Above Us Only Sky (Paul McCartney/Beatles Fan Fiction)

Chapter 29 - And the World Spins Madly On

"Love can consign us to hell or to paradise, but it always takes us somewhere." — Paulo Coelho

While the fans prayed that Marisol would disappear from Paul's life, the rest of Swinging London couldn't seem to get enough of the newlyweds. Marisol could have kept a social secretary busy handling the invitations that arrived by phone, letter, even by telegram and messenger.

The Christmas season meant even more invitations to parties, concerts, events, openings, and happenings.

During the first week of December, when Marisol had a rare moment to write in her journal, it was to jot down the people she'd met and the places she'd been. She fell into bed each night too exhausted to write more than scant details. Her journal had turned into a diary of events with a few random observations thrown in.

On Monday afternoon, after a weekend of mothering by day and partying by night, she left the baby in the music room with her daddy and softly closed the door. She stumbled bleary-eyed into the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. If only she could get a nap. Her brain would start working again. But Paul was at the piano and she never could sleep unless the house was quiet. She rolled over and stretched her arm down, feeling for her journal tucked under the nightstand. Perhaps she'd read over the events of the weekend and write a little more until she drifted off, music or no music.

Friday - Launch party at the Roundhouse for the first issue of the International Times. We heard a new band called Pink Floyd. They had a sort of liquid light show with powerful projectors and slides of colored oils. It looked like the group was bathed in pulsating, mingling color that seemed to change with the sound. Paul was mesmerized. I've never smelled so much dope in a public place before.

Saturday - New club opened on Kingly street close to NEMS offices called the Bag O' Nails. We met John and Cyn for lunch. An entire galaxy of glittering stars showed up for the opening.

My hair reeks of cigarette smoke expelled from the lungs of some of the biggest rock 'n' rollers in England: Brian Jones, Keith Richards, Eric Burden, Jeff Beck, Jimmy Page...and a multitude of other musicians and their entourages who circled around our table basking in the glow of a minute or two with Lennon and McCartney.

Dave Davies of the Kinks walked by and Paul flagged him down. "Oi lad, tell your brother Ray I love his new song." He began to sing, in case Dave had any doubt which song he meant. "Girl, you really got me going, you got me so I don't know what I'm doing." Paul raised his bottle in a toast. "Great song. I should have written it."

Dave stared at him flatly for a beat. "Well you didn't, did you. You can't do everything," he said before stalking off.

Lennon nearly peed himself laughing.

Out came Jimi, with his wild hair and colorful gypsy clothes, getting more sound and emotion out of his guitar than you'd have thought possible. He played a 45-minute set: "Foxy Lady," "Wild Thing," and "Hey Joe," and when he'd finished he put his guitar by the speaker, creating feedback, and it resonated long after he'd left the stage.

We went backstage to meet the band. Paul walked in and said, "Great show" and they looked like they might freak out. Then John walked in behind us and said "That's grand lads" —high praise from Lennon—and they seemed to forget how to speak.

John and Cyn came back to the house. The boys were also rendered speechless on the way home, so profoundly moved by the music we'd heard. John and Paul went straight upstairs to the studio and talked and smoked and got high and played loud music while Cyn and I nodded off on opposite ends of the sofa like children waiting for Santa to appear.