As the sun colours flowers | Paul McCartney - Beatles Fanfiction

42. It's not the fucking moon talking to you

"It's hard to always be the same person."

– Dorothea Tanning

***

April 1967

I'm not interested in having anyone else my ass.

I dropped the paper on the plastic tray in front of me and pushed out a sigh. And then quickly flipped the paper over to avoid looking at how Paul's arm wrapped around Maggie's shoulders or how he was likely whispering in her ear, looking as cozy as possible. Looking at it was like seeing two lovers sharing an intimate moment after a night of heavy drinking. I could only imagine what he was telling her.

My girlfriend's out of town. Wanna go back to my place for a nice long shag?

Or better yet.

Want to suck my dick in the backseat of my car? I know this great spot...

I threw my head back against the headrest and shut my eyes before tears could pool in them. I didn't know if I should be furious that John had told me about the women Paul had been with in the last year. Because had I not known about Maggie, I wouldn't even have batted an eyelash at the picture.

In fact, he could've been kissing a random girl, and I wouldn't have thought anything of it. But this was different. This hit closer to home because it was the same situation he'd given me shit for three weeks ago.

I picked up my drink and downed it in one go, warranting a side-eye scowl from the woman next to me. I turned my body and leaned my forehead against the tiny airplane window, looking again to New York getting smalling behind me as we soared through the sky.

I'd spent the last week in the City, updating Arne on everything happening in London with the gallery, and boy was there a lot to say. The first week we returned from Scotland, people were coming and going to Up Center daily, as if London had suddenly woken up with an urge to complete their art collection. I had a hunch it wasn't just about me or the pieces we were showing because more than one person also asked me to say hello to Paul on their behalf. It was fine the first few times, but it was hard to hide my twitching eye and strained smile after a while.

Nevertheless, Arne's plan was a success, and it didn't matter why or who bought the art, as long as it worked out. One of the first conversations we'd had when I arrived was about how he wanted to indefinitely extend my contract in London. I was elated, of course. Because it was one less thing standing between Paul and me.

But now, the feeling faded away, slipping through my fingers like sand.

I took a deep breath and tried to convince myself that reporters and photographers just wanted to sell papers, no matter what they said or what they meant. They didn't care if they also sold my self-respect and reputation in the process. The truth was, the picture of Paul and Maggie could've also been an old one, coming out now only because Paul settling down with some random girl and disappearing for almost a week just wouldn't cut it.

It seemed fucking unfair that the whole world thought they owned these men. Or that they enjoyed watching them go through ups and downs and felt the need to document every second of it. The press gave absolutely no fucks about who it hurt and what happened behind closed doors. And all the journalists wanted and cared about were the trained press smiles and diplomatic answers that the boys would offer in exchange for a bit of dignity. And now that I was stuck in the middle of it, I was beginning to resent it. I didn't want my life to be a game to some people or a well-planned drama movie where people sat on the edge of their couch, waiting to know the outcome of my relationship, while others hoped for its failure. I already had enough to worry about that I didn't need the public's opinion on how long we would last.