In Your Atmosphere (Paul McCartney/Beatles Fanfiction)

Chapter 43 - La Douleur Exquise

"La Douleur Exquise" - the exquisite pain of loving someone unattainable; 

a French expression that doesn't exist in English...but should

"Was I addicted to the pain, the exquisite pain, of loving someone so unattainable?" - Carrie Bradshaw

A car was waiting for her when Marisol landed at London Airport, the driver holding a sign with her name on it. Paul had paid for her first-class airline ticket, and just as they had agreed over the phone, he had instructed the driver to take her to Angela's flat.

She'd flown through the night, wide awake with Melody sleeping in her arms. Once at Angela's flat, all she really wanted to do was take a long shower and go to bed.

She squeezed the excess water from her hair and wrapped a towel around her head. With another towel wrapped around her body, she padded barefoot into the living room to get some fresh clothes out of her suitcase and walked right past Paul McCartney sitting at the kitchen table.

"Oh shit!" she whispered, leaning against the wall outside the kitchen where he couldn't see her. No makeup and dripping wet. Great. She peeked her head around the corner. Angela was leaning against the counter, holding a bottle of milk. Paul was sitting on a green vinyl chair, his back to the doorway, with Melody on his shoulder. Melody waved her arms and squealed when she saw her, and everyone looked up. Marisol gave Angela a you-could-have-warned-me look and waved at her daughter. "Hi, sweetie."

"Hi sweetie yourself," Paul said. He turned around in the chair and craned his neck, obviously trying to determine if she was really standing around the corner wearing only a towel. "Sexy. I see they have adopted a rather liberal dress code on Pan Am now."

Angela laughed. "There's a robe on the back of my bedroom door."

Marisol clutched the towel around her and tiptoed quickly back toward the bedrooms. She whipped off the towels and wrapped the pink chenille robe around herself. Twenty minutes in the flat and Paul was already here. She was looking in the mirror and fluffing her hair when Angela walked in, holding Melody and a bottle.

"Can she hold her bottle now?" Angela asked.

"I suppose so, but why would she, since as soon as she opens her mouth I appear?"

"Are you spoiled rotten?" Angela baby-talked into Melody's face. "Are you a spoiled girl?" She looked over at Marisol. "Paul and I had a nice chat. I told him if he breaks your heart again I'll castrate him myself."

Marisol kissed Angela on the cheek. "Not a lot of people would do that for me. You're such a good friend."

"Is that extreme do you think? If he gives you any trouble, just say the word and I'll get my chavvy cousins from Peckham to rough him up a bit."

"Hopefully it won't come to that."

Paul was standing beside the Formica counter when Marisol came back wearing Angela's fluffy pink robe. "Hello again," she said, smiling up at him. He looked handsome and fit and only a little paler than the last time she'd seen him. Those English winters.

With a huge grin, he pushed away from the counter and pulled her in for a hug. She felt his lips brush her ear. "Hullo, pretty girl. I'm glad you're here. Fancy a date with me?"

"Funny you should ask." She stepped out of his hug and leaned on the counter next to him. "I was sitting in this very spot just before I came to see you in concert for the first time. I was so nervous and excited I was chewing my nails."