Two Of Us ⎯ Paul McCartney

18. Cavendish Part 2

September, 1968

"These past few weeks have been pretty crazy for me, actually," I started, adjusting the microphone as I sat at a shiny black baby grand piano in a small stuffy club on a Friday night. "My first single got released off of Apple Records."

There was scattered applause, and I grinned a little to myself before continuing. "It's been out for a while now, actually, but I was out shopping today and I saw it in a record store for the first time and let me tell you, I just about flipped. Last I checked, it's almost in the top ten over here, and that's pretty crazy, if you ask me."

I hadn't really gotten to play small clubs or coffee shop gigs since I lived in LA, and I'd definitely missed it. I usually just brought my guitar along, and I'd just sit on a barstool while singing folk songs or standards into a microphone, but the club I'd gotten a gig to play at had this baby grand, which I thought was a bit odd at first, but I wasn't complaining.

"Anyway," I continued, leaning over the piano a little as I spoke into the microphone to speak to the audience, "I wanted to play one of the tracks we've been working on for my album. It's an older song, maybe you've heard it before, it's called 'Dream A Little Dream of Me.'"

I straightened up a little and started the opening chords of the song, my fingers lightly moving across the keys as I played the intro and started to sing.

The song was a favorite of mine. I'd play it all the time when performing live back in LA. I'd basically grown up on the song, which was why I was happy when we'd ended up doing a version of it for my record.

There really wasn't a word to describe how I felt whenever I just sat playing piano by myself, just the instrument and my voice. It brought me back to those days after school when I'd drop my things by the front door as soon as I got home and trip over myself trying to get to the grand piano in our sitting room. I'd just sit there for hours playing until my parents called me to eat dinner. But it never failed to make me happy.

I did remember there being a dip in my love of music. It was during the first few months of 1961, right after my mother died. I didn't touch the piano or guitar for six months. I didn't do much of anything, actually. It was really my dad who'd prodded me back into playing again. He knew it made me happy. The more I thought about it, it was kind of a coping thing. If it wasn't for music, I probably would've drunk myself to death years ago. And maybe that's why it meant so much to me.

There was a pause once I'd finished, and then the applause came, bringing me back to reality. I held back a small smile as I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, looking down at the piano keys. If I was awkward around guys, or bad about expressing my feelings, at least I felt at home whenever I performed.

"Thanks," I said, bringing the microphone closer to me with my left hand while my right played a few scattered notes. "Thank you." My voice trailed off as my gaze wandered to a small booth in the corner.

Paul was sitting there by himself, his head propped up on his elbow and a cigarette in between his fingers as he looked at me from across the club. He gave me a little wave when he saw me looking back at him, a grin on his face. I felt myself blush a little, so I looked away, dropping my eyes to the worn watch on my wrist. He'd wanted to come along with me to one of the gigs I had to see me play, and every time I looked over at him for a sense of reassurance, I was reminded more and more of that night we'd met. It was crazy to think that'd been a year ago.

He'd been watching me almost the exact same way that evening in April at the Troubadour, from what I remembered. The same intrigued yet admiring look. But this time was different, because there was a hint of affection in his eyes as he looked at me from across the room.