Fall 1974
I couldn’t wait for the CSNY tour to end, but once it was officially over, I didn’t know what to do with myself. That’s how it goes with tours: the roller coaster comes to a slow halt, the crowds disperse, the gates lock behind you, and you walk away from the deserted fairgrounds, kicking at the empty pop cans and cardboard popcorn boxes, wondering what to do with the rest of your life.
“We might need you for the George Harrison tour in two months,” Barry said just before the end.
“Sure,” I said, “call me.” But first I needed a rest, so I flew to Jamaica to be with Pattie and Eric.
“Tell me about the tour,” Eric said, leaning across the table, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. He seemed so relaxed and self-confident that day as we talked on the patio of the exclusive Kingston Terra Nova Hotel, once the home of Island Records owner Chris Blackwell. Maybe he felt more secure now that he had his Layla. He and Pattie traded loving looks as I filled them in on the shenanigans of the last three months. Eric seemed to get a big kick out of all my detailed stories. Over the years, I learned that most musicians enjoy hearing about what goes on with other tours. It’s such an odd life, and not one that you share with many people, so when someone really understands how rigorous, ridiculous, silly, and sublime tours can get, it can be entertaining to sit around and trade stories.
Pattie and I spent several hours by the pool where we were joined by one of Eric’s backup singers and a couple of the musicians’ girlfriends. As I sat by the pool listening to their stories, laughing along with them even as I wondered what was so darn funny, feeling left out when they shared insider comments about the band or the tour they had just finished, I realized I was jealous. For so long it had been just Pattie and me, but now—now that she was with Eric—she’d found a whole new group of friends. I felt out of place. I’d just stepped out of the CSNY world, where I had a purpose, I was in control, and the people, even if they did drive me crazy, were familiar. But sunning next to Pattie in my new bikini, the palm trees swaying in the breeze overhead, I felt insecure and vulnerable. Days before, I was an insider and now I felt like an outsider—and I knew full well what that meant after my experiences on tour. The inner circle is close and tight, and anyone outside that enclosed space is viewed as out of touch and out of sync. Outsiders are considered a distraction from the ordinary routine of things.
When Pattie and I went shopping and got away from everyone else, I felt much better. I wasn’t crazy about the town of Kingston with all the goats wandering the dirty streets, the oppressive heat, and the pervasive odor of fragrant spicy food wafting from downtown restaurants intermingling with the pungent stench of garbage that had been cooking on the sidewalks for days. But Pattie and I laughed about old times, shared our own inside jokes, and cracked up when we walked by a McDonald’s restaurant and saw goat burgers on the menu.
I was tired that second night, but after dinner and several stiff drinks, Pattie and I were in the mood to keep partying. We asked the bartender to make us a pitcher of Brandy Alexanders that we could take with us to the studio, and off we went. I must have been drunk because as soon as we got there I went straight to the piano in the middle of the studio and started to play, with one finger, the only song I knew how to play—“Tammy” from the Debbie Reynolds movie Tammy and the Bachelor. The musicians and technicians were taking a break, and I figured, Oh, why the hell not. A few minutes later Tom Dowd, Eric’s producer, sat down next to me, playing the song with both hands, and I sang along with him. With Tom sitting next to me at the piano, playing one of my favorite old songs, I felt like I was back where I belonged with my trusted friends.
Pattie and Eric joined me in the studio and while Eric put vocals on one of the tracks, Pattie and I proceeded to polish off the pitcher. We sat in a little circle, the three of us, with Eric in the middle in front of the microphone. The tape kept running over and over as Eric laid down the vocal, always looking for “the one perfect take.” When Pattie left the studio for a minute during a break, I leaned closer to Eric. I was drunk, of course, which gave me courage and at the same time removed the filter that would have stopped me from making a total ass out of myself.
“You know, Eric, I had a dream about you once when I was living with Leon.” Although I was half wasted, I was telling the absolute truth about the dream. “I dreamed that you rescued me on a white horse. You swept through town and saved me. You were my knight in shining armor.”
Eric looked at me, eyes squinched together, an odd little smile at the corner of his mouth. I knew exactly what he was thinking: What the fuck are you talking about?
“Okay, Chris,” he said, laughing at me, not with me, “go have another drink.”
But I wasn’t quite done embarrassing myself. Listening to Yvonne Elliman, Eric’s backup singer, I began to imagine that I had an even better voice than she did. I started singing along, quietly at first, so no one noticed, but the more I sang, the louder I got. Pattie was giggling, which just encouraged me. Finally, Eric turned around and, not unkindly, told us to go home.
We laughed the whole way back to the hotel about how we had gotten kicked out of the studio, and when the car dropped us off, we went straight to the bar to get some more Brandy Alexanders. The bartender was gone for the night, but we finally convinced the night clerk to open the bar, and he let us make our own drinks.
Back in Pattie’s room, we started talking about George and how much we both missed him. Pattie loved Eric but still cared deeply about George—there was never any doubt in my mind about that. I once asked her if George or Eric was her “one true love.” After some thought, she answered, “Eric.” But later, after she and Eric were divorced, she told me that George was the love of her life.
“Let’s call him,” I said. I honestly had no intention of creating problems in Pattie’s relationship with Eric, at least not consciously, but I was definitely feeling nostalgic for the way things used to be. With George, I always felt included, and he was happy to leave me alone with Pattie as he pursued his own interests; but Pattie and Eric were inseparable, and there wasn’t much room left for me. I was being left behind and I didn’t like it one bit.
“Really? Do you think we should? It would be nice to talk to him,” Pattie said. We both started giggling again as Pattie dialed the number. It must have been around nine in the morning in England.
“George. It’s Pattie,” she said, turning to smile at me. I was so happy to hear her talking on the phone with George as if they were old friends and nothing bad had ever happened between them. The three of us were together again!
I was talking to George when Eric walked in. He stood in the doorway looking at us.
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, we’re talking to George,” Pattie said very calmly, standing up from the bed and moving toward him, almost as if she were trying to protect me. At the same time, I wanted to protect Pattie, and I said a little silent prayer of gratitude that she had passed the phone to me right before Eric walked in the room. He could blame me for the phone call. I was happy to take the rap on this one.
Eric’s jaw was clenched, and his eyes seemed to bore right through us. He’d walked in with an expectant look on his face, clearly looking forward to some private time with the woman he had loved with such passion for so many years. But within seconds his expression changed to anger. Fury. He threw his bag on the bed, fixed me with a deadly glare, and walked into the bathroom, slamming the door.
I looked at Pattie, who was visibly shaken. She came back to the side of the bed and slowly sat down, looking at me with wide, pleading eyes that conveyed both her fear and her helplessness.
I hurriedly ended the phone call. “Hey, George, I have to hang up now, we’ll try you back tomorrow,” I said as I put the phone in the receiver. My hands were shaking. I needed to get out of there. I picked up my purse, gave Pattie a quick hug, and was headed for the door when Eric threw open the bathroom door and strode over to Pattie, who was sitting on the bed.
“Why the fuck did you call him?” He was even angrier than he had been a few minutes before.
“We just wanted to say hello,” Pattie said, keeping her tone light.
“Chris, you better go back to your room,” Eric said in a low voice without even turning around to look at me.
“Okay,” I said, clutching my purse tighter and getting the heck out of there. “See you guys later.”
That night I had the most fitful sleep. I kept having recurring nightmares about strange, frightening people coming into my room, threatening me, and I’d wake up, startled and afraid. “The past is the past,” I kept repeating to myself, “nothing is going to happen to you.” Those nightmares were based on a real event. Just a year earlier, a friend of mine had been raped in this very hotel, maybe in this very room. “You’re safe, it happened a long time ago,” I kept reassuring myself, and after a while I’d drift back into a twilight sleep somewhere between waking and dreaming. Early that morning I woke up, the nightmarish fears dissolved by the morning light, but new worries troubling my mind as I remembered bits of the night before and realized that Eric was going to be really mad at me. He’d blame me for the whole thing. He’d probably ask me to leave.
I tossed and turned and finally made up my mind. I’d beat him to it. Eric was going to reject me, I had no doubt about that, so I’d preempt him by making the first move. Somewhere in life I’d learned that pattern worked, and I kept using it because it helped me avoid pain. I’m not sure I really thought about it, but I’d learned that if I left first, before things got ugly or out of hand, I could maintain some control over the situation. I discovered that strategy with my high school boyfriends, and I fine-tuned it with Leon when I moved out of his house hours after he told me we needed some time apart, with George when I announced I was leaving Friar Park before he could ask me to leave, with Apple when I basically forced them to fire me because I never showed up for work, and now I was repeating the pattern with Pattie and Eric. This was another rejection that I could avoid by staying one step ahead of him. That’s how I handled everything—work, love, friendship—I stayed one step ahead, seeing the problem before it occurred, adapting and adjusting before I was taken by surprise. Survival of the fittest, I convinced myself. The faster I could get out, the better.
I fell back asleep, then, and slept soundly because I had a plan.
I woke up with a pounding headache and a roiling stomach. My hands shook as I reached for the phone.
“George?” I spoke as cheerfully as possible into the phone.
“Chris?” George said, recognizing my voice.
“I’m so glad you’re there, George, it’s awful here, I have to get out. Eric is angry with us for calling you last night. Do you think I can come and stay for a week or so, would you be able to pay for my ticket, and pick me up at the airport?” I blurted it all out, and George just said yes, yes, yes, although I did pick up on a little amusement in his tone. What spindly webs we weave.
I called my friend Sara at Journeys, who booked me on a flight late that afternoon, but when I hung up the phone, I was suddenly filled with doubt. I felt like a traitor. I’d only been in Jamaica for two days, and now I was running away from Pattie and Eric, back to George and Friar Park. What was I doing? How could I face them? All these anguished questions kept running through my mind as I packed my bags—as always, I had too damn much stuff—and every time I bent over and straightened back up again, I’d have to run to the bathroom to throw up. It took me a good hour to pack. And then I waited. I couldn’t show my face until the very last minute, when I’d scurry out the door like a frightened little rat looking for another dark hole to hide in.
I crossed the reception area, head down, and was almost clear of the dining room when I heard Eric call my name.
“Chris! Come join us!” Eric was smiling, waving me over to the table. Pattie was smiling, too, that little secret smile of ours that said, Well, we had a little fun last night, didn’t we? I could tell they’d both been waiting for me to show up so they could razz me about my drunken behavior the night before. Fuck!
“How are you feeling this morning?” Eric said. I realized then that Eric wasn’t angry with me anymore. But I knew I was about to make him really, really mad.
“Hi,” I said, barely managing to say the word.
“Have you had breakfast?” Pattie said cheerfully. She looked fabulous, as always, her hair all done up with the blond wisps framing her gorgeous face, her makeup perfectly done, no wrinkles or bags under her eyes, no shaky hands or quaking insides.
“No, no thanks, no breakfast,” I said, just the thought of it making my stomach heave. “Listen, guys, I’ve got to leave.”
“Leave?” they both said at once.
“Where are you going?” Pattie asked in disbelief.
“I’m flying to London,” I stammered.
“What?” Pattie said.
“Why?” Eric asked.
“I just have to go.” They sat there staring at me. “I have a plane to catch.”
“Okay,” Pattie said.
“See ya,” Eric said.
I hugged them both good-bye and practically ran out the door to the waiting taxi. I was a traitor. I had betrayed their kindness, abused their friendship, chosen sides in their famous love triangle, and turned my back on my best friend. I chose George over Eric. Worse, I chose George over Pattie. I didn’t mean to do that. I didn’t intend to do anything. I wanted to be friends with them all, I wanted it to be like it used to be. I didn’t want anybody to be mad at me, and the very last thing I wanted was to hurt Pattie’s feelings. But I was embarrassed and ashamed, and I thought Eric would be angry with me, and Friar Park felt safe, George felt safe, so I figured this would work out best. I had really, really, really screwed everything up this time.
Kumar, Ravi Shankar’s nephew, picked me up at the airport. When we arrived at Friar Park, George was pulling up weeds in the garden, a trowel in his hand, a smile on his face, the spitting image of Chance the gardener.
“It’s good to see you, Chris,” he said, wiping his hands on his jeans and giving me a hug, followed by a questioning look. “Are you okay? You sounded really upset on the phone.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s talk about it later.”
Friar Park felt different—quiet, empty, lonely without Pattie there. I settled into my room and over the next few days George and I had some good talks.
“How are Pattie and Eric?” he asked one evening after dinner. Kumar had fixed a delicious Indian meal that night, then disappeared into the office on the other side of the house. He was so comfortable there, part of the Friar Park family, just as I had been so many ages ago. Was I still?
“They’re fine,” I said, telling him about the night in the studio and how drunk Pattie and I had gotten. He got a huge kick out of that story.
“It was strange being with them,” I admitted after a few glasses of wine. “I’m so used to you and Pattie being together.”
“Things are probably for the better,” he said and left it at that. I was hoping he’d talk about how much he missed Pattie and maybe confide that he still felt there was hope for their marriage, but as the days went by, I realized that George had moved on. He’d accepted what had happened, and he never uttered one word of sadness or regret, at least not to me. I almost got the feeling he was a little relieved that the marriage finally had come to its natural end. Neither he nor Pattie had been happy for a long time, but George didn’t seem bothered by the way things had worked out. It was almost as if he felt it had been preordained. He just accepted it and seemed to revel in his solitude, spending most of his time in the garden or playing his guitar, with no one else to think or worry about, no need to talk, no set schedule to follow.
The affair with Maureen was over, and Maureen had moved into a cottage in London while Ringo stayed with the children at the house in the country.
“So what’s going on with you and Ringo?” he asked me one day as we walked in the gardens, looking at the magnificent green lawn and the profusion of colorful flowers he had planted.
“Oh,” I said, my face flushing red, “you heard about that?” Well, of course, I realized—Maureen must have told him.
“Tell me about it,” he said, clearly interested in the details.
“Well, it was—awkward,” I said. How could I tell the story without getting into all my feelings of guilt and shame? Or the hurt? Ringo was now with Nancy Andrews, who had been my good friend during the beach house days with John and May. Nancy moved in with me when she broke up with Carl Radle. I originally introduced her to Ringo. How could I describe the rejection I felt? One day it was just over, and Ringo and I never talked about it again, but Nancy told me later that she talked to Ringo and expressed concerns about my feelings.
“Chris will understand,” Ringo said. He was right. I did. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.
I told George the story without all the emotional edging, and he listened intently, smiling in a way that told me he was gently amused by it all. George had this wider perspective on life, believing in the Hare Krishna philosophy that we are all children acting out our problems on this life’s stage, getting the nonsense out of our systems before ascending to the state of Nirvana. In this particular drama, George was the first actor on the stage, the one who started it all when he announced to Ringo that he was in love with Maureen, and from that point on, the whole thing had spun out of our control. Ringo and I were together, briefly; Pattie and Eric got together for however long that might last (I had my doubts but also my hopes for her happiness); George and Maureen broke up; Maureen was alone; Ringo was with Nancy; and who knew where it would all end.
“We’re going to a party,” George announced a few days later.
“Oh good,” I said. The party was at John Entwistle’s house—he was the bass guitarist for the Who—but it was no fun at all. In fact, it was probably the worst party of my life. I wandered around, feeling out of place because the only people I knew were George and Kumar. I kept looking for a familiar face, and then, to my complete surprise, I saw Pattie.
“Pat!” I said, edging my way into the group of women standing around her.
Pattie glanced at me for a split second, just a slight movement of her eyes, and then looked away and continued her conversation.
“Pattie,” I repeated. I knew I was interrupting the conversation, but this was Pattie, after all. I don’t know why, but it didn’t occur to me that she might be angry with me, still. I was just so happy to see her.
She stopped again, the conversation trailing off, and slowly turned toward me so that her back was to the group. “Oh hello, Chris,” she said with a dead stare.
I felt the blood rushing to my head. I’d never seen her act like that.
“Pattie, are you upset with me?” I blurted out.
“Well,” she said, her voice low but her tone sharp, almost cutting, “you left very abruptly. And Eric was very upset that you didn’t pay your hotel bill.” She turned back to the circle of women, which seemed to close around her, and I knew at that moment how angry she was with me. In Jamaica I had made a choice between her and George, and I had chosen George. I’d turned my back on her, and now—not out of malice or spite but from the fear of being betrayed again and the need to protect herself—she was turning her back on me.
What had I done? Had I lost my best friend? Pattie had never been mad at me, not once that I could remember, and I couldn’t bear to think that this moment might mark the end of our friendship. I was frantic to find George and get out of there. Searching through the crowded rooms, I ran right into Eric.
“Oh, God,” he said with a smile that looked more like a sneer. “Look who’s here.”
He drew back from me, almost as if he found me repulsive, and once again I ran away, looking for George. Finally, I found him and I pulled at his sleeve.
“We need to leave,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. He’d had enough of the party.
On the way back to Friar Park, I fought back tears. “Pattie and Eric are really mad at me,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. He seemed to know all about it.
“Did Eric talk to you?” I asked.
“He mentioned it,” George said with a shrug.
“Oh shit.” If Eric was angry with me, he would make it difficult for me to smooth things over with Pattie. He might try to come between us. He might even tell Pattie to forget about me.
Clapton Is God—I remembered the graffiti all over the London subways and storefronts. I felt the power of Eric Clapton coming between me and Pattie, and it terrified me. He could take her away from me.
“Don’t worry,” George reassured me, steering the Mercedes around a steep bend, “it will all blow over soon.”
One night during that trip to England, I stayed with Maureen at her London apartment. We talked for hours, drinking Scotch and smoking one cigarette after another. I told her what had happened with Pattie and Eric. She shook her head, the same gently amused smile on her face that George had when I told him the story of what happened with me and Ringo.
She took the cigarette holder out of her mouth and tapped it against the ashtray before speaking the words that summed up all of it, every last ounce of it. “It’s all gone to hell in a handbag, hasn’t it?”