41. Love Comes To Everyone

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It's so true it can happen to you all; there,
Knock and it will open wide,
And it only takes time
'Til love comes to everyone.


I've never thought of myself as ugly. By the same token, I've never thought of myself as beautiful either. I've always been astounded that there are people who do. People who must look at their own reflection and consider themselves, firmly and sincerely, beautiful. Those who aspire to be models, for example. For someone to choose a career like that, you must know yourself to be beautiful.

I wonder what it is like to live like that. I wonder how much people treat you differently to anyone else, just because you are the perfect example of what is aesthetically pleasing and desirable. I wonder if they even realise that they are treated differently.

When I've looked in the mirror before, it's been rarely to admire, or even appraise my own looks. Mirrors are functional things for me. To fix my hair, to do my make up, to make sure I haven't got something stuck between my teeth. There are others who seem unable to tear their eyes from themselves. They never miss an opportunity to admire themselves, catching their reflections in shop windows, the shiny bodywork of cars or even the curved, distorted surface of a dessert spoon. I've never been one of those people, but recently, I have caught myself looking at my own reflection more often.

This is not vanity on my part though. This is critical assessment. Very critical. I feel like I'm a donkey that's somehow found itself in a race with a thoroughbred.

Pattie Boyd is a beautiful woman. She's perfect, from her Vidal Sassoon coiffured hair down to her neatly pedicured and painted toes. I'm assuming this. I haven't actually seen her toes. It's still too cold for open toe shoes.

She's so tall and skinny, and apparently, that is what women should be. Gone is the desire for curvaceous figures, like Marilyn Monroe or Rita Hayworth. In this modern world, men only want women thin enough to hide themselves behind lampposts. Slender, flat, featureless bodies. Twiggy, Jean Shrimpton... and Pattie Boyd.

I am not one of these women. I never have been, and even if I never ate another mouthful again, I doubt I would ever be that slim. I have wide hips for one thing. They seem to have no muscles in their calves or thighs, and I do. I've had a 27 inch waist and a 34 inch bra size since I was fifteen and I doubt that will change anytime soon. Pattie Boyd must be a English dress size 6, if not smaller.

Why then, when he has this perfect example of womanhood waiting for him at home, would George be the least bit interested in someone like me?

This isn't me. I am not really this superficial. I am not obsessed by looks, mine or anyone else's, and I know that true beauty comes from within. I know that you could be the most beautiful girl in the world, but if your heart and soul are ugly, then you will be too. But I can't even take comfort from this, because Pattie seems as sweet and good natured as she is cute and pretty. She's polite, educated and vivacious. She's the tailor-made Beatle girl.

I should know. I've done extensive research.

I've tried not to, but it's hard to resist continually comparing myself to this woman; wondering, sincerely, why would George have ever wanted me over her?

Maybe he never did, truly. Being on tour distorts things. You're so insular, in your group, travelling from place to place. You get into a routine quickly and it's easy to forget what life is like beyond the next theatre, the next show, the next audience. I don't doubt George meant all that he said to me, when he said it. But if things had gone to plan, if Ricky's mother hadn't decided to die right that day - a parting act of spite, I'm sure - and I'd gone home with George, perhaps he would have seen Pattie and me, side by side, and thought, what the hell am I doing?!

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