91. The Light That Has Lighted The World

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I've heard how some people, have said
That I've changed
That I'm not what I was
How it really is a shame


'Hi,' I say, with a hopeful smile.

He stares at me, wide-eyed and stunned. A ghostly apparition on his doorstep. The last person he was expecting to see. The last person he wanted to see.

'Is this not a good time?' I ask, nervously when a minute has passed and he still hasn't said anything.

'Uh, not really, no,' he says, bluntly.

'Oh. I'm sorry. I... uh...'

I've just spent forty minutes hiding around the corner, waiting for the last of his fans to drift away for the night. I didn't want anyone to see me arriving here and there's always girls loitering outside his gates. I don't know how he stands it. The ones that wait for George drive me crazy and his are worse.

Paul steps forward, looking around the side of the door, checking the driveway behind me.

'It's just me,' I tell him. 'I'm on my own.'

'What do you want?' he asks, abruptly.

'I... um... I don't...' I stutter, taken aback. 'Nothing. Sorry. I'll go.'

I turn to leave, shocked and a little upset, but Paul puts his hand on my wrist, stopping me. He steps out onto the doorstep with me. His feet are bare. 'If this is about that letter, some last ditch attempt to get me to move the release date you can tell them to get stuffed!'

'What? What letter?'

'George and John have sent you, haven't they? Like they sent Ringo. Too fucking cowardly to do their own dirty work, as usual. Send a girl in their place, do they?'

'I don't know what... what you're...' I crumple into tears before I can reach the end of the sentence.

Paul blinks at me and lets go of my arm. 'Oh, uh, hey, Hannah, I didn't--'

'Paul?' Linda says, arriving in the doorway. She takes one look at me and pushes him to one side. 'What are you doing? What have you said to her?'

'I'm sorry!' Paul cries, the hostility dropped from his voice. 'I'm sorry, Han. I didn't mean to make you cry--'

'Get out of the way, Paul. Let her inside,' Linda snaps at him and leaning out of the door takes my hand to pull me into the house.

'It's okay, I'll go. I shouldn't have come here uninvited,' I say, but as I do, Linda closes the door behind me.

'Nonsense,' Linda says. 'You're welcome here anytime. Take no notice of Paul, he's...' She casts a glance at Paul and he attempts a weak smile. 'He's not feeling himself at the moment. Come through to the kitchen. We'll have a drink.'

I let her lead me towards the kitchen at the rear of the house as Paul bounces around behind me, apologising. Martha, Paul's Old English Sheepdog bounds through the hall and jumps up at Paul. She barks and skips at his heels, thinking it's some kind of game.

Number 7, Cavendish Avenue, Paul's home in the middle of St John's Wood, is a three storey, five bedroom town house. It's by no means small but compared to Friar Park, Tittenhurst Park, or even Ringo's Sunny Heights, it's very modest for a Beatle. The kitchen is at the back of the house. It's covered floor to ceiling in white ceramic tiles and kitchen tops, a sink and a modern looking cooker line three of the four walls. The room is dominated by a large rectangular wooden table in the centre. With six chairs around it, it only just fits.

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