In Your Atmosphere (Paul McCartney/Beatles Fanfiction)

Chapter 12 - Tomorrow May Rain

Letter from Paul, late September:

HOW I SPENT MY WEEKEND

Wake up. Think of you. Eat. Dream. Think of you.

Go to work. Listen to everyone talking. Think of you. Play music. Sing some songs. Run from fans. Drive a hundred kilometers farther from you. Count the stars. Smoke a few. Think of you.

New hotel. Bathe. Eat. Try to sleep. Think of you. Watch Telly. Drink Scotch. Think of you. Drink more Scotch. Sleep.

Wake up. Think of you. Eat. Smoke. Tune my guitar. Think about writing a song. Write to you instead.

Repeat chorus, fade to end.

xxx Paul xxx

Angela called later in the week, practically bursting with excitement. "Have you been to the Cotswolds?"

Marisol admitted she had not.

"Brilliant!" Angela gushed. "The lads have some time off, and Neil is hiring a cabin cruiser for a couple of days of camping on the Thames. Paul is coming, of course! How soon can you be here?"

Marisol checked her watch. She had barely an hour to toss some clothes into an overnight bag and catch the next train to London. "I'll be looking at you in two hours, with any luck," she promised.

On the train she watched the scenery rolling by and thought about Paul. Whether he was dating lots of girls she couldn't say, but he called her every night from a different town and they talked for hours. Paul showed a genuine interest in her. He asked all the right questions, wanted to know her thoughts, and remembered tiny details of things she told him. He openly introduced her to his friends and bandmates. He was invested in her. By the time she got into the city, her mind was made up. She would enjoy the next few months with Paul and stop thinking about what would happen after that. Keep it light and fun. That was all she was ready for anyway.

Angela met her at the train station, and they spent several hours tossing around ideas and shopping for meals they could cook in a boat's tiny galley. After a quick dinner of pub food, they went back to Angela's flat and drank wine and watched television until the national channel signed off. Then they checked the contents of their bags once more and climbed into Angela's double bed, giggling and whispering well into the night. Marisol could hardly wait for morning to come.

The weekend started blissfully with a light, soft breeze and stretches of sunny skies. Neil and Paul happily steered the boat while Angela and Marisol reclined on the deck and admired the views. They floated down a narrow stretch of the Thames, past rolling Cotswolds hills dotted with sheep, scattered farms and woodlands, through idyllic villages where all the buildings seemed to be made of the same warm, honey-colored stone, past ancient Saxon churches with their square towers that looked like giant chess pieces.

Along the way they waited in line at a series of locks, queuing with happy little families of pale, pink-cheeked British children with wind-chapped knees. Paul went unrecognizable in his sunglasses with his hair stuffed under a silly captain's hat. He had recovered from his cold but still sipped tea from a thermos for most of the morning. He carried his new Leica camera everywhere, and they took pictures of the scenery and of each other piloting the boat and posing together. For one photograph, he pulled Marisol onto his lap, placed his skipper's cap on her head, and planted a kiss on her cheek.

"There's the money shot," Angela teased. "How's about another one for the Daily Mail?"

"Whatever pays the rent," Paul said, giving Marisol's cheek another kiss. "Remember us at Christmastime after you've made your fortune."