Yeah Yeah Yeah (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

14. Your Bird's Lost Her Feathers

January 1966
Klosters/London

Paul

It shouldn't come as a surprise that the ski holiday was an arse-over-tits disaster.

In retrospect, it probably wasn't the best of ideas to let John and Cynthia tag along. But she seemed so keen on the idea of skiing; what was I supposed to do, not invite them to join? And the more the merrier, isn't that what they always say?!

What happened during the first half of the holiday is irrelevant. There was snow, there was fondue, there was skiing. Jane and I managed to get along most of the time, and we even managed to 'get along,' if you know what I mean. The good people of Klosters didn't give a toss that two Beatles invaded their sleepy, snowy village and that in itself was a glorious feat.

On the fourth day of the trip, we were at the hotel restaurant having a boozy lunch. I'll admit, John and I had smoked just prior, and I was trying desperately to hide it. He and I were waxing poetic about an alpine acoustic guitar we'd seen in a shop while Jane and Cyn chattered across the table. I paid absolutely no attention to what they were saying until I heard the name.

"I keep meaning to ask," Cynthia said to Jane, "your friend Maggie was wearing the most gorgeous coat the other night when she and Paul stopped by. Do you happen to know where she got it?"

Bloody. Hell.

Jane took a sip of wine and leaned back in her chair. "I don't know anyone called Maggie. Maybe it was Madeleine? She's an actress at the..."

Words kept coming out of her mouth, but my mind was stuck on the name Maggie, and I was mentally screaming fuckfuckfuckfuck. Across the table, John was trying to subtly indicate to his wife to shut her pie hole.

"No, it was definitely Maggie. I remember because John made a Maggie Mae joke. Paul said that she was your friend from-- ow! John, why are you kicking me?"

"Was that your leg, my love?" John replied. "Sorry, was just stretchin' me legs."

Jane looked from Cynthia to John and, finally, to me. I must have looked as panicked as I felt because Jane sat up a bit straighter and took a steadying gulp of wine.

"Who's Maggie, Paul?" she asked in a deceptively casual tone.

Let me pause here, as this seems as good a time as any to tell you that I'd been having a torrid affair with a model for months. Oh, don't be cross that this is the first you're hearing of it. You can hardly expect me to tell you everything. I'm a public figure; that wouldn't be reasonable. But yes, there was a Maggie, and the lads sort of knew about her, but no one else was supposed to.

Anyroad, back to the increasingly awkward scene at the restaurant.

"Who?" I asked as innocently as possible.

Cynthia started to stand as if to give us privacy, but John put a hand over hers, and she sat back down. I could feel everyone's eyes on me as I restlessly searched my pockets for a cigarette. After a quick internal debate, I decided to fall back on a Beatles classic: when in doubt, throw one of the others under the bus.

"Oh!" I said finally as if I'd been wracking my brain to put a name to the face. "Maggie. You mean George's, uh, friend? The one who did... the thing... with her...? Well, no wonder John was making Maggie Mae jokes."

Now both women were glaring at me, and John was struggling not to snicker.

"Something funny, John?" his wife asked, giving him a look that I was quite familiar with, which roughly translated to though-shalt-have-no-sex-tonight.