May 22, 1968
My third day at Apple was off to a good start.
“Why don’t you join me for lunch today?” Derek asked when I walked into his office Wednesday morning around nine. It was May 22, 1968, my fifth day in London.
“Great!” I said with a big smile.
“Are you settled into your hotel?”
“Almost,” I said. The night before, I’d moved my two suitcases and my transistor radio into a hotel in the West End. When the bellman opened the door to my room, my mouth fell open and I let out an audible “Oooohhh.” The room was the size of a large walk-in closet, with one twin bed cuddled up against the wall and a dresser and mirror hugging the opposite wall. A small window looked out on a narrow alley, and the building across the way blocked all sunlight. But at least I had my own bathroom, a definite improvement over the bed and breakfast, and I’d only be there for a short time, until I found a place of my own.
“Good,” he said absentmindedly, already back at work editing a press release.
I wandered down the hallway to see if Richard DiLello needed any help. Everyone called Richard “the house hippie”—he had curly Afro-style hair, he was often stoned on hash, and he definitely had an “everything’s cool” attitude. On my second day at Apple, Derek suggested that I could keep myself busy by helping Richard paste news clippings into scrapbooks. When I opened the door to the small unfurnished office Richard was using, he was sitting on the floor, surrounded by hundreds of cut-out newspaper articles, scissors in hand, scrapbooks open. I plunked down on the floor next to him, and as we cut and pasted he told me stories about his days at Apple and offered suggestions about how I might nail down a job. Keep being seen, be helpful, don’t get in the way, and try not to make the other girls jealous was the gist of it.
Just before noon I grabbed my purse and walked down the hallway to Derek’s office. George Harrison was standing next to Derek’s desk, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray.
“Oh, hullo there,” he said in a curious voice, “and who are you?”
Derek, as always, came to my rescue. “George, this is Chris O’Dell, a friend from LA.”
“Are you coming to lunch?” George asked, and without waiting for an answer, he was striding across the room and out the door.
George drove us in his Mercedes to the Club Del’Aretusa on the King’s Road where, I learned, we were meeting Don Short, a journalist from the Daily Mirror. I sat in the backseat listening to Derek and George banter back and forth, thinking how much alike they were with their witty remarks and quick rejoinders. They could have been brothers. I was surprised, actually, to discover that George was so attractive in person. I’d always thought of Paul as the cute one, but up close George was ruggedly handsome, even striking, with his long hair curling up just above the shoulders, his face smooth and clear, and those dark, intense eyes. But it was definitely his smile that hooked me—this incredibly sexy, crooked grin, almost a friendly sneer (like elvis, I thought) that etched little lines in his cheeks, bringing your attention simultaneously to his heart-shaped face and his slightly crooked teeth.
Every few minutes Derek turned around in his seat. “You okay, luv?” he’d ask, and I’d nod my head and smile, feeling a little dreamy from the incense that seemed to linger around George, permeating the air everywhere he went. I was as happy as I could ever be listening to them talk in their Liverpool accents while taking in all the sights of the King’s Road—the quaint little bookshops with the hanging flower baskets, the fashionable shops and fancy restaurants with their mannequins and daily specials, the wrought-iron gates surrounding the old Georgian buildings, the gargoyles with their tongues hanging out, the double-decker buses packed with tourists, and the London Black Cabs with the large grills and yellow signs on the top. London. Apple. Lunch with Derek and George. I was in heaven.
As the waiter led us to the back of the room, I noticed people staring as we walked past their tables. I felt horribly uncomfortable in my blue-and-orange-checked skirt with its matching cape. My outfit looked like it came right off the rack of J.C. Penney, not from one of the fancy boutiques along the King’s Road. I’m definitely going to have to buy some new clothes, I told myself, drawing my cape closer around me. I felt so out of place, so unhip. I might as well have had a sign on my forehead that said “American.” Sensing that I was out of my element, Derek put his hand on my back to comfort me and help steer me through the crowd.
I was greatly relieved when we reached our table against the far wall, separated from the other diners. The table, set for four places, was beautifully laid out with silver cutlery and crystal wineglasses. Derek sat next to me and Don took the seat next to George across the table from us. George took a seat across the table. After a while I began to relax—it must have had something to do with the wine bottles that kept getting replaced—and as we ate lunch I listened contentedly to their conversation. I’ve always liked sitting back and observing people, and George, in particular, fascinated me. I watched him chatting with Derek and Don, his dark eyes intently focused, the thick eyebrows almost touching in the middle, and every so often he’d look over at me and smile; I had the feeling he was reassuring me that I had nothing to fear from this group. At the same time, George had this interesting way of keeping his distance from people. Occasionally his eyes would dart around the room, not so much to see what was happening, it seemed to me, but more as a self-protective, “don’t come any closer” look. It was almost as if he were creating boundaries with his eyes. And it worked, because nobody bothered us.
The lunch crowd thinned out, the noise died down, and for a while we were the only people left in that big, bright room. Then, suddenly, as if from nowhere, a whole new crowd spilled into the restaurant, filling up the tables, ratcheting up the noise level, and creating a partylike atmosphere.
“What’s going on?” I asked Derek.
“The fashion show is going to start shortly.”
“What fashion show?”
“Oh dear, did I forget to mention that?” Derek seemed to find my wide-eyed confusion amusing. “This is the opening of the new Apple Boutique for men.”
Photographers and journalists were swarming around the table, taking pictures, asking questions, lightly nudging themselves into position (this was when the press were still civilized) as John and Yoko arrived at the table. Two chairs were hurriedly added to the table, and Yoko sat down next to me.
“This is their first public appearance together,” Derek whispered to me, which explained why the press was all over them. John fielded the questions, while Yoko appeared to cling to him even as she sat straight backed in her chair, still as a stone, never saying a word. Her long, black hair was parted in the middle and looked as if it were charged with electricity. I had the feeling that if I reached out and touched her, I’d get shocked.
Over the next few months as I got to know her better, I learned that she wasn’t the fearful type, but that day I felt sorry for her. She looked so tiny and helpless, with that deer-in-the-headlights look. Maybe she needs a friend, I thought.
“You’re doing great,” I said, leaning over and whispering to her. She turned her head slowly, a curious expression on her face, and gave me a vacant smile. Then she turned away from me to focus on John, giving him that adoring look that we would all come to know so well.
Ouch. That didn’t go so well. I knew immediately that Yoko was the kind of person who I’d find it difficult to be around—she didn’t ask for much, but she didn’t give very much either. That’s what I was thinking when Pattie Harrison appeared at the table and sat next to George, almost directly across from me. I’m afraid I stared at her for a moment in disbelief. Back in LA, when I was thinking about moving to London, I’d sometimes play a little game in front of my bathroom mirror. I’d imagine that Pattie and I were friends, sitting in her kitchen, laughing and talking about silly things, sharing our secrets. I know it might seem like I’m making all this up after the fact, but it’s the truth—I did daydream about being friends with Pattie long before I met her, and I had other dreams that came true, too.
But this was real life. I felt stupid sitting there watching everyone else talking and interacting. I needed to start a conversation and make a connection with someone, if only to justify my place at the table.
“I love the way you do your makeup,” I blurted out to Pattie. She looked confused, even a little flustered.
“Thank you,” she said after what seemed an eternity. Well, you’re in it now, I thought. Might as well keep the conversation going.
“Do you think you might someday show me how to do my makeup?” I said, stumbling a little over my words. Again she smiled at me, looking more amused than annoyed. Still, I was painfully aware that I was straddling a fine line between making a friend and making a complete fool of myself.
“I’m a friend of Derek’s,” I said. “I just moved to London last week, so I don’t know very many people. Perhaps we could get together sometime.” I couldn’t believe my own audacity.
“Yes,” she said, looking very queenly in her poise and stature. “That’s a possibility.”
Well, that was enough for me. I didn’t need a time, a date, or a place. All I needed was the possibility of spending an hour or two with Pattie Harrison.
The waiters were clearing the lunch plates, wineglasses were refilled, photographers and journalists jockeyed for position, and the hum of conversation died down as we turned our chairs to face the runway.
After the fashion show Derek and I walked down the King’s Road to the new Apple Boutique. John and Yoko were walking just ahead of us. When we came to a street corner, John slowed down and whispered something to Derek, who looked at me and smiled.
“He wanted to know who you were,” Derek told me a few minutes later. “ ‘Who is that attractive girl you’re with?’ were his exact words.”
An image flashed in my mind of the night when my sister and I, seated in the far reaches of the balcony at Dodger Stadium, watched the Beatles perform on August 28, 1966. They were so far away that they actually looked like tiny bugs (beetles?) moving around on the stage, but that didn’t matter to us because just knowing we were in the same place on earth as the Beatles was enough. And now John was walking just a few steps ahead of me on a London street, hand in hand with Yoko, wondering who I was. Even in my wildest dreams I could never have imagined this moment.