In Your Atmosphere (Paul McCartney/Beatles Fanfiction)

Chapter 18 - The Night Before

From the window of her fourth-floor room in The Dorchester, Marisol watched Hyde Park disappear under a blanket of snow.

Paul had rented a room under the names Mr. and Mrs. Ramon for their last night in London and sent a car to Margo's flat to bring Marisol to the hotel. The room was lovely: exotic carpeting and cherry wood furnishings and an impressive four-poster bed with Irish linen sheets and a white duvet, soft as a cloud. There was an open bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket on the table beside a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries. The only thing missing was Paul.

After bidding a tearful goodbye to her grandmother at the train station that morning, Marisol boarded an early train to London, where she trudged with her suitcase through falling snow to a nearby Pan Am ticketing office. One last lunch with Angela, then a taxi to Margo's flat, crawling through the streets as large white snowflakes fell on the grey city. Chilled and frazzled by the time she reached the hotel, she poured a glass of champagne, unpacked a paperback copy of Peyton Place, and sank beneath a sea of fragrant bubbles in the amazing tub. The hotel bathtubs were made of Italian marble and were reportedly the deepest in London. Heavenly.

She dressed for dinner in a red and black color block dress and knee-high red suede boots and checked her slim gold watch. It was after eight, and she'd been waiting hours for Paul to finish performing, writing, recording, filming television, or whatever else he was doing to make everyone so delighted with him. She worried that Paul would have trouble getting here on the snow-covered roads. She worried that he would be mobbed in the hotel lobby. She worried that there was more to worry about that she couldn't yet imagine. After pouring herself another glass of champagne, she bit into one of the strawberries and watched a lone black taxi creep up the street, its tail lights flickering before vanishing into the snowy night.

When the knock finally came, she raced to the door, heart pounding with anticipation. A man with a droopy mustache and a flat cap held two fluted champagne glasses aloft. A recognizable black eyebrow arched over a pair of heavy dark eyeglasses. 

"Evenin', lass, I seem to have misplaced a bottle of bubbly." He was looking at her with those beautiful amber eyes, smiling at her with those perfect pouty lips.


"I'm sorry, sir, there is nothing bubbling in this room any longer." 

"I can fix that," the man said, sweeping into the room and sweeping her into his arms, bringing with him the scent of snow and Paul. Marisol sighed against his neck. His smell was one of the things she would miss most.

He kissed her and she giggled at the way the mustache tickled her lips. She reached up to pull it off but he stayed her hand.

"Let's go out."

"Can we?"

"I reckon. There's no one about. London is closed due to snow. All but this one pub across from the park. D'you fancy popping round?"

"Why not? I've never been to a real English pub."

The snow fell slowly and silently, dampening the normal city clatter. They slid over snowy sidewalks, huddled together against the wind, in their own private snow globe.

"I like your sexy red boots," Paul said. "They make your bum swing when you walk."

"I like your sexy face." Marisol took her hand out of his coat pocket and straightened his oversized eyeglasses. "All you need is an eye patch instead of these glasses. You look like a brainy Euro pirate who likes jazz."

He winked at her. "A pirate who likes your booty." He led her into a cobblestoned alley and they ducked under a treed archway twinkling with fairy lights.