"And if I said, I really loved you and was glad..." The singer's voice wavered as he fought to maintain the note, but his voice cracked completely as his emotions choked in his throat. Up in the recording booth, George Martin quietly said "cut" to the engineer and glanced sadly at the woman sitting next to him.
Paul McCartney closed his eyes, put a hand over them to hide the tears and leaned over his guitar. God, why couldn't he stop this emotional crap and just get on with the business of recording this song? But he did know why. He shook his head and swiped at the tears on his cheeks. A soft hand pressed itself against his shoulder and he turned to bury himself in his wife's comforting arms for a brief moment. Then, red-eyed, he looked up at the booth.
"Sorry, George," he said, "I'll have to leave this one for a bit."
George flicked the intercom switch and replied, "That's fine, Paul. Whenever you're ready."
Paul swung the guitar from his shoulder and set it in a stand. He glanced at Linda standing beside him, pulled her down onto his lap and breathed in her scent with a shuddering sigh. She tightened her arms around him and shook her head at the booth. Paul had been fighting this through the whole album, especially during the song "Tug of War" and now this, his very personal tribute. He hadn't eaten or slept well for weeks.
"Baby," she said gently, "Maybe it's too soon."
Paul's reply was muffled by her sweater. "Lin, it will always feel like this. Always." His voice trembled and she felt his body tense as he fought the tears again.
Linda stroked his hair. "I hate to see you like this," she murmured with tears in her own eyes. "It will get better, in time."
Paul let her go and sat up, not bothering to wipe the wetness from his face. An overgrowth of stubble lined his cheeks and his large eyes were sunken and dull. Denny walked over and clapped him gently on the back.
"I think I'll get on home now, Paul," he said. "Give me a call when you need me in the studio."
Paul nodded with a brief smile. "Ta, Denny." He took Linda's hand. "Let's go home."
A large crowd of reporters hovered near the entrance of the studios. "Oh shit," Paul grimaced. "I don't feel like facing that lot."
But they didn't have much choice if they wanted to get to their car. He took a deep breath, gripped Linda's hand more firmly and stepped out the door behind the three security men they had hired.
Yelled questions and shouts immediately descended on them, microphones shoved in their faces, camera flashes blinding them as they fought their way through with the security men pushing bodies out of the path.
"Mr. McCartney, when was the last time you spoke with John Lennon?"
"Linda, does this make you worry about your own family's safety?"
"Paul, how did you hear the news?"
"Are you planning to go see Yoko in New York?"
As they reached the sanctuary of the car, one reporter flung himself past the security line and shoved a mike at Paul. "Paul, Paul...how do you feel about John's death?"
The bluntness of the question caught him off-guard. Paul nearly fell apart right there, the entire scenario overwhelming him. But the years of smiling and keeping face held him in good stead. Inwardly fighting tears and wishing they'd all fly directly to hell, he opened his mouth and said, "It's a drag." The words immediately started echoing in his brain, time seemed to stop. The milling mass of reporters surged in slow motion, mouths flapping up and down like wooden puppets, their arms flopping like bat wings.
Linda pulled him into the car and slammed the door. Worriedly, she looked at his face and said something to him. He watched distractedly as her lips moved without making a sound. She turned to the driver and gestured for him to go.
Paul dazedly turned his head to watch the receeding crowd performing its bizarre pantomime. "It's a drag...It's a drag...It's a drag...It's a drag..."
Confused, disoriented, Paul turned back to Linda who was now wide-eyed in alarm. She took his face in her hands and tried to get him to focus on her, mouth moving without a sound. Paul might've giggled about it if he didn't feel so dizzy...
"It's a drag...a drag...a drag..."
*******************************************
"Do I have to say that??" a familiar voice asked in horror. "I'll be bloody humiliated!"
"It's not as bad as a few lines earlier," another familiar voice retorted.
"What?" the first voice demanded.
"Look here." Papers rustled.
"'Grotty'! What the hell kind of word is that?!"
"Our boy here doesn't do too well with these morning schedules," a third voice dryly observed.
"Neither do I," replied the second voice with a yawn.
Paul jolted awake as a hard boot landed in his lap. He opened his eyes to see John Lennon's face peering nearsightedly into his from about six inches away, looking for all the world like he had in 1964. Paul' ears buzzed and hummed, the world's images blurred and ran together like melting crayons into one black puddle.
