Peggy Lipton

From Wikipedia:

Margaret Ann Lipton was an American model, actress, and singer. She made appearances in many of the most popular television shows of the 1960s before she landed her defining role as flower child Julie Barnes in the crime drama The Mod Squad (1968–1973), for which she won the Golden Globe Award for Best Actress – Television Series Drama in 1970.

After The Mod Squad, Lipton married musician Quincy Jones and began a 15-year hiatus from acting, during which she raised her two children, Kidada and Rashida Jones. She returned to acting in 1988, performing in many TV roles, including Norma Jennings in David Lynch’s Twin Peaks. […]

In August 1964, taking a break from their US tour, The Beatles went to a charity event at the Bel Air residence of Alan Livingston, the president of Capitol Records. During the event, Paul McCartney met 17-year-old Peggy Lipton and they had a short-lived romance.

[…] The Fab Four under a tree. They looked cute. Just like the photos I had strewn across the walls of my bedroom. But I knew they weren’t the cuddly mop tops they were pretending to be. You knew that when you got up close. John’s twisted smile, for one thing, suggested a lot of strange thoughts could be going on in his head. Ringo, sporting a huge grin, seemed utterly bemused and nonchalant about it all. George was wiry and agile, adjusting his body to shake as many of the little hands as he could. I watched Paul. It felt like he was doing a sort of music-hall soft shoe routine for the crowd.

He was being a showman, a carny The nice one who could engage the multitudes. I didn’t know if I’d be able to talk when my turn came. What was there to say? My mind went completely blank.

Okay, so John greeted me first, then George took my hand. I hardly remember them. Paul was the one I was watching and my heart was pounding too loud, sounding like thunder in my ears. “Look, Peggy,” I said, trying to get a grip on myself. “He’s being really sweet with these kids.” I was admiring that while he was looking down and patting them on the head. All of a sudden I felt him looking at me and it was a totally different look. It was filled with promise and sexuality and I was stunned.

“Come on, Peggy, you can do it. Shake hands!” Earl was shouting as he was photographing me. I was embarrassed. “Please stop, Earl,” I thought. But this was a great moment for him, too. He actually saw his diligent work paying off. I wanted Paul at that moment as much as I had ever wanted anything in my life. I came face to face with him.

“Hello,” I said, and he shook my hand and looked at me. “My god, you’re beautiful,” he said. “You’re not so bad yourself,” I replied, like an idiot. A year in the planning and that was all I could come up with?

My knees under the pink silk skirt buckled. I was madly in love with Paul McCartney, or should I say even more madly in love-knowing full well that disaster lay ahead. How could it be otherwise? Every woman wanted Paul.

“Well, move on. Next person,” said a disembodied voice from hell. I went to the next person who was George Harrison or whomever. I couldn’t have cared less. I had made the connection. Paul had looked at me with his puppy dog, long-lashed, beautiful eyes and that was it. Paul moved on with his conversation and charmed the next fan in line.

I grabbed Earl, who was positively gleeful. “What am I going to do now? You have to give him my number.” Poor Earl. And then I realized I also had to work it out so that Jill would be able to come with me. Earl slipped a note to somebody. “Peggy really likes Paul,” it said, “and here’s her number.” Later on, the band’s press agent called Earl to hook up and I was asked to come to a bash that evening. […]

The Beatles were staying at someone’s very large home in Bel Air. I arrived almost sick to my stomach with butterflies. I had only lost my virginity six months earlier and I’d been thinking about Paul for a year. He greeted me sweetly. He played the piano. The next thing I knew we were on our way upstairs. Upstairs, we both knew what would take place. I tried to stretch it out. The fantasy was playing out a little too fast. He took me in his arms and kissed me. May I say that this was the kiss of my dreams? As good, passionate, tender and exciting as I ever could have imagined. […]

During our lovemaking, I caught myself … thinking. How was this making me feel? Special? Connected in any way? I didn’t have to pretend how attracted to Paul I was. My body felt like it was being covered in molten lava. Every touch, every movement of his was erotically plugged into my psyche. […]

He sat at the piano and played me a song. I got the feeling it all applied to me. “If when he calls she runs away and he calls her back, she comes. If there’s a next time he’s okay ’cause she’s under both his thumbs.” We had slept together; I had succeeded in my mission and the evening was over. […]

Paul called the next night and I went back. Well, of course I did. Once couldn’t be enough. The second time we were together, I was even more nervous and upset. I wanted to make love to try to cement a bond. […] I didn’t see Paul again that summer. He left town as the tour moved on.

Peggy Lipton – From “Breathing Out: A Memoir” by Peggy Lipton, David Dalton, Coco Dalton, 2005

My Two Days with the Beatles:  The Story of a Beatlemaniac’s Dream Come True (By Peggy Lipton)

Editor’s Note:  This story was written especially for TS by Peggy Lipton, the girl who lived the wonderful Beatle adventure you’re about the share.  Peggy is 18, a successful model, a student at Valley Junior College in Van Nuys, California and is being tested by Columbia pictures.  But, most of all, Peggy is a true Beatlemaniac.  Because of this, the tie she spent with the Beatles was as rewarding to them as it was to her.  Getting to know at least one of their American fans helped at least a little make up for the chaos that prevented them from meeting many more.  Peggy did her part to make The Beatles welcome to our country.

All of us have impossible dreams.  And mine was the same as nearly every other girl in the world. I wanted to meet the Beatles.

I’d wanted to ever since England’s singing mopheads took over the number one spot on the charts and in everyone’s hearts.  Pictures of John, Paul, George and Ringo hung in abundance on the walls of my room.  And I guess I spent probably too much time staring at my four favorites, hoping, wishing and dreaming.

I hope I can put into words how I felt when my dream came true.  I’ll try hard  because I realize I was one of the very lucky few who did get to see them, and I want to share every second of my hours with The Beatles with the other girls whose dreams didn’t come true (this time).

It all started with a phone call.  The voice on the other end belonged to an old friend.  Ron Joy, a Hollywood photographer and traveling companion of the Beatles during their American tour was calling to say hello.

But that wasn’t all he said.  He also asked me if I’d like to meet The Beatles that evening.

I don’t have to tell you that I near died right on the spot.   How I managed to finish our conversation, I’ll never know.  I started laughing.  Then crying.  I ran around the house, searching frantically for just the right dress to wear.  But I guess luck was doubly with me that night because when Ron arrived, I was breathless shaking, but ready to go.

The trip the Beatles’ house in Bel-Air was the most nerve-wracking drive I’ve ever experienced.  I couldn’t hear a word Ron was saying to me.  All I was conscious of was a ringing in my ears and the butterflies in my stomach and a voice repeating “this is it…the moment you’ve waited for.”

When we finally arrived, the barricades at St. Pierre Road were thickened with anxious teenagers.  As they swarmed about some looked at me enviously.  Others with hurt expressions in their eyes.   They all knew where I was going, and as we were cleared at the gates and preceded to the house I felt a twinge of guilt.

But the twinge soon disappeared.  As Ron stopped the car, I was suddenly filled with panic.  I’d waited so long for this moment.  What would I do when I finally met the boys I’d dreamed of?

I hardly had time to answer my question because George Harrison clad in hip-hugging jeans, came to welcome us.  Even in my fog I clearly saw that his photographs hadn’t done him justice.   His thin face and smoldering eyes made me gasp for breath.  The way he looked at me, I thought he could hear my heart pounding.  I know I could!

When George led us into the living room, both he and Ron seemed to slip away, and there I stood among the many faces and loud music.  My eyes searched hopeless for an empty chair, but in the next second, I became aware of someone staring at me.  I turned to find Paul McCartney extending his hand.  I took it anxiously and lost myself in his huge, sensitive eyes.  He was more handsome than I’d ever imagined.  His hair and eyelashes were dark and thick and he wore a reddish-orange tee shirt with black slacks.  I couldn’t believe this famous boy was standing in front of me for real, and in living color!

Paul and I found two empty seats by the record player and began talking to the sound of a Beach Boys album. I amazed myself by being able to carry on a reasonably sensible conversation (in spite of the fact that I could scarcely breathe) and we discussed everything imaginable. When Paul left for a moment to get me a Coke, he returned with Ringo (a living doll who goes beyond description). After the introductions were over Ringo said, “Come on, I haven’t danced with an American bird all night.” Then he led me to the dance floor and went into the step that makes him look like a boxer taking pot shots at a punching bag. We danced an exhausting twenty minutes, and might have continued all night if Paul and John Lennon hadn’t come to the rescue.

John appeared huskier than the other boys, his hair softer and redder. Square sunglasses hid his eyes. His handshake was firm.  His wit sharply original.

The three of us talked, mostly of music. When I asked Paul if he played the piano, he nodded no, very shyly. But within two minutes he was across the room, pounding out a new song he and John had written the previous night.

By this time, most of the other guests had left, including Ron (who had to be up early the next morning).  I dreamily shared the piano bench with Paul as he and road manager Derek Taylor made up lyrics to a catchy tune.  When Ringo’s favorite song was layed, he sang solo. (He’s a ham, but a loveable one).

Both he and Paul imitated Ringo’s father when he enthusiastic about the boys’ hits.  We laughed a lot about a lot of things, but the funniest thing of them all happened in the kitchen when Paul tried to call a cab for me.  After dialing the number, he waited on the phone for a few minutes.  Finally I put my ear to the receiver and found he’d been listening to a busy signal all along. Trying to explain that telephone signals work just the opposite way in England, he sat in a tray of melted ice. Both George and I roared with laughter, and Paul soon joined in.

And when he took me to the waiting cab he asked if I’d like to return the next day. I smiled and said I’d love to, while secretly my heart flew out of control.

When I arrived the following day, I found I was the only outsider invited for dinner.  After roast beef and chocolate cake we sat around the huge table, reading telegrams and looking at the clothes George and Paul ad bought that afternoon. Paul had a herringbone jacket and George a gold shirt with big puffy sleeves.  Ringo polished his six-shooters.  

Later on, Paul, George and I fled past the barricades (crammed with screaming fans) to the home of Burt Lancaster to see a movie. Ringo stopped the show at the Lancasters by tearing into the house, guns at hand yelling, “Stick ‘em up!”  Fascinated by the heated pool, George and Ringo decided to explore and ended up taking a midnight swing.

When George and Ringo went to join John at the Whiskey a Go-Go, Paul and I returned to the house in Bel Air and fixed ourselves coffee and hamburgers. Just being alone with Paul for this short hour was the most wonderful part of my dream come true.

The other Beatles returned a little later, slightly peeved from the overanxious crowd at the nightclub.  But Paul and I struck up a duet on the piano and had everyone smiling in seconds. The night wore on midst laughs and songs until I knew it was time to say goodbye.

The goodbyes weren’t prolonged because we all felt a hint of sadness. Especially me. The boys were leaving the next day, and we expressed the hopes that someday soon our paths would cross again. 

Then each one put his arm around me and kissed me.

As I started my car and drove away, I realized that Cinderella’s night was over. And I didn’t try awfully hard to fight back the tears.

I know I’ll never forget the Beatles. And I can only hope they won’t forget me. Not for a little while, anyway.

Peggy Lipton – From Teen Screen Magazine (December 1964?)

The Beatles toured the US again in August 1965, and Peggy Lipton saw Paul again.

A year later, the Beatles came back to Los Angeles on tour. I had pulled myself together. I was working on a consistent basis. I was dating and going out. But somehow I knew I would see Paul again. He had a serious girlfriend in England, Jane Asher, but when he called me I went to see him with hardly a hesitation. The Beatles were renting a house in Benedict Canyon, and it was there that I first smoked grass.

I came for dinner, and I was the only girl there. John definitely didn’t like that. He didn’t like me being there at all. He was mean and sarcastic. As far as he was concerned, I had no business being invited to dinner with the four of them. For him this was an exclusive boys’ club. […]

At one point, the boys were handing around a scrapbook—looking at pictures of that first tour. John made some snide comment like, “What is she doing here?” I got the idea that he thought Paul was an idiot to take a girl so seriously he’d actually invite her to dinner, when all he really needed to do was fuck her after dinner. Get me away from this, I thought to myself. When Paul suggested we smoke a joint, it sounded like a great idea. […] Paul and I emerged from the bathroom and floated into the living room where there was a film being screened. We had a few laughs in the dark; he held my hand. But I was way too high. A sinking feeling began to take over; Paul was tuning out. […]

Usually talkative and animated, Paul became silent in bed. We made love, and for a while my anxieties receded, but as he drifted in and out of sleep, I knew I was losing him. I lay there for a while crying — without him knowing—and then I got up, gathered my clothes and silently slipped out the door.

This was really terrible. Horrible. I should never have gotten high with him, I thought on the way home. I knew that Paul didn’t want me anymore, that it was all over — my life was over.

I didn’t see Paul again on that particular trip. […] By the time the Beatles left town that week, I had to face the truth. I wasn’t going to have a future with Paul. So obvious, yet I was utterly consumed with grief and loss. Even so, I couldn’t blame him. […]

Peggy Lipton – From “Breathing Out: A Memoir” by Peggy Lipton, David Dalton, Coco Dalton, 2005

In June 1968, Paul travelled to the USA for Apple’s promotional activities. He was to attend the Capitol Convention in Los Angeles and present The Beatles’ vision for their new label, Apple, to the Capitol Records executives. Peggy Lipton recounts in her autobiography that Paul called her upon landing in New York, inviting her to meet him in Los Angeles. He also reached out to Linda Eastman, whom he had met in May 1968 during a promotional trip to New York with John Lennon, and who would become his wife in March 1969.

When Peggy Lipton arrived at his hotel in Los Angeles, she was heartbroken to see him and Linda Eastman emerging from his room.

I wish I could say Paul McCartney never crossed my mind. But two years after the last (and I thought final) fling with him, he returned to Los Angeles for a short holiday. My god. I thought. Not again. I’d been through so much crazy pain, and was finally over it — or so I thought. Still, an alcoholic goes back for just one more drink thinking, “Come on, I can handle it.“

He called me at work. “Hi,” he said. “It’s Paul. I’m in New York.” “Oh, hi.” “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Oh, really?’’ was all I could say. What I thought was: Looking for me, like, how? Every two years for a few minutes? “I’m coming out to California and want to know if I can see you.”

I was able to spit our a few words, and for once they were the right ones, even though I was being hypocritical by still being with Lou. I just couldn’t help myself. ”I can’t see you if you’re seeing other girls. I just can’t do it.” 

”There’s no one else, luv. The only person who’s around is a photographer who’s traveling with us. I think she likes me, but other than that, there’s no one, honest.” Maybe I should have wondered about that long explanation. “Okay,” I said, “but don’t bother calling me unless you’re really free.” With that said, I felt that I had at least put some limits on my obsession with him. I was wrong.

“Peggy, can you come over to the Beverly Hills Hotel?” he asked. “I really need to see you.” He then proceeded to fall asleep while talking to me on the phone. Then he woke up, talked a bit more… and fell asleep again. Did this stop me from wanting to see him again? Wanting to feel his kisses and burn in the very hot unpredictable cauldron of love? Absolutely not.

“Please, please come over,” Paul said, in one of his waking moments. Well, what else could I do? I went. I actually snuck out of Lou’s house and jumped into my little red Porsche convertible, hair flying in the night air, and whizzed over to the Beverly Hills Hotel. I’d been living with this man for a year. It didn’t matter now. I had to see Paul.

It was four in the morning when I got there.

“He’s sleeping, young lady,” one of the band’s road managers told me, as if to say, “Really, we can’t wake the young prince, now, can we?” I thought to myself, wait a minute, why did Paul call me to come over? I was trying to be cool about it, but I didn’t know how to be cool. Leaving would probably be as close to cool as I could get at this point, but I wasn’t going to give up. I was there. Stuck between the I-should-be-cooI Peggy and I-want-something-to-happen Peggy, I just sat there into the night as the road manager chatted me up. He’d seen The Mod Squad and wanted to know all about it.

“Well, luv,” he eventually said, “we have a boat excursion planned for tomorrow morning and I’m sure Paul will be coming along.” Okay. My mind was speeding. I decided to just sit there and charm the roadie and wait until Paul woke up. And that was exactly what I did. I sat there until around eight o’clock in the morning, nervous as could be. Even worse, I found I still had feelings. Big bad feelings I knew I shouldn’t have had.

It was daylight when Paul emerged from the bungalow—and like a scene from a Beatles movie, he was strumming a guitar and singing to me. At least I thought he was singing to me. Was I dreaming? He was by himself, and he had a guitar hanging around his neck, playing a little song for me. We looked at each other and the heat between us was ignited again.

Someone interrupted my moment and announced, “You’re all going to the boat.” Roadies, techies, P.R. people, flacks, and flunkies were leaving, but the only person I saw was Paul.

As I gathered my things, preparing to join him, I spotted a woman coming out of the bedroom in Paul’s bungalow. Apparently, she had shown up before I arrived, and Paul, in his altered state, had conveniently forgotten I was on my way.

Paul and this girl were making a dash for the limousine, hiding their heads as if caught in a sudden hailstorm. It was like something out of A Hard Day’s Night. I couldn’t believe what I saw—they were actually running away from me. Down the path of the Beverly Hills Hotel they went leaping into the limo and crouching down. And I ran, too—I guess because I was so mad. “Wait!” I said, as the car pulled out of the driveway. Paul and the woman crouched down low to avoid seeing me as they drove away.

I had left my boyfriend asleep in our house. I’d come over here—and then found Paul with someone else. I was beyond pissed. I stormed into the bedroom and wrote: “You made your choice” across the mirror in the girl’s lipstick, and then I just cried and cried and cried. […]

I got a call from my agent that week. “There’s a card for you in my office I think you might want to see,” he said. “It’s from Paul.” He sent it over. It was a postcard of the fucking Beverly Hills Hotel. Why would I want a picture of the fucking Beverly Hills Hotel? Not exactly fond memories. But at least I was finally finished with this business of loving Paul McCartney.

Peggy Lipton – From “Breathing Out: A Memoir” by Peggy Lipton, David Dalton, Coco Dalton, 2005

[Paul] found plenty of time to amuse himself in a bungalow of the Beverly Hills Hotel. He staged that weekend what Ron Kass called “The Paul McCartney Black and White Minstrel Show.” In one bedroom Paul installed a beautiful young Hollywood starlet. In the other bedroom he kept one of L.A.’s most famous black call girls. Kass, who was sharing the three-bedroom bungalow with Paul, got to watch his juggling act. He spent the weekend making trips from one bedroom to the other, stopping only to sign room-service bills. On Sunday morning a ringing telephone interrupted the proceedings. It was Linda Eastman. She had flown to California at her own expense and was at that moment in the hotel lobby, speaking to Paul from the house phone.

Paul didn’t skip a beat. He told her to come right on over to the bungalow. She appeared at the door a few minutes later, and Paul brought her right into the sitting room. He knocked on the door of each occupied bedroom and told the girls to dress and split. He and Linda chatted away nonchalantly on the sofa while the Black and White Minstrel Show packed and left in tears. Linda and Paul couldn’t have treated the situation more casually. They seemed just as blase when Peggy Lipton, an American actress who at the time was filming the popular TV series Mod Squad, appeared unannounced on the doorstep of the bungalow to make a declaration of love for Paul. Paul explained he was busy and shut the door in her face. Linda spent the night, and the next day Paul took her sailing with him on the yacht of John Calley, then head of production at Warner Brothers.

Peter Brown – From “The Love You Make: An Insider’s Story of the Beatles“, 2002

On returning to the bungalow, Linda passed around a Victorian cloth drawstring bag stuffed full of grass. In London this bag became her trademark, the legendary ‘spice-bag’ that [Ronnie] Plonk Lane of the Faces wrote about in a song. All kinds of music people started to drop by, like Roger McGuinn from the Byrds. Boyce and Hart, the songwriters for the Monkees, telephoned to invite us to one of their notorious toga parties, a Hollywood version of a Roman orgy. Paul asked me to turn down all invitations so he could spend time alone with Linda. I did, but a leggy young starlet named Peggy Lipton, who had met Paul during their last America tour and still had designs on him, kept calling all through the night.

Tony Bramwell – From “Magical Mystery Tours: My Life with the Beatles“, 2005

The next day, Ron Kass was invited to go sailing on the boat belonging to movie director Mike Nichols of The Graduate. Mike and Dustin Hoffman, the film’s star, had always been two of Paul’s biggest fans, and Mike extended the invitation to include us all, but Paul knew that if Linda went with him on the boat, the news [of their relationship] would get out very quickly. He was torn between going, or keeping her a secret for a little longer by hiding her back in the bungalow. In the end he decided they would both go, and Linda could always say she was just taking pictures.

As we left the hotel to get into the limo, [actress] Peggy Lipton suddenly appeared, bikini and towel packed in her beach bag, ready to spend the day with us. Somebody must have told her we were going sailing. ‘Oh my God,’ said Paul when he spotted her. ‘She can’t come.’

I had to tell her in the nicest possible way that it was a private party, while Linda stood quietly to one side pretending she wasn’t with us. Peggy was very upset and got very argumentative. I realised that she needed the publicity for her career and had been told to make sure she got it, but Paul was tired of girls who used him. We drove off fast, leaving Peggy standing on the hotel steps in tears.

It was one of those perfect days, though not for Peggy, of course. We sailed to Catalina, feeling like Bogart and Bacall for whom the island was a favourite destination, along with the Flynns and the Fairbanks. We dived off the sides of the sailboat into the clear blue sea where dolphins swam, sunbathed on the decks, ate bacon sandwiches and drank champagne. It was a wonderful day, an antidote to the months of madness in London.

Tony Bramwell – From “Magical Mystery Tours: My Life with the Beatles“, 2005

Peggy Lipton married producer Quincy Jones in 1974. In 1982, Quincy Jones produced Michael Jackson’s album “Thriller,” featuring a duet between Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney. This led to an awkward final encounter between Peggy Lipton and Paul and Linda McCartney.

In what I believe was a haunting twist of fate, Quincy pulled an old boyfriend back into my life — my teenage love, Paul McCartney. All of a sudden Quincy was producing a single with Paul and Michael Jackson. It seemed to come out of nowhere. “You’ve got to come to the sessions,” he’d say. “Why would I want to do that?” I’d answer. I had no interest in seeing Paul again. […]

Quincy went to Arizona where Linda and Paul had a house and a recording studio. He was very fond of Linda. “They want you to come down here. Linda, especially, wants to meet you,” he’d say, and kept pressing it. The idea of going to Arizona and staying in the same house with Paul and Linda was overwhelming. Hmm, maybe I wasn’t exactly over it; I was resisting too much. I became vehement in my refusal to show my face at the McCartney residence or in the studio. I made as many excuses as I could think of not to go. One night at a recording studio in Los Angeles, they were putting the last touches on the Paul and Michael single, “The Girl Is Mine.” Quincy called me at home and said, “Bear, if you don’t come in tonight, they’re going to think something is wrong.”

I got to the studio […] Inside it was dark and smoky, but right away I spotted Paul at the control panel. For an instant, I didn’t know where I was. My heart was beating so fast I could barely think. Paul looked up and said, “Oh, hello, Mrs. Jones,” as upbeat as ever. “Oh, hello,” I replied and we gave each other a peck on the cheek. […]

“Bear,” Quincy said. “This is Linda.” […] “Niiiice to seeeeeeeeeee you, Linda,” I said, feeling the words expand as I spoke. She looked at me through the haze and said, “Nice to seeeeee you … again!”

Again? Shit. Did that mean she remembered our encounter eighteen years before at the Beverly Hills Hotel—the morning she and Paul ran away from me and into the waiting limousine?

I went home that night and cried. So many years had come full circle and I needed to mourn the end of the adolescent in me, the ultrasensitive kid who had given her whole heart to her teenage love. During the next week, Linda and Paul spent a lot of time at our house. I babysat for their children, taking them along with mine when we went shopping for toys and trinkets. I wanted to please them and Quincy—and also to prove to all parties involved that I had no feelings left for Paul.

During those few days I was around Linda McCartney, I grew to like her. She was honest about things that dismayed her; like Paul’s marijuana bust in Japan and the short jail sentence that followed. She also adored her children. […]

Peggy Lipton – From “Breathing Out: A Memoir” by Peggy Lipton, David Dalton, Coco Dalton, 2005

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