Chains of Love

How Can I Explain?

It was a warm July morning, and I donned my best sundress with gladiator sandals. I decided to keep my hair down, but curled it to mimic a California girl’s summer waves. Although I had moved to London from Texas, I didn’t miss the sticky, sweaty heat there. I drank the rest of my Earl Grey tea before embarking for the studio.

It had been two months since I flew over from the states, and a month since Paul McCartney noticed me at Swinging Hatchetts. I was asked to sing there, because I had been making my rounds around Soho, asking if they needed a filler singer. I made my big break there, and the manager billed me off as a “Jane Asher/Pattie Boyd mix with a Janis Joplin voice.” I wanted to break free from the constant set-list of Western tunes I was begged to perform. They oddly wanted me to repeat Roy Orbison songs ad nauseum. I was belting out Buddy Holly’s “Everyday” that night, and afterwards, in my cramped dressing room, there was a short, yet demanding, knock at the door.

“Come in!”

I was just refreshing some roses that a man in the front row threw at me before the song had ended, and ceased clipping stems when I noticed the Beatle staring at me through the mirror. I pursed my lips to contain my excitement.

“Are you…Goldie Armada?”

He paused in his question to glance at his notepad. I couldn’t help but giggle at the way his accent twirled around with my stage name.

“Well, in theory, but, for you, it’s Lola.”

He mouthed my first name, sending a tingle up my spine. Who would’ve guessed that my favorite musician was going to ask me my name! He nodded in compliance, and held out his hand.

“Me name’s Paul McCartney.”

I giggled again, and allowed him to kiss my hand. The way his eyelashes brushed against my wrist sent my heart into a frenzy. He smirked before continuing.

“I just wanted to ask ye about a record deal. Ye see, Apple Studios is looking fer fresh, new talent, and I believe ye fit the bill.”

I pointed at myself in surprise. I felt my cheeks catching fever.

“Little ol’ me?

He chuckled as he nodded. His bright blue suit faded in the low-dimmed lights, and, for a second, I pictured him slowly unbuttoning it.

“Yes, litta ol’ ye. So, can ye meet me tomorrow at Abbey Road at around, let’s say, three o’ clock?”

I nodded, almost breaking my neck. He grinned, waved goodbye, and left the room. I sat still for a few minutes, wondering if I conjured the whole meet up in my mind.