My Love, My Drug, My Release

Paul's Perspective

Linda invited Denny over to the studio with us, so long as he promised to sit in the corner and keep quiet while I work. The last thing I needed was another Yoko, telling me what to do. Unfortunately, despite Denny's silence, we still had an interruption in the form of a telephone call, which I answer begrudgingly. 

"Hello, yes, who is it?"

"Um is this Paul McCartney?"

I debated hanging up, worrying this was a crazy fan, but the caller was male and sounded older, not my typical fanbase demographic. "Yes, and who is this?"

"I write for the Enquirer and we're planning on running a story about Keith Richards dating your step-daughter, Lorraine Eastman, do you want to provide a comment?"

The blood drained from my face as I turned to look at my wife, who was taking photos of my equipment, Denny, and even me. I wonder if film could adequetly capture the horror on someone's face. "I don't know what you're talking about, the people you're refferring to aren't an item; he has a girlfriend and she's a minor." I kept my voice low and spoke vaguely, praying Linda wouldn't be able to decode my meaning.

"We have photographic evidence, as well as reliable third-party testimony."

"You can't run this story, it will ruin people's lives."

"Sorry, Mr. McCartney, I'm a journalist, not a therapist."

"You're not a journalist," I hissed, nostrils flaring. "You're a lazy hack making money off other people's suffering, and since all you care about is making an easy quid, you'll have no problem with me paying you not to run this story."

The man on the other line was silent for so long, I thought he might have hung up, before he finally said, "If you come in now with your checkbook, I'm sure we can work something out."

When I returned home, Linda was still out to dinner with Denny. I said they should grab something to eat while I visited the local Enquirer office. It took a bit of negotiation, eventually, we settled on £10,000 to bury the story about Lorraine and Keith, and the agreement that they'd purchase any similar stories that came their way and call me before publishing it. Of course, that didn't protect me from someone else selling the story to a different publication that didn't do me the favor of asking for a quote. 

Although Linda was still out, the house wasn't empty, Jack sitting at the kitchen table.

"How's it going, son."

"Don't call me son," he said sharply, but with no malice. "And I'm fine. Lo and her friend are upstairs."

"What friend?"

He shrugged, turning a page in his book. "I've never met her. She told me she had a date when she left, but apparently she got stood up and then ran into her friend at school. She had blonde hair, blue eyes, really good-looking."

Thelma, that fucking cunt. I stormed up the stairs, nearly slipping trying to take them two at a time, opening the door without knocking. Part of me hoped to catch them mid-coitus, just to watch her blush with shame and ruin their day a little, but, unfortunately, they were both fully-clothed, sitting on her bed.

"What the hell, Paul; don't you know how to knock?"

"You're not supposed to have people over without asking."

"Since when?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it again, stumped. We'd never enforced a rule like that, at least since her attempted runaway with Brandon and the abortion fiasco, not wanting her to feel smothered of like she couldn't trust us, but I'd be damned if I let her get the better of me. "Since always," I snapped. "It's getting late; Thelma should go home now. Your mother's bringing home dinner."

"Linda's not her mother," Thelma said, approaching me. "And you're not her father, thank God."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She leaned in, eyes narrowing. "I think you know."

"Get out of my house right now," I growled, face flushing redder than a tomato. "You are no longer welcome here."

"Paul, don't be-"

"It's fine, Lo." Thelma turned around and gave her a tight hug, whispering something in her ear I didn't pick up on, before leaving Lorraine's room, bumping my shoulder as she went.

My step-daughter tried to follow her, but I slammed the door shut, sealing her in with me. "What the fuck?"

"Pardon?"

"Why the fucking fuck would you tell her about us?"

She folded her arms, staring me down. In her boots, she was exactly my height. "It's my story to tell."

"No it's not, it's ours- it has implications for us both."

"I needed her help with something, and it required filling her in on a few... personal details."

For a moment, I considered running downstairs, calling the bank and canceling the check I'd written to that git at the Enquirer before he had a chance to deposit it. He'd call me again, ask why the check bounced, and I'd tell him I changed my mind, that he could go ahead and print the story. No, she can betray me all she wants, I'll never betray her.

"Well, if you absolutely needed her help," I said, rolling my eyes as I opened her door, allowing her to leave. "I just home those 'personal details' don't come back to bite us both in the ass."