“Oh Lydia, of course you do! You let the press know where I’m going to be so they can follow me around until I’m so irritated I just fly off the handle.”

“Dahling, if you fly off the handle, that is up to you. You create the story, deah. Not I.”

I slammed the phone down and lit up a joint. Christine would be back from vacation in a day or two. She’d know what to do.