âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• Paul Mccartney (III) •

Hello! I've just uploaded a one shot based on The Secret History. If you are familiar with the book (it's one of my favourites), please check it out on my profile! ❤️

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"Yes, I know what John said, but I don't see why we can't just -" Once again, Paul was cut off, the one side of the conversation that you could hear sounding strained and teetering on the edge of a precipice nobody wanted to fall down. Still, it seemed that Paul may be preparing for the big jump.

"For God's sake Bri, it's only a couple of days, why can't we just rearrange them?"
You were sat in the kitchen, giving Paul the privacy he didn't have to ask for to make the phone call. After all, he was doing it for you. You knew that.

The unusually bright light emulating from the single bulb hanging above you made your eyes squint, but you were too preoccupied to care. Your fingers were curled around a once steaming mug of coffee that was now lukewarm at best, allowing the very tips of your fingers to drum nervously across the surface like gentle rain against a window.

As you sat listening intently to the angering tones of your husband, the kitchen you adored became the last place in the world that you wanted to be. Staring endlessly into the mustard-coloured tiling was beginning to make you feel sick, but you were unable to tear your eyes away from it as odd shapes began to appear through the slow blur of your vision.

The only sense you needed was sound, and what you were hearing made you wish you were miles away. Just you, Paul and Martha. Whisked away into a private cottage on the edge of oblivion. Far enough away for the life you had once both longed for to be over.

Through the open door, you heard Paul let out an indefinite sigh of defeat. "Fine. Whatever. We'll have to deal with it." Those final damning words echoed around the kitchen that you now wanted to tear apart with your bare hands. Not even the slamming of the phone into its cradle could silence the deafening confirmation.

Martha, who was curled around your tensed toes, made a whimper of acknowledgment at the tumultuous sound. Absentmindedly, you lifted one of your fidgeting hands from the cold porcelain of the mug to rest on her shaggy head. The coarseness of her long fur felt grounding against your soft fingertips, a comfort that usually only Paul could provide you. You knew now that you would need Martha more than ever in the coming months.

After a few moments, you heard the shuffling of bare feet across the stained shag carpet of the hallway that connected the main living room in which the harrowing conversation had taken place and the kitchen that was quickly becoming your tomb.

You turned your head to face the doorway, and in it stood your husband, running his hands over his face and looking distinctly older than his birth certificate would suggest.

All it took was one glance into your wide, sad eyes for him to know that you'd heard everything.

"I'm sorry, love," he said, almost at a loss as he approached the back of the chair you were sat on, resting his hands on your shoulders and leaning over you to place a soft, apologetic kiss to the top of your head. "I tried."

"I know you did," you replied as optimistically as you could, because he had tried his best. But Mr Epstein was becoming as close to an immoveable force as it was possible for a human being to be. "Thank you for trying, Paul."

All you'd wanted was a Christmas at home. Just you, Paul and Martha. A quiet morning opening presents, a charming dinner that you prepared together, an afternoon dancing to records and an evening drinking wine and watching the silliest Christmas specials you could find. You'd been with Paul for four years, and not once had you been able to spend a Christmas together. All you wanted was this first Christmas as a wedded couple to be between you. But apparently that was too much to ask.