Marisol was dozing on the couch in the sitting room under a crocheted afghan when the phone rang. Startled into semi-wakefulness, she fumbled for the phone and knocked the receiver to the floor. She reeled in the cord and dragged the receiver to her ear and mumbled a groggy hello.
"I need you," Paul said, his voice raspy. "I'm ill. My throat is dodgy and my lungs hurt. I need you to take off all your clothes and put on your yellow mac because it's raining. And maybe some boots. High heels. Drive to Taunton. King's Hotel, room 216. I need to slide my hands under your mac and feel your luscious, warm, sweet body. And bring your kettle. And vitamins."
"Who is this again?"
There was a pause. "It's the man you most want to shag in all of Britain."
"Oh, hi Winston Churchill."
There was a bark of laughter followed by a groan and a raspy cough. "Ow, it hurts to laugh. Why do you hate my body and my lungs so much?"
"Still Winston."
"Come here," Paul said, his gravelly voice sounding even more sexy than usual.
"It's a very tempting offer." Marisol stretched carefully, rubbing the kink in her neck. "I'm sorry you're sick. What happened?"
"You were too much for me. I'm old."
"You are old but you probably have a few good years left."
"When can I see you again? We don't have much time, given my age."
"I'm flying today if the weather clears up. I'll tilt my wings to you. Where are you again?"
"Taunton."
"I don't even know what you're saying."
"It's in Somerset. They've a lovely monastery, from the 10th century."
"Good lord. It sounded like you said the 10th century."
"We've got history, love. It's not like where you're from, where the oldest building is probably a two hundred year old wooden house."
"In Somerset," she mused. "You do get around."
There was a muffled sound followed by a spurt of coughing on Paul's end of the phone. "Cor," he said at last. "I feel like shite and it's monkey balls in here. It must be abar minus 40. Bloody radiator."
She'd no idea what monkey balls meant but assumed it was probably preferable to not be monkey balls. "Do you think Brian should phone a doctor?"
"No." He coughed into the receiver and moaned.
She winced, thinking how raw his voice sounded and knowing he couldn't go home and recover in his own bed.
"If you won't come be my nurse, I'll have to recuperate on my own. You know Angela is having us for dinner sometime this week. She and our Neil have a thing apparently."
"Really? I hadn't noticed." Marisol sighed, remembering how Angela had talked nonstop about Neil all the way back to London.
Paul coughed again and it sounded as if he dropped the phone. After a few seconds of rustling, he was back on the line. "Ta ra love, I will see you soon."
Marisol replaced the receiver and padded upstairs to her bedroom. She lay in bed and watched the sunrise, torn between wanting to be with Paul and knowing they should take things slowly. Making him the center of her world was the last thing she should do right now.
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."
Wordlessly, Marisol returned Paul's hat and took the camera from Angela, focusing the lens on an old stone bridge just up ahead. She would be gone weeks before Christmas. She didn't even want to think about how hard it was going to be to say goodbye to Angela, Neil, and especially Paul. Every time she saw him she grew fonder of him. He sparkled with intelligence and wit and made every day an adventure. Hell, every single conversation was an adventure. He was going to be impossible to forget.
By mid-afternoon they reached a gastro pub charmingly called the Trout at Tadpole Bridge, particularly well known for its fresh seafood, according to Angela's guidebook. They tied up the boat and strolled through the pub gardens. Neil and Angela went inside to order food while Paul and Marisol sat in the garden, watching the dark and cloudy river roll by.
Paul showed her a spot where tourists had carved their names on the wooden table. "These American kids come over for a week's holiday and graffiti their names everywhere and then leave. When I go to America I'm going to carve my name into everything I see." He smiled at her. "Starting with your heart." With his left index finger, he traced P-A-U-L across her left breast.
She took his hand away, holding onto his fingers, and kissed him on the cheek. "You already have, silly."
He started to say something else but turned away sharply to cough into the crook of his arm.
Neil and Angela returned with plates of Dover sole, fresh calamari, and mushrooms with melted goat cheese which they ate in the garden, drinking pints of ale until the sun began to sink behind the hills.
Back at the boat, they drifted down the river for a lazy few hours before tying up in a quiet bend below a canopy of trees. The river was eerily serene, surrounded by weeping willow trees perfectly reflected in the glass-like stillness of the water. They reclined on cushions on the deck, singing and humming along while Paul played the guitar, sharing jokes and pints of ale until a soft rainy drizzle chased them into their cramped berths.
The gentle rocking of the boat and the soft patter of the rain made for a romantic end to the day, and Paul and Marisol fell onto their tiny double bed fully clothed, eager to be in each other's arms again. Paul stretched out beside her and kissed her softly, his lips like warm honey. Then their lips pressed deeply together, her tongue sliding into the warmth of his mouth. A low moan came from his throat, and his hand slid under her blouse, warm on her back. She reached between them and slipped her hand under the waistband of his jeans, finding the silky smooth hardness of him, loving the way he felt in her palm. Her body knew what he felt like now and missed him. It seemed like they couldn't get close enough to each other, searching for something more to touch.
The rain turned into a downpour. There was a sudden boom of thunder that shook the boat, followed by a series of thumps and Angela shouting. Next came a rapid knock at their door and Neil calling out "Is everyone decent?" before slamming into their cabin.
"What the bloody hell, Nell?" Paul said.
Angela pushed past Neil into the tiny space. "It's raining in our bed, shift over."
"You cannot be serious."
"Oh but I am." Angela was already on the bed with them. "It rained on my forehead. Feel."
"I can feel a lot more than your forehead, love. You're lying on top of me," Paul said, not sounding all that unhappy about it.
They somehow made room for Neil and Angela, the four of them barely fitting in the triangular-shaped double bed. There was mild complaining and shoving from Neil and Paul and giggling from Marisol and Angela until they found passably comfortable positions.
"This is cozy," Marisol said. She had maybe six inches of mattress between Paul at her back and the curved wall of the cabin.
Paul pulled her closer. She could feel him, hard and throbbing against her backside. "Forced into spooning, dead arm and awkward biggie and no payoff in sight," he complained.
"Way more than I needed to know," Angela said.
"I knew you didn't like spooning," Marisol said.
"I like the payoff," said Paul.
"You're probably lying there the whole time thinking how can I get my arm out from under her head without waking her so I can go play the guitar."
Paul sat up suddenly. "Neil, where's my guitar?"
"I haven't been watching your guitar tonight," Neil said.
"Is the galley leaking too?"
"How the bloody hell do I know?"
"Fuck's sake." Paul climbed over Neil and Angela, grumbling and cursing as he slid on the wet floor on the way to the galley.
"I hope everyone knows how to swim," Marisol said morosely.
Angela laughed. "I can see the headlines tomorrow, Beatle and entourage missing at sea, presumed lost."
"Can you swim, Neil?" Marisol asked.
"I'm a rubbish swimmer, actually."
"How can you grow up on an island and not know how to swim?"
"I didn't say I didn't know how, only I'm rubbish. I swam last summer when it was so bloody hot."
"Right?" Angela nodded vigorously. "We were sweltering down south. It reached 33 degrees in the capital."
"What's that in old money?" Marisol wondered.
"More than 90 degrees Fahrenheit," Neil said confidently.
"Aren't you a clever clog!" Angela exclaimed.
Marisol made a gagging noise.
Paul came back with the guitar case. He tried to stow it in the small wooden overhead rack and found it full of their clothes and other gear they had deemed essential for a one-night voyage. He finally wedged it at the bottom of the bed near their feet.
Climbing back into bed elicited a chorus of offended groans and yelps from everyone he stepped on.
"In my dreams of sleeping on a yacht with a rock and roll band it was never quite like this," Angela said, wriggling until she found a comfortable position.
The heavens opened, the rain pounding to the accompaniment of rolling thunder. They huddled in the dark making each other laugh until the storm finally slackened and they managed to fall asleep to the soothing sound of raindrops and the gentle rocking of the boat.
They awoke early with stiff muscles and aching joints, everyone feeling cold and damp, ravenous, and a little cross. Between Neil's snoring and Paul's coughing, no one got much sleep.
The weather had turned blustery and cold overnight. After a breakfast of tea and fresh fruit and croissants, Neil and Paul untied the boat and pulled out of the cove, blowing into their hands and stamping their feet in the chilly morning air as they took turns playing skipper. Marisol wiped down the deck cushions with the last dry towel, then huddled under a moldy smelling wool blanket with Angela and watched the scenery slowly rolling by.
Paul pointed out a pillbox from WWII on the riverbank. "To keep the Germans from floating up the Thames. This river, Mari, it's liquid history."
Marisol leaned over the side of the boat and squeezed the water from a soaked towel. "Does this boat go any faster?"
In the cockpit, Paul lit a cigarette and studied her. "Bored of us already, love?"
"I wouldn't mind getting off this moldy boat and going somewhere dry, to be honest," Angela said.
Marisol looked up with interest. "Could we?"
"We're clearly not boating with Rover Scouts, Neil," Paul said.
Four hours later they were back in London, sneaking into a dark movie theatre just after the picture had started. It was an arty, existential film based on a Kafka novel, chosen by Paul.
They discussed the film afterward on the way to Angela's flat. Paul seemed fascinated with the cinematography and the symbolism, but Marisol thought it was confusing and absurd. Angela and Neil made goo-goo eyes at each other in the front seat and didn't seem to care either way.
They made a pot of spaghetti and a lettuce salad, and after dinner they drank tequila shots and played Never Have I. Marisol was stunned to realize she was the only one of the four of them who had ever shot a rifle. Paul began calling her Tex. It turned out Paul was the only one who admitted to having worn the opposite sex's knickers, which he blamed on the scarcity of laundry facilities in Hamburg.
That led to a story about John standing on the streets of Hamburg in the dead of winter in nothing but sandals and socks, white briefs and a hat, reading the newspaper. Paul claimed to have photographs to prove it.
A couple of pints of ale later, Neil dropped Paul and Marisol off at Paul's flat in Mayfair. He shared it with George and Ringo, but they had both gone home to Liverpool for the weekend, and the flat was empty and quiet. The living room looked almost institutional, with plain white walls and beige carpeting, a sofa and two chairs upholstered in textured woven fabrics. Built-in shelves along one wall were covered with stacks of fan mail and full ashtrays. In another corner empty record sleeves were scattered on the floor around the large HiFi.
While Paul busied himself at the HiFi, Marisol carried a couple of ashtrays into the kitchen and emptied them into a full trash can. She poured herself a glass of water from the kitchen faucet and out of curiosity opened the small refrigerator. All of the shelves were empty but for a stick of butter and a jar of cocktail sauce. She opened a cabinet. Two cans of stewed steak with gravy and a tin of tea. The chequerboard vinyl kitchen floor was kind of atrocious but other than that it was a nice clean kitchen, probably rarely used.
Back in the living room, Paul was sitting on the carpet listening to the hifi. Marisol sat beside him and he handed her an LP cover. Live at the Apollo by James Brown.
"Greatest intro ever. You like this?" he asked, beating out a rhythm with his hands on his knees.
"Sure. He's great. It sounds like he's being backed up by a brass band."
Paul stopped drumming. "A brass band?" he said, incredulous. "A brass band? It's a horn section, Mari. Bloody hell."
"Are you cross from the leaky boat ride through the rain forest?"
"Sshh, pay attention for a tick, Mari. This is the live recording by which all other live recordings will be judged. I've played this so much I've almost worn out the grooves."
They listened for a few minutes, with Paul stabbing the air at his favorite parts. "Brown summing up the meaning of life: don't just say 'ahh,' say 'OOOWWWWWW! and I believe my work will be done."
Marisol stretched out on the carpet, watching Paul absorbed in the music. "Hear that audience? He has them in the palm of his hand."
His eyes were distant as he listened, his fingers alternately tapping out rhythms and shaping chords. She wondered what he was listening for. Who knew what went on in that brain of his. He would probably listen to James Brown for twenty minutes and go back to his bathroom and write a hit song.
"How did you end up with the smallest bedroom?" Marisol asked a few minutes later when Paul showed her his tiny room at the back of the flat.
"I dunno, I was busy the day we moved in and I reckon I was the last one to choose." He sighed. "I hate this place. It doesn't feel like home at all. There aren't even any pictures on the walls."
"You have to hang them yourself," Marisol explained.
"I don't have time for that crap."
There was a portable Dansette record player on the dresser in his room and another stack of albums, and a smaller stack of books beside the double bed. Marisol immediately went to the books. A recent James Bond, a Jean Paul Sartre, The Stranger by Albert Camus.
"John gave me the Sartre, told me to expand my Scouser mind."
"So this is how a Beatle lives." Marisol sat on the end of the bed and gave it a bounce.
"It needs a feminine touch. Do you fancy moving in?"
She laughed. "No, but you better watch out with that question. Someone's going to say yes one day."
Paul sat beside her. "Somehow I knew there wasn't the remotest chance of you saying yes." He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Are you still making up your mind about me?"
"I made up my mind about you in the first ten minutes. But I'm still trying to talk myself out of it."
He leaned in, looking at her eyes so closely, as if searching for a stray eyelash. Or stealing her thoughts. "If I could whisper into your heart I would tell you not to worry, you're in good hands," he whispered.
Her heart thumped wildly. She was powerless to resist him when he looked at her this way. She felt almost felt drugged, waiting for him to kiss her.
Instead, he bent over, reached under the bed, and pulled out a shoebox full of candid photographs. He rifled through them until he found what he was looking for, a series of black and white snapshots of John Lennon in his underwear on the streets of Hamburg.
The ridiculous sight made her smile. She barely knew John and already she loved him for his wit and his devil-may-care, love-me-or-leave-me attitude about life. Paul held up a set of pictures taken during a trip with John to Paris: the two of them on a train wearing bowler hats, drinking wine in a cafe, posing in front of the Eiffel Tower. Then he showed her an early photograph of five band members, holding guitars with jaunty familiarity, leaning against a train in an amusement park.
"Can you tell which one is me?"
Marisol smiled. "Of course, Lefty." She studied the black and white photograph. The slicked-back hair, the pointed shoes, the defiant, determined attitudes, vulnerable, exhausted eyes. "This is an amazing picture. Who is the fifth Beatle?"
"That was pre-Ringo." He pointed out Pete and Stu, then rummaged around in the box until he found a color snapshot and showed it to her. It was a younger Paul sitting on a stone bench in front of the ocean in a shirt and swim trunks next to a tiny, stunning blonde, their bare legs pressed together, somber looks on their faces, not a hint of a smile. "This is Astrid."
"Wow. Is she an ex-girlfriend?"
"She was my mate Stu's fiancee. She took that picture you're holding."
"She's very pretty."
"You remind me of her sometimes. Maybe I'll introduce you one day." He stacked all the photographs back in the shoebox and shoved it underneath the bed. He turned and looked at her for a long minute.
"What now?" Marisol asked. Why aren't you kissing me? was what she wanted to ask.
"We haven't played guitar in a while," Paul said, standing up.
"Tremendous idea."
He touched the guitar leaning against the wall, then seemed to change his mind. "Be right back."
He left the room and came back with a Gibson acoustic guitar. "I can't teach you anything on a left-handed one," he explained. "This one's George's." He put the guitar across her lap and arranged himself on the bed behind her, stretching his legs around hers, bringing with him warmth and the scent of the outdoors. Marisol leaned against his chest and watched while he arranged the fingers of her left hand on the frets. "This is G," he told her. "Get the very tips of your fingers as close to the fret as possible. Bend all three knuckles." Next he showed her how to use her right hand to strum.
Marisol strummed a muddy-sounding chord.
Paul changed the position of her fret hand slightly. "Don't let your fingers touch the string below and mute it."
Her second try sounded a bit cleaner. "G. Which stands for Golly this is fun," she said.
"This is C. Easy one." Paul moved her fingers into a new shape.
Strum. "C as in Can't think of anything I'd rather be doing right now."
He chuckled directly in her ear and she shivered.
"Now F. Three chords and the truth, and you have a song." He rearranged her fingers and waited. "F is for...?" he prompted.
Marisol laughed. "I think you know." She relaxed her hands over the strings. "The thing is, you play with such soul, such love, you leave a piece of yourself in your songs. That's something you can't teach."
He pushed himself away from her and stood up, stretching. "I'm not really trying to teach you. I just like the way you look with a guitar in your hands." He picked up the camera from his dresser and fiddled with it for a minute before lifting his head and looking into her eyes. "It reminds me of a not too distant morning when your hands were doing something else."
His smile made her catch her breath. He knelt on the floor in front of her and photographed her sitting cross-legged on the bed holding George's guitar.
When he stood up, his eyes dropped to her mouth, lingering there. Making sure she noticed. "Do you know what I'm going to do next?"
Mutely, she shook her head.
"I'm going to kiss every lovely freckle on your lovely body. And then, to make up for last night, I'm going to do it again."
"Is that a promise?" Her voice was a whisper.
He set the camera on the dresser and stood between her legs. "It's reality."
Marisol propped the guitar against the foot of the bed and stood, drawn to him like a magnet to steel, her pulse a pounding drum. As soon as her weight shifted from the bed the guitar clunked onto the wooden floor with a twang. Paul winced at the sound but managed to shake it off. Then her mouth was on his, and she was nibbling on his lower lip, something she'd wanted to do from almost the second minute she saw him.
Slowly, his hands slid down her body to her hips and he pulled her tight against him. She wrapped an arm around his neck, her fingers curling in his silky hair. Their kisses became more urgent, their breathing more ragged. With her other hand on his chest she could feel his heart pounding, or maybe it was hers, who could tell?
Without taking his lips from hers, he reached behind for the bedroom door and swung it closed.
She pulled away, just barely. "Why did you close the door?"
"I don't know. Who knows." His voice was husky. "I've hardly had a coherent thought in my head since a certain little blonde flew in from California about six weeks ago."
His lips landed on her neck, and she groaned a response, and then they were stumbling over George's guitar and fumbling with clothes, frantic to be lost in each other again.
"Mari," he whispered against her parted lips. "I can't get enough of you."
He lifted his head, needing to look at her. They locked eyes, and the bed, the room, the flat, the whole night was theirs alone.