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

Chapter 30 - Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen

The above artwork is a poster from the UFO Club in London, ca. 1966

Friday, December 9

The big news is, Mr. and Mrs. Kelly are gone. Paul sent them packing after he discovered Mrs. Kelly had sold a story about us to an Australian women's magazine. I don't know how she thought she could get away with that and still be in our employ, but there it is. I wonder how much of this journal ended up in her magazine article?

Paul will be at the studio until ten and after that he wants to go round the clubs. I told him we have no babysitter and he shrugged and said "Ask Angela." He doesn't understand. I can't ask my girlfriends to babysit every night so we can party like he still wants to. He keeps saying we need to hire more live-in help and I should be in charge of that because he's busy making an album. I don't even know how to go about finding someone I can trust to not spy on us or steal from us or harm our baby. I'd rather stay here with her every night than risk bringing the wrong person into our home.

Cyn has her mother to help her and a loyal housekeeper. I wish my mother were here, or my sister. Or Grandma Bellamy. I feel so alone over here sometimes.

Marisol snapped the journal shut and tossed it into the open suitcase. December 9. That was the last time she'd written in her journal. That was the night before her life went straight to shit.

Four days earlier

"How old are you? Are you pretty? Because if you are, you can come to tea."

Marisol paused in the doorway with a laundry basket balanced on one hip. "What are you doing?"

Paul put his hand over the receiver. "She's twelve." He listened again and laughed. "She just said, "don't you have ugly people to tea?"

"We're not having any strangers to tea, I don't care what they look like."

"I'll talk to you later love." Paul hung up the phone and nodded at the basket of laundry in Marisol's arms. "Need any help folding your clean smalls?"

"Do we only have one basket? I can't find anything since that woman—" The buzzer sounded and Marisol rolled her eyes to the ceiling. How many fragmented conversations were they to have in this house, interrupted every few minutes by that infernal noise?

Paul arched a brow at her. "You seem awfully busy today. I, on the other hand, have loads of free time. I think I'll step outside and ask the fans who wants to go to bed with me."

"Haha. Are you trying to be funny?"

"My point is, instead of doing everything yourself, why aren't you looking for a new housekeeper?" He picked up a newspaper and shook it out. "There's loads of adverts. Here's one: 'Senior citizen 65 seeks employment in Haringey area. Still able to clean, light gardening, DIY and anything. I have references. Old soldier, airborne forces.'

"Are you serious?"

"Airborne forces, Mari. You'd love this bloke."

"You must be mad. I'm not hiring some old soldier from the classified ads." She moved into the room, lowering her voice. "Speaking of, what is that man doing in the dining room?"

"Dudley? Oh, he's a friend of Tara's, great chap. He's a Northerner. I've asked him to paint a mural."

Marisol sucked in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "Did you tell him to paint over the wallpaper? The William Morris wallpaper that cost..." She trailed off, having no idea what wallpaper cost. Paul had commissioned his piano painted in psychedelic colors, and that was one thing, but was he planning to turn their entire home into some sort of carnival?