"La Douleur Exquise" - the exquisite pain of loving someone unattainable;
a French expression that doesn't exist in English...but should
"Was I addicted to the pain, the exquisite pain, of loving someone so unattainable?" - Carrie Bradshaw
A car was waiting for her when Marisol landed at London Airport, the driver holding a sign with her name on it. Paul had paid for her first-class airline ticket, and just as they had agreed over the phone, he had instructed the driver to take her to Angela's flat.
She'd flown through the night, wide awake with Melody sleeping in her arms. Once at Angela's flat, all she really wanted to do was take a long shower and go to bed.
She squeezed the excess water from her hair and wrapped a towel around her head. With another towel wrapped around her body, she padded barefoot into the living room to get some fresh clothes out of her suitcase and walked right past Paul McCartney sitting at the kitchen table.
"Oh shit!" she whispered, leaning against the wall outside the kitchen where he couldn't see her. No makeup and dripping wet. Great. She peeked her head around the corner. Angela was leaning against the counter, holding a bottle of milk. Paul was sitting on a green vinyl chair, his back to the doorway, with Melody on his shoulder. Melody waved her arms and squealed when she saw her, and everyone looked up. Marisol gave Angela a you-could-have-warned-me look and waved at her daughter. "Hi, sweetie."
"Hi sweetie yourself," Paul said. He turned around in the chair and craned his neck, obviously trying to determine if she was really standing around the corner wearing only a towel. "Sexy. I see they have adopted a rather liberal dress code on Pan Am now."
Angela laughed. "There's a robe on the back of my bedroom door."
Marisol clutched the towel around her and tiptoed quickly back toward the bedrooms. She whipped off the towels and wrapped the pink chenille robe around herself. Twenty minutes in the flat and Paul was already here. She was looking in the mirror and fluffing her hair when Angela walked in, holding Melody and a bottle.
"Can she hold her bottle now?" Angela asked.
"I suppose so, but why would she, since as soon as she opens her mouth I appear?"
"Are you spoiled rotten?" Angela baby-talked into Melody's face. "Are you a spoiled girl?" She looked over at Marisol. "Paul and I had a nice chat. I told him if he breaks your heart again I'll castrate him myself."
Marisol kissed Angela on the cheek. "Not a lot of people would do that for me. You're such a good friend."
"Is that extreme do you think? If he gives you any trouble, just say the word and I'll get my chavvy cousins from Peckham to rough him up a bit."
"Hopefully it won't come to that."
Paul was standing beside the Formica counter when Marisol came back wearing Angela's fluffy pink robe. "Hello again," she said, smiling up at him. He looked handsome and fit and only a little paler than the last time she'd seen him. Those English winters.
With a huge grin, he pushed away from the counter and pulled her in for a hug. She felt his lips brush her ear. "Hullo, pretty girl. I'm glad you're here. Fancy a date with me?"
"Funny you should ask." She stepped out of his hug and leaned on the counter next to him. "I was sitting in this very spot just before I came to see you in concert for the first time. I was so nervous and excited I was chewing my nails."
He looked up at the ceiling as if conjuring the memory. "That was a good night, as I recall."
She gave him an answering smile. "It had a happy ending."
"Like a good love song."
He slid a hand beneath her damp hair and rubbed her neck, and the jet lag seemed to evaporate. "You want some dinner...or anything?"
"If your girlfriend doesn't mind," she said, looking back and forth between his beautiful down-sloping eyes.
"I don't have a girlfriend right now," he said, a slow smile curving his lips. "But that's likely to change after tonight."
Oh my god. She wrapped both of her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. Was this really happening? "I'll have to see if Angela can watch Melody."
"Already asked her."
"I'll just be a minute," she said. She stepped out of his arms, cinched the robe around her waist, and sauntered out of the kitchen. As soon as she turned the corner, she practically ran into the back bedroom.
"Oh my god," she said, leaning against the door and catching her breath.
Angela looked up from the bed where she was feeding Melody. "Girl, you have it bad."
"It's been a million years since I've had sex, and I think it's gonna happen tonight."
"Are you happy about that or petrified?"
"Yes."
Angela laughed. "Just close your eyes and think of England. That's what all good British mothers tell their daughters to do on their wedding night when they speak of the horrors to come."
"Too late. When I close my eyes I think of Paul McCartney."
"There's no hope for you."
"Are you sure you don't mind watching her tonight?"
"For a dear friend who hasn't had a proper shag in a million years, and who's about to get it from her top shag, I think I can manage to watch this baby for a bit."
"I'll call you every two hours."
"No, Mar, We'll be fine. I can take care of a baby. I'll ring my mum if I have questions. Now go. Enjoy yourself."
They dined at the Top of the Tower, a brand new restaurant on the 34th floor of the Post Office Tower, the new tallest building in Britain. The restaurant slowly revolved, with an unmatched view of London. The manager had met them at a private entrance and ushered them up in the lift and into a private booth where two waiters were stationed nearby to fanproof their visit.
They talked about the new music they were listening to, the films they'd seen, the books they'd read. Paul listened with a big smile to every anecdote she told him about Melody. That was the fun thing about dating your baby's daddy, she realized. He wanted to hear about the main thing she wanted to talk about.
They had finished dinner and were sipping their wine, smiling across the table at each other, when a middle-aged man in a dark suit approached. Paul stood up and shook hands, calling the man by his name. Marisol sat back against the leather booth, a stab of desire rushing through her as she looked at Paul standing in front of their table. She was finally able to study him without his dreamboat eyes staring back at her, distracting her. He looked better than should be humanly possible. He reached back to their table for his glass of wine and her eyes lifted automatically to where his shirt clung to his shoulders and dipped in at his waist, and down to his trousers where his hip bones...
He cleared his throat and her eyes snapped up. His hazel eyes were clearly amused at having caught her ogling him. He took his time doing his own inspection of her, a smile tugging at his lips. Then he sat down on her side of the booth, and she resisted the impulse to move over and make more room for him. She wanted their thighs touching, their hands brushing, their lips close enough to kiss.
Paul had been sweet and attentive all evening, gazing into her eyes, holding her hand on the drive to the restaurant and across the table as they waited for their meals. He hadn't kissed her yet, though. Not when he greeted her today at Angela's, not in the car on the way to the restaurant, not in the lift on the way up to the 34th floor. Hopefully he was planning to take her back to his house where they would kiss every inch of each other. Kiss until their lips were chapped.
"Fancy popping round to my place to hear some new music?"
And he was still a mind reader.
"Is that a euphemism for 'do you want to go up in my sex dome'?"
He smiled. "Meditation dome. And no, I really want you to hear the next Beatles LP. It'll be called Revolver."
"In that case, I would love to go up in your sex dome."
Marisol pulled the collar of her coat up as Paul rolled down the car window and bargained with the fans at his front gate. "All right, girls. I'll sign for you if you promise to go on home and give us a break for one ruddy night."
The girls swarmed the car, readying their cameras and thrusting pens and autograph books at Paul. Every one of the dozen girls peered inside the car at Marisol at least once. "Who's she?" one of them asked.
"She's my girlfriend. You'll be getting used to seeing her round here."
"What happened to Jane?" the girl asked, frowning at Marisol.
Paul kept his attention on the book he was signing and refused to answer, but Marisol detected a definite eye roll.
"Yah, where's Jane? She's not stuck up like this one."
"All right girls. Give us a break now, will ya?"
The fans scattered as he rolled up the window and roared into the driveway.
Marisol leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Paul open a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. "Are we alone?"
Paul shot a glance around the empty kitchen, "Is this a trick question? Do you want to know if you can be loud later on? Or do you want to murder me with no eyewitnesses?"
"I only want to know if Mrs. Kelly is here."
He poured her a glass of wine. "We're alone. You can be loud if you want. I want you to be. I want you to be so loud that the people at the St. John's Wood tube station down the street know my name."
She bit back a smile. "I feel sure they already do."
He gave her a wink. "Remind them."
They lay on the floor with pillows under their heads and listened to the rough tracks of the new album all the way through without speaking. Then Paul started the tape over and they listened again, while he shared recording secrets about each song. He pointed out the baroque-sounding clavichord and French horn and double vocals on the poignant ballad "For No One." He explained John's voice was channeled through a Leslie speaker in "Tomorrow Never Knows" and told her how they had each brought in recorded tape loops from home and added them to the song. He told her how he'd recently gone to John's house to work on a song and waited by the pool while John slept. "I started strumming in E, and soon had a few chords, and by the time he'd woken up, I had pretty much written "Here, There and Everywhere."
"It reminds me of Pet Sounds," Marisol said.
"How good is that album? The Beach Boys had a major influence on us with this album."
"This is a serious album, Paul. You're no longer just making pop songs."
"Really? You really think it's all right?"
It amazed her that he seemed genuinely concerned that it might not be good enough, even after all their success.
"It's one hit after another. And I can hear the differences in your songwriting, your input and John's, and George's swirling instrumentals, and it's just fascinating."
They were propped on their elbows, facing each other.
He ran a hand from her waist up her side, stopping just below her breast. His reticence was driving her mad. She was ready to be loud, and he was just staring at her with that little smile.
She took his hand and moved it up several inches. His eyes closed briefly and when he opened them he stared at the way his palm cupped her breast. He groaned, leaned in, and placed the lightest kiss on her lips. "You're so fucking pretty," he whispered against the side of her face.
Before he could pull away or say more words, she grabbed the back of his neck and tugged him in for an actual kiss, a breathtaking kiss, the first they'd shared in a long, long time.
They pulled apart, his hand still on her breast. He had pushed down the cup of her bra and his thumb was stroking her nipple through the silk fabric of her blouse.
She had a tight fistful of his shirt in her hand, her fingers aching to touch him everywhere.
He was watching her, not saying anything, waiting for...something... What was he waiting for? Permission? Inspiration?
"Do you want to fool around?" she asked, her heart thumping wildly.
He smiled and shook his head no.
Her eyes widened. "Um..."
"No, Mari. I want us to make love."
"Okay," she whispered, relief flooding through her. "That works for me too."
He kissed her chin, her lips, parting them with his. His tongue tasted like wine, deliciously tempting. He slid his mouth along her neck, inhaling deeply. "Mmm. The sweet scent of girl."
She smiled against his hair, shivering at the sound of his voice raspy in her ear. She loved his beautiful voice in so many incantations, but the way she loved it best was when he spoke directly into her ear. He rolled her onto her back, bending and pressing his mouth to her neck as he rocked against her.
She suddenly shrieked, and Paul clamped a hand over his ear. "Holy Fuck. I'm deaf."
She reached behind her back, pulling out a wineglass and holding it up for him to see. "Ouch."
"My bed," he said, still rubbing at his ear.
"Finally," she said, panting.
Without taking his eyes from her face, he stood and pulled her to her feet, kicking the wineglass out of the way. His hands went to her face, and he pushed her back against the wall, his mouth firm on hers, open, sucking on her lips and tongue.
His hands slid down to her waist, his fingers hooked in the band of her skirt. He jerked her flush against his body and her head thumped back against the wall, hard. She resisted the urge to rub the back of her head. This was a full-contact sport, the way they were playing tonight.
"You've ruined me for other women," he growled. "Now you're stuck with me." She tightened her arms around his neck as their kisses became more urgent. Weak in the knees with butterfly wings in her stomach, all she could do was kiss him back and hang on for the ride.
Paul reached out a hand and switched off the light in the studio. She heard a volley of screams from the street. Then she heard nothing else but her heart pounding and their ragged breathing, whispered words and moans.
She barely registered how they got down the stairs, only that they never stopped kissing, and that they left a trail of clothes from the studio to Paul's bedroom. In moments they were naked on the bed, and Paul was poised on top of her.
He sucked in a light breath. "Protection?"
"Covered," she said.
He searched her eyes. "Look at me. This is for keeps. Are you in?"
"Mmm. I'm so in." She grabbed his face and pulled his mouth to her neck. "So much talking. Why aren't you in me?"
He nibbled at her ear and then lifted his head to look at her again. "I'm being serious, Mari. I'm in love with you. We've been through a lot. I cocked it up before, but not this time. This time it's for keeps."
Her heart felt too big to be contained in her chest. "I'm in love with you too. It's for keeps."
He smiled. "That's my girl."
And then there was only the feeling of his mouth on her, his lips pressing words into her skin, and the feeling of his hair in her hands. Her hands all on their own, roaming and smoothing all over his skin. Exploring, because it had been forever since she'd done this and she'd forgotten what his skin felt like. She pulled him closer and then pushed him back so she could watch him position himself against her. "Please," she whispered.
He groaned as he lowered his body over hers and pushed fully into her. The sensation was overwhelming, the feeling of his face against her neck, his bare chest on hers, her hands wrapped in his hair, his hands pulling her legs around his waist, his hips pivoting as he moved inside her.
She squeezed her eyes closed and prayed for mercy to the cruel and heartless gods of 'La douleur exquise.' Only the French would come up with an expression for the exquisite pain of loving someone unattainable, knowing it, and choosing to love them anyway.
Please don't let this be that horrible, untranslatable French word, she prayed. Please never let this moment end.
"I missed you," he said into her skin. "Fuck. I missed this so much."
The words cut through her sex-fogged brain and they thrilled her senseless. It was official. She was addicted to Paul McCartney.
Then they were out of words, lost in each other, and this, she thought, this is what it is to make love.
"Can you sleep?" Paul whispered in the dark, hours later.
"No." She nuzzled her face into his shoulder.
After a pause, he said, "Do you want to go get our daughter?"
She grinned into the darkness. "I was thinking the same thing."
They spent the rest of the week playing house like newlyweds. Marisol asked Paul to give Mrs. Kelly the week off. She wanted to cook for him and their daughter, to have him all to herself, to walk around the house in their underwear and kiss each other blind wherever and whenever the mood struck them.
They slept as late in the mornings as Melody would allow, lounged around in very little clothing, cooked together, and giggled. A lot. In the afternoons one of the other Beatles might drop by, and Paul would wander into the studio, coming home after Melody was already in bed. He would barely get the front door closed before they were frantically kissing, teeth clashing in their haste, tripping over furniture, desperate for each other. Then they would lie in bed, or wherever they'd landed, and laugh at how outrageous they were, and they would make love again, slowly and deliberately.
The week went by far too fast, but it was a revelation. In one week Marisol had gone from being unsure where she stood with Paul to knowing he was the one for her, and she would move to England, hell, she would move to Mars if he asked.
Paul was at a photo session when her flight departed, but it was almost better that way. She wanted to remember him wearing one of the smiles she'd put on his face this week instead of with moist eyes at the airport watching them walk away.
He'd left her with another week of happy memories and the promise that he'd see her in California before the end of the month. Her heart had never felt so happy and full.