When I woke up again it was finally daylight, and I was back upstairs in my bed. I didn't want to open my eyes, but I could feel the light pouring in against my cheek and so I did. There was Paul in front of me. I gasped and pulled back under the covers.
"OH! Oh, no, sorry luv, I didn't mean to frighten you. Come out now, it's just me. Remember?" Yes, I did. But I could not believe I had made such a fool of myself in front of him the night before. I was still partially upset with him for stopping me from doing what I wanted to. I couldn't believe that I was still bleeding inside from what I knew had happened, and I couldn't believe that I couldn't get what I had lost back. And so I didn't talk. It was much safer not to. "DAMN, I thought you would talk to me again. Won't you?" Asked Paul. It was more of a plea than a request. I stared at him. He sighed sadly. "All right, then. If you'd like, you can come downstairs in a few minutes for some brekkie. Cor, if you'd say something I would know at least a little bit about you...." still talking to himself, he left the room and headed downstairs. I scurried out of the bed and to my suitcase. Underneath dresses, pants and shirts, all of a sudden, my picture of Paul came into my sight. I had cut it out of a magazine, months ago, and pasted it into a plastic photo frame. I kissed it every night before I went to bed. Would I ever be able to make myself kiss another boy? Placing it lovingly back into the suitcase, I think picked out a dress, put it on, and headed downstairs wearing only socks for footwear. In the bathroom, I put in my contact lenses and brushed my hair back and up into a half-ponytail. Paul was in the sunroom, playing his guitar. I snuck up silently behind him and watched from the doorway. Concentrating, he was completely focused on the movement of his right hand on its neck. I had forgotten that he was left-handed. I sat down beside him, and, startled, he looked up.
"Oh, it's you! Hello there, how're things?" I managed a half-smile for him; he had been so kind to me, I felt terrible not talking to him. Something indescribable was keeping me from it. "Do you like tea? I made you some...there's not much else other than cereal for breakfast, I apologize...my housekeeper Rose has been on break and I haven't had much of a chance to get any shopping done." I cocked my head at him. He smiled. "It's in the kitchen. While you're there, I'll go and fix your bed up, all right"? He stood up, placed his guitar back down on the couch, and left the room. I went into the kitchen. There was the tea, and the bowl, spoon, milk and cereal were all out already. I smiled. All of a sudden, my smile vanished. Paul was in my room...the picture of him was in full view in my suitcase! What if he saw it? Leaving my food sitting there, I practically jumped up the stairs. Paul had his back to me, as he was making the bed. I looked down at my suitcase. The picture was gone. While not turning around to meet me, Paul asked gently,
"Have you lost something?" Then he did turn around, and sure enough, the picture was in his hand. I choked up and glared at him. How could he take it from me? "Do you want it back?" Of course I did! But was this a trick? I opened my mouth...nothing came out. "Do you want it back?" he repeated. I stood there, fists clenched, body trembling in anger and humiliation. He was going to make me talk, one way or another.
"Yes." I said quietly. Paul's eyes opened wider and he smiled, albeit a bit sadly. "Yes. Give it back."
"Why do you want it back?"
"Please Paul," I started to cry again, "please give the picture back, it's mine. I don't want to lose that too, God, then I'd have nothing." Paul walked closer to me and extended his arm. The photo was in his hand. I looked down at his palm, and the picture in it. I lifted my arm...it started shaking as I realized that I would have to touch Paul to get it back. I'm sure that he had planned it like that on purpose. Shaking even more in fear, I slowly reached forward and took the picture from his hand. I looked down at the photo. There he was; the picture was still perfect, unharmed. I looked up. There was Paul, the same person as in the photograph. All of a sudden, realization clicked. It was the same person. I had known it all along, but some reason it seemed like a dream, that I was staying with Paul McCartney, MBE Beatle.
Taking breaths became harder as the face in the photograph transferred to the face belonging to the person standing in front of me.
"Here, there and everywhere." I said softly. "Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away....." Paul looked pleased.
"You like those songs?" Was he not even going to mention the picture??? Good. I nodded.
"We can work it out. The night before...when I think of things we did, it makes me want to cry..." my voice choked up, but I pushed back sobs angrily. I had cried enough over the past few days to fill a canyon with tears. Paul looked sad for a moment, but soon his face brightened up.
"You have beautiful hair, Allegra. It reminds me of a sunset." I stared down at myself.
"Thank you."
"Well," said Paul, changing the subject, "now that we're talking I'd say we could get somewhere, wouldn't you?" I shrugged a bit. "We are talking, aren't we?" He pressed on. I thought for a moment. Should I keep talking? I didn't want Paul to know anything at all about what had happened to me, but would talking always lead to discussing that? Probably not.
"Yes." Paul grinned broadly.. He reached his arm forward to stroke my cheek. I jerked back again.
"Don't touch!"
"I was waiting for you to finally say that."
"I'm sorry, Paul, I just don't think I can...anything else...but please don't touch me."
"All right. I understand." I finally smiled, and genuinely at that. Paul grinned back. "Come downstairs." He moved past me and we walked down the staircase into the sunroom. In the corner of the room, (I hadn't noticed before,) was a brightly designed upright piano. Paul sat down on its bench.
"I could never figure out how to read music," he laughed, turning to me, "but playing is still fun."
"I could teach you." I said softly. I was still talking in practically whispers, and Paul had to strain to hear me.
"You play?"
"For ten years."
"Really? That's great, play something for me." Now it was my turn to say,
"Hold on a minute." I went back upstairs and got my binder of music from my backpack. I turned to a Haydn sonata and began playing. By the time I had finished both movements I was worried that Paul would be dying of boredom, and so I rushed through the finale so I could see his reaction. He was staring at me with those probing eyes that mystified and intrigued me. They were smiling along with his mouth. He clapped softly.
"Great, Allegra, that was wonderful."
"Thanks."
"Do you play anything else?"
"Yes, I play guitar. Not nearly as well as you do, though," I added on hurriedly.
"I'll bet that you do."
"No, I don't."
"Will you play something for me?"
"No!"
"Please?"
"No, sorry Paul. Guitar is YOUR instrument, not mine. I'm not one to play guitar in front of Paul McCartney." Paul pleaded me with his eyes. He got off of the piano bench and knelt down on one knee at my feet.
"Please, your majest, grant me this honor!" He bubbled excitedly. I laughed, and, with a wave of a hand, bid that he rise.