I've Just Seen A Face: Book 2: A Paul McCartney Love Story

Chapter 1: The Familiar Stranger

 I couldn't keep laying in this bed staring at my engagement ring. I couldn't keep staying at John's house. My eyes were drooping and black rimmed. I hadn't showered in days. I decided to get up. It was so hard. I struggled out of my king sized bed onto the cool wooden floor. What day is it? I wondered.

 I walked slowly across the wooden panels, legs and feet cramping all the way, to the bathroom that connected to my too large bedroom. I miss Cavendish. I wanted to go back home, but I was so afraid. I didn't want to see his things or our life together. I knew it would still smell of him, and I couldn't dare look at his old leather jacket hanging on the bedpost.

 I took off my night gown that had become my every day apparel and stepped into the shower. The water was hot  as it rushed over me, and I began to think of what John said to me the other day. 

   "Analeigh..the public is starting to notice. The paparazzi is asking questions about where you and Paul are. We can't keep this up for too much longer.." 

 What did that even mean? If we weren't supposed to let anyone know he's dead, what were we going to tell them?

 My thoughts became darker as I sank down to the floor of the shower. 

 Paul's funeral was horrible. It wasn't even a proper ceremony. The only people in attendance were myself, John, and Paul's father. Another McCartney sucked into this sick game- having to pretend his own son was alive. I'm not sure if even Paul's younger brother Michael knew. George and Ringo were barred away from the burial grounds, but John was forced to go. Maxwell thought it would keep him in line if he had to help bury his best friend. It had been dawn when we buried him. The sky had been purple. We had his grave marked with a false name. At the top it said No. 49 for the number of letters in Paul and McCartney. The numbers were then followed by Here Lie Buried William McMillen. 49 was the only thing that could give him an identity, and we prayed that one day people would know. He deserved to be mourned. I deserved to mourn.

 I finally stood up and washed off the bad feelings, though my sorrow was still with me, and got dressed. I put my hand on the doorknob and took a deep breath as I took my first step out of this doorway in months.

 I heard voices downstairs that belonged to the three remaining Beatles and one from an unwelcome Maxwell., but there was another a voice that wasn't quite British, but not American either. There was a familiar tone to it, and it made my stomach lurch. I couldn't place it, so I gathered my strength and walked downstairs to face them all.

    Maxwell was the first to see me. "Ah! Good. You're up and living. There's someone I would like you to meet-"

     John cut him off, "You can't do that! You can't just let her-"

     "Quiet!" screamed Maxwell.

 John flinched and Analeigh suddenly noticed his bloody lip and slightly bruised temple. What have they been doing to you, John? I wondered with guilt. I had been locked in my room for months not once thinking of how this was affecting the lives of everyone else.

  Maxwell whistled as if for a dog and a very familiar face walked into the room.