How to Change the World

Chapter 3

The following tour dates had been cancelled, but it wasn't heart breaking. They had been planning to stop touring after the tour concluded; it was only for the best.

It was an easy morning; Paul sat at his home in Cavendish Avenue watching something on the telly. Martha was resting on the carpet floor, probably thinking about whatever dogs think about. Tomorrow ITV would be interviewing him to discuss everything that's been unfolding in the last few days.

Newspapers had just picked up on the story; people were starting to figure out what was going on. Speculation sprung up that the reporter was lying, so the whole situation was in its middle ground. People were still blowing this out of proportion, despite their convictions.

Pulling Paul out of his thoughts, the doorbell buzzer went off. Who could be visiting him now? Quite often he'd have some random fan buzzing in. Dead weight lifted from the couch, lazily making its way to the intercom. Clicking the button he spoke to whoever was on the other line.

"Yes, who is it?"

"Open up the gate, Macca!"

Oh, it was just John. Well... it wasn't just John.

He sighed, "Okay, hold on."

Clicking on the button on the intercom to open the gates, John's car began to enter through the driveway. The car parked into the lot, John exiting the vehicle. Paul stood there, watching as John walked to the door. That strut of John's was enough to get him.

Before John could knock, Paul opened the door, trying to smile at John's presence. Stepping aside, he let John walk in to Cavendish. His visitor made his way over to the couch, simply plopping onto the furniture, acknowledging Martha sitting on the floor.

"Hey Martha." The dog's tail began to wag at quicker pace.

The owner of the house walked over and stood next to the couch, staring at John to wait for an explanation.

"So, why are you here, again?"

"Can't I visit my best mate's house? Sheesh."

Paul once again gave out a sigh, moving over and sitting on the couch next to John. He consciously made an effort not to accidently brush the sides of his partner.

His visitor pulled out a cigarette, noise of the television still playing in the background.

"So," John began, "How's life?"

"Oh, well, the world probably hates me now... so, that's good."

"Oh c'mon, Macca," John rested his hand on Paul's shoulder, "Who could hate that pretty face of yours?"

Paul brushed John's hand off, crossing his arms, then pulling out a fag of his own.

"I'm being serious, John. I've probably messed up the entire group."

John chuckled slightly. "Nah, son. They'll forget about it in a few months, just like with what I said."

Paul took another long drag of his cigarette, looking in no particular direction. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, Paul still wondering what the hell John was up to. He realized that the were somehow closer on the couch that they were a few minutes ago.

"You know, Paul," John began, before putting out the fag in the ashtray, "This is gonna sound off, and it probably is, but I... do remember that night in Paris last year."

Paul froze. There was nothing he could say to that. As a result, he just sat there, cigarette in hand. Both men sat in silence, smoke filling the room. Now he was plagued with more worries. What was John trying to say?