𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐀𝐘 ── PAUL McCARTNEY

X. THE GIG

Saturday the 4th of October 1958

My eyes flickered to Paul, he sat cross-legged by the hearth of the fireplace, his hands reaching out towards the warmth of the flames. He must have been in deep thought. It was strange for him to be so quiet. Once Paul started talking he would never shut up.

I was curled up on the chunky three seater couch, a finger curling through my locks as I flicked through the Liverpool Echo. It was interesting to read even if the font was tiny and to compare it to the issues in my day. I wasn't going to lie, there were issues that needed to be resolved but it somehow seemed a lot more simplistic than my own time.

There was a shift in the wireless and I suddenly realised Paul was tweaking with it. He turned me with that cute, charming, boyish, heart dripping grin that made my stomach ooze with fluttering butterflies.

"Come on, love. Dance with me," Paul spoke with a beckoning hand. I frowned at him, slightly baffled as I closed the newspaper and put it aside. I huffed out a breath, this was such a stupid idea but who could ever say no to Paul McCartney?

His fingers intertwined with mine and pulled me upwards, towing me along to the centre of the living room. It was always a rare occasion when I recognised a song through the static, it was clearer than usual without annoying French or Belgian voices interring with the melody. It was Tutti Fruitti by Little Richard. I let go of his hand, ignoring the slight hurt expression on his face and swayed my body slightly unsure of the exact dance moves that would be acceptable — I couldn't just do the the infamous renegade, the sprinkler or re-enact Ringo's iconic moves from A Hard Day's Night, could I?

Paul frowned almost as if he was confused by me. Wait. Did he actually mean like old fashioned dancing? Maybe I should I try and do the twist? No. I wasn't going to embarrass myself like that. Maybe I should come up with some excuse, that would be a good way to opt out.

"Got a girl named Daisy, she almost drives me crazy—," Paul smiled bashfully at me in reference to the lyrics as if there was some sort of joke within them. Maybe it was just the irony of my 'name' being in the song. I realised that I had to say something and I couldn't just awkwardly stare at the carpet as the song came to a close.

My voice was dripped in hesitance, in a way embarrassed, "You've got Buckley's mate. . ." He looked at me as if I was speaking another language, before I rephrased, "Paul, I don't know how to dance like that."

His hazel eyes flashed with realisation and he grinned bashfully, "Good thing I'm an excellent teacher."

Paul's right hand smoothly curled around my hip and drew me carefully closer to him as if I was some sort of flighty bird. My skin almost burned under his touch and I could feel my breathing hitch. I could feel face flush a deep red and I looked at the floral printed wallpaper behind him.

Paul made a tsk tsk sound, his fingers brushing under my chin and gently turning my face to his, "Ye always, under no circumstances never look away from my eyes, Miss Twist." I wanted to laugh at his spot on attempt of a posh accent that mimicked the Queen.

"Paul," I protested softly, trying my best to make my voice sweet as I rested one of my hands on his shoulder and intertwining our fingers with the other, "I really don't think this is a good idea."

"I don't care if ya step on my toes, Daisy," He said in a warm voice. The look in his hazel eyes was nothing but tender and sincere — it reminded me far too much of a few days ago.

Although my music knowledge within the 1950s was rather broad, only knowing the basic hits and a few selected artists that my grandmother played at her house. I knew this song. I shared a grin knowing with Paul before muttering under my breath, "This song is great. It's Buddy Holly! Words of love! My grandmother pla——"