Road to Nowhere

Chapter Eight

Stupidly, I decided to confess everything to Danny.

(June, 1997. Paris.)

"I told Danny about the...incident with George," I sighed, taking a puff on my cigarette. "I needed to clear my conscience. Really, with George it was a one-time thing. There was definitely some awkwardness between us for a while, but I think once Danny and I broke up and I explained I just needed some time to myself, he understood."

"So the rumors were true?" Wes asked.

"Partially," I said. "None of them had been true up until that point. What happened with George and I never made it into the papers; we were the only ones that knew, besides Danny. He didn't want the world to know, either."

"So how did the breakup go?"

"How do any breakups go? It wasn't pleasant, I can tell you that," I laughed. The crew chuckled, too. "Danny felt like he'd been right all along, he'd seen it coming, it was all my fault. I'd tried explaining that he wasn't right all along, since this was the only time that anything romantic had ever happened between me and one of the guys. He didn't believe me."

"You moved out a few days later," Wes said, handing me another newspaper clipping about the breakup. 

"How could I stay? There's no way we were going to stay together; Danny couldn't forgive me, and I don't blame him. It was my fault; I wasn't thinking, and I hurt him. Our friendship pretty much ended, after that. There was no going back."

"You took all the blame?"

"Danny had done nothing but cared about me," I nodded. "I was the one that wasn't as invested in the relationship, as time went on. I was the one that kissed somebody else. Sure, I wasn't entirely to blame, I know that- there were things Danny had done that I didn't like, like his constant paranoia about the boys and me. But I know it was mostly me in the wrong."

Wes nodded. 

"The rest of 1965, there were less reports of you with the Beatles; not as many photos or articles in the paparazzi sheets. Was the situation with George the reason you distanced yourself?"

"Partially," I nodded. "They were all getting a little more into drugs, too, and that wasn't my scene. I preferred booze." I smiled, and Wes and the crew laughed. 

"We know," Wes smiled. "It came out in the seventies that you had an alcohol problem; when did that start?"

"Uh," I thought for a moment, "probably near the end of '65. I struggled with it for a long time; it got better near the late seventies, but then John died and I kind of slipped back a little."

"Did the drinking affect your relationships?"

"With the Beatles? I'd say so. But I'm not sure if they really noticed, since they were caught up in drugs. Maybe by '67, I'd say, things were escalating with me."

"How so?" Wes asked, leaning forward. 

(November, 1966. London.)

The boys were in the studio, working on their latest album. In October, I'd arrived in London from New York; I'd been sent to photograph the Beatles in the studio. 

Things with George had long been solved- there wasn't anymore tension, but we definitely were closer in some ways. I hadn't seen any of them in quite some time; I wasn't as close with John and Ringo as I used to be, but they'd gotten married and were spending time with their families. George was spending time with Pattie, and Paul was always going between girlfriends. At the moment, it was still Jane, but I'd heard a rumor about another girl.

It was one o'clock in the afternoon, and the Beatles were downstairs in the studio, presumably having lunch. Meanwhile, I was upstairs in a little lounge with the door closed. How was I spending my time? Well, for starters, I was had the company of a bottle of gin and some tonic water. At the moment, that was all I needed. 

I barely heard the knock at the door.

"Eva?" said a voice. John entered the room, or at least, a blurry version of John came in. "Are you drunk?" he asked after seeing the gin and, well, me in a less-than-sober state.

"What?" 

"Are you drunk?"

"I'm fine, go play your guitar or something," I blurted. John snickered.

"It's one o'clock," John said. "I didn't think the party started until two."

"Come on," I sighed, rubbing my temples. "I just wanted to sit here for a bit. Alone."

John sat down in a chair opposite me. (I think he did.)

"What're you doing?"

"Sitting," John said, lighting a cigarette. 

"Why?"

"I didn't want to stand."

I didn't say anything. What felt like twenty minutes of silence to me was probably only a minute or so to John.

"Since when have you carried a bottle of gin with you during the day?" John asked.

"Why does it matter?"

"No reason," John shrugged, "but I'm not sure how you're going to photograph us if you're so out of it. It would make for some blurry pictures."

"It's art," I laughed. John looked at his watch.

"Maybe it's time to go home. Where are you staying?"

"Uh..." 

"Alright. Wait here, will ya?"

I suppose John left. I proceeded to crawl over to the sofa and lay down on my side.