In Your Atmosphere (Paul McCartney/Beatles Fanfiction)

Chapter 10 - Hold Me Tight

Don't know what it means to hold you tight,
Being here alone tonight with you,
It feels so right now, feels so right now.

Hold me tight,
Tell me I'm the only one,
And then I might,
Never be the lonely one,
So hold me tight, to-night, to-night,
It's you, you you you...

The Beatles had left the building. Within minutes, Mal was on the riser at the back of the stage, dismantling Ringo's drum kit. The wooden stage floor was littered with boxes of chocolates with notes attached, stuffed animals, articles of clothing, and colorful bits of smashed candies. Beyond the curtain, the screams from the theatre died down while "God Save the Queen" played, but as soon as it was over the screaming started up again.

With her ears still ringing. Marisol slouched on the sofa in the dressing room and watched Angela fix herself a drink. A telephone jangled on a table in front of the sofa.

"They were dead brilliant." Angela settled beside her holding a tumbler of scotch.

"Brilliant," Marisol mumbled in agreement, remembering Paul in that dark suit. Sweet baby Jesus. He was born to wear that suit. He looked pretty amazing in jeans and a rumpled shirt, too, with his hair all mussed and a five o'clock shadow, leaning over her on her grandmother's couch, his eyes dark with desire, his hand sliding up her thigh--

"Now I know what all the fuss is about." Angela's voice snapped Marisol out of her reverie.

"It's like..." Marisol floundered, trying to find the words for how she felt, seeing the band perform for the first time. "Do you know how some performers have that elusive quality that forces every pair of eyes to track them onstage? It's more than charisma, it's magnetism, and the Beatles have it, all four of them. Stage presence."

"That's why all over the country girls are going off their nuts. Sensory overload," Angela said. "I've never seen a crowd as crackers as that. Bloody madness. I'm deafened."

The phone beside them continued to ring. "Geez, what is it with this phone?"

"Cor, just answer it." Angela jerked up the receiver. "Hello?" After a pause she said, "Sorry love, there's nobody here but us charwomen." Another pause. "Right love, will do. Stop ringing the phone, will you?"

Angela replaced the receiver with a snicker. "Please tell Paul McCartney he doesn't know me but I'm very pretty and I'll be in the third booth at the Coffee House after the show," she repeated in a breathless Midlands accent.

Marisol gave an unamused laugh. "Another case of sensory overload." She noticed a guestbook on the table and picked it up, flipping to the last page of names. Paul, George, and Ringo had all signed it, each giving "London" as their address. On the last line, someone had signed "Elvis Presley" with the address "Heartbreak Hotel." In the comments section "Elvis" had written "Love Meat Tender."

Mal wandered in and out, lugging equipment and band members' personal belongings. When the crowd outside the stage door had dispersed and the dressing room was empty of Beatles gear, Mal drove them to their car, instructing them to follow him to the hotel.

Dozens of girls milled around the hotel, clutching autograph books and cameras, chattering and squealing. Marisol and Angela followed Mal briskly through the lobby and into an elevator. On the fourth floor, a security guard nodded at Mal and let them pass.

At the end of the hallway, they were ushered into a typical English hotel room, all oranges and greens, with two twin beds and a low dresser. A door in the center of one wall led to a living area with a single long sofa and a collection of lounge chairs. Against the wall was a sideboard with sodas and the ubiquitous bottles of single malt scotch.