Yeah Yeah Yeah (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

2. A Daft Plan

October 1965
London / Somewhere over the Atlantic

Paul

Mal hustled me through the busy airport as we tried to look as unassuming as possible. A newsboy cap covered my hair, and my jacket collar was pulled high.

"Slow down," I hissed. "We look like we're fleeing the scene of a crime."

"Gotta keep moving," he replied as he huffed and puffed next to me. "You sure you don't want me to come with you?"

"Are you insinuating that I need an escort, Malcolm?"

"Didn't say that," he replied. He glanced my way, and I could see that it was killing him not to point out that I was in a terrible, absolute shit mood and just barely holding it together.

"I just know you hate flying," he continued as he patted his coat pockets in search of my boarding pass.

"I don't hate--" My voice was much louder than necessary, so I quickly lowered it to a stage whisper. "I don't hate flying. What sort of-- of-- of musician would I be if I couldn't manage to get from gig to gig in a timely fashion?"

"I'm sure you're right," he replied wearily as we neared the Pan Am gate. I wondered if Brian was already cross at him for enabling my departure by arranging the flight and getting me there.

"Just sort out the hotel and whatever else on the other side, yeah? I'm going to miss the flight."

"God forbid you don't get on the plane," he muttered, shoving his thick spectacles higher on his nose.

"What was that you said?"

"Nothing, nothing," he replied quickly. "Have a good trip, yeah? The lads said to come back quick and, uh, well, they mentioned that each day of missed studio time costs--"

"Send the bill to EMI," I replied. "And tell the lads I send them a big ta ra." I overemphasized the last bit sarcastically.

I was about to grab my ticket from his hand when I heard it:  the increase in the general commotion around me that signaled that I'd been spotted.

"Macca--" I heard the warning in Mal's voice.

"I know, I know."

"Do you want to--"

"It's too late."

The energy in the boarding hall had shifted, and I could feel all the eyes on me. It always happened this way: one person would notice me, and then another, and then one more and, finally, a girl more prone to hysterics would see me and--

"Oh my God, it's Paul! It's really him!"

"Bloody hell," Mal muttered under his breath as he jumped in front of me. I watched in slow motion as more and more people started to head towards us, and I closed my eyes for a brief second.

"Are the others here as well? Oh my God, it's the Beatles!"

"Give him some space," I heard Mal say, but his voice was distorted like we were underwater. I fixed my most affable smile on my face and, when I opened my eyes, the world was crystal clear.

"It's just me here today, girls... Hi... hiya... sure, I can sign that... cheers, that's kind of you to say... I'm glad you liked the record, ta... Don't push the others, love... You want me to sign this, are you sure!?... Chuffed to meet you too... I'm headed to Canada, as it were... Yeah, I've been before; a lovely country, isn't it?"

The words tripped off my tongue as Mal handed me a pen, and I signed whatever bits of paper were shoved my way.

"He's got to catch a flight; let him by, girls," Mal said, motioning towards the Pan Am counter where the gate agent was watching the hullabaloo.