It was a falling dream. He was plummetting through a dark sky, helpless to stop himself. Then the adrenalin-rushing jolt as he awoke, finding himself once more in a bed. Heart pounding, he opened his eyes.
It was the house in St. John's Wood. The spacious master bedroom where he and Linda started out their marriage. Something tickled his arm and he looked down to see blonde hair sweeping across his chest, spilling over onto his arm. A woman's head was resting on his bare chest. Linda! He nearly yelled her name outloud in his joy to be back, but then with sinking heart, he realised that Linda's hair was a more natural strawberry blonde. This was a stark, almost white blonde.
Carefully he tried to extricate himself from the mystery woman's arms without waking her. But she moaned and lifted her head as soon as he stirred.
Paul stared blankly at her, searching his memory for her face. Smudged with sleep, she was still a beautiful woman, mid-twenties, refined, sharp features, light blue eyes. Bloody hell, he had no idea who she was. For that matter, he had no idea when she was.
"Morning, baby," she purred and kissed him languidly, running a slow hand down his chest, a manicured fingernail trailing across his nipple.
"Morning," he replied as neutrally as possible when she finally released him. He knew he was in the buff, and as the woman sat up, the sheet pooled down to her waist, revealing that she was in the same state of dishabille.
Paul felt a blush start to rise on his cheeks and hurriedly scrubbed his hands across his face and swept the hair off his forehead.
The blonde cocked her head to one side and examined him speculatively. "That suits you," she said coolly. "You ought to consider changing your hairstyle."
Paul smiled. "Get rid of Arthur? I wouldn't think of it."
Her eyebrows drew together in a frown. "Arthur, is he your stylist?"
"Never mind, luv, it's not important," Paul said absently. What was uppermost in his mind was finding out what year he was in now. This sensual beauty's presence in his bed was definitely not helping him determine that. Sadly he realised that either his previous appearance in 1965 hadn't changed the outcome of his relationship with Jane--seeing he was naked in bed with someone he couldn't even remember--or he had caused a more drastic change. Maybe he had simply shifted to another time dimension completely separate from his last one. He sighed.
"Come here, you man," the woman beckoned seductively. "You look like you need a little more loving."
Paul glanced at her, trying to avoid staring at her admittedly remarkable bosom. Where in the hell had he picked this one up? And why, besides the obvious? She seemed like a first class, high class bitch. Not his type. He really had been just a dick on legs in those days.
He shook his head. Time to get rid of her. "Sorry, I've got a pretty full day ahead."
Oops, obviously not the right thing to say. Her eyes narrowed. He could practically see her claws unsheathing. "Are you attempting to get rid of me, darling? If so, I must compliment you on your subtlety, as it's 2 o'clock in the afternoon already," she finished flatly, one sharp-nailed finger pointing to his alarm clock.
Well, she's not a stupid bird at any rate, Paul thought wryly. Damn.
"All right then, listen, it was great last night, but it's not going to work out," he hazarded.
"Since when have we ever demanded anything more from each other than a good fuck?"
Now her eyebrows were raised--he was digging himself in deeper with every word that came out of his mouth. He coughed to cover an astonished laugh. Only one solution: He swung her into his arms, perpendicular across his lap, and engaged her lips in a deep, all-consuming kiss.
Dropping her abruptly, he said, "Let's leave it at that then. Go on, get out of here." And, getting up, he reached over and gave her a solid smack on the butt.
That seemed to do the trick. She smiled widely, "That's the Paul I know and lust after. You had me worried for a bit." She rose and walked unselfconsciously to the bath, gathering strewn articles of clothing as she went.
Paul shook himself out of the trance that her naked derriere had induced and quickly pulled on some pants, noting with some relief that they were still of a style from the sixties.
He walked downstairs. It appeared that he had just moved into the house. Boxes were still scattered around and the rooms had a spartan lack of knick-knacks and furniture. That would make it 1966, he mused as he continued into the kitchen and started a pot of tea, instinctively reaching for where the tea set was always kept without noticing he'd done it. Have a cuppa and get her out, he thought.
As he was setting the tea things on the table, he was startled by a large English sheepdog, which galloped up to him and planted her paws on his thigh.
"Martha!" Paul was overjoyed to see his first real pet again. He dropped down on his knees and let her deposit slobbery kisses across his face as he scrubbed a hand behind her ears and pulled the fur back from her eyes. "Great to see you again, girl!" She had brought so much into his life and had been the first in a succession of sheepdogs to join the McCartney household.
When the blonde came down, dressed in a mini that nearly left nothing to the imagination, Martha was outside in the back garden and Paul had tea ready. Congenially enough, they drak together, although he still had absolutely no idea who she was, how long they'd been screwing, or what was involved.
They walked to the door. As Paul unlocked it, the woman turned to him. "Don't be a stranger now, my boy," she whispered into his ear and blatantly reached down to squeeze his privates with one hand, "Remember how lonely I get."
Paul gasped in surprise at her decidely ungentle touch. Just what was he doing with this chick? He longed to find out what her name was, but there was no way he could just blurt out, "By the way, what's your name again?" without the risk of losing his manhood.
"You stay out of trouble," he said. "I'll see you."
She smiled, winked, and swayed out, going down the drive where a red Astin Martin stood. She got in, waved cheerily at him, and backed out after he'd hit the gate button.
Paul watched her drive off, then closed the door and leaned weakly against it with relief. That was awkward. He wandered back upstairs to the bedroom, smelling the sweet cloud of perfume the woman had left behind. Going into the bathroom, he started the shower and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
A handsome image stared back at him, deceptively innocent-looking except for the dark shadow of beard and the faint stain of the woman's lipstick on the mouth. Hair still cut long and hanging straight. Still twenty-something. Suddenly, anger filled him. Why was he going through this? What was he supposed to do? How would he get back to Linda? He slammed his fist into the youthful image in the mirror. The mocking reflection of a shallow, unfulfilled life of fame and axcess.
"I've had enough! Let me go back!" he screamed and beat on the mirror until the glass shattered under his repeated blows. Immediately, his hands began to bleed from numerous cuts, smearing the broken mirror as he continued to pound on it until his rage boiled dry.
He stopped, resting his forehead against the cracked image of himself, planting both hands on either side of it. He looked into his own eyes, which held a defeated, barren expression, and let himself cry for a while, feeling full of self-pity. Red streaks made their way down the mirror from his bleeding hands. Lifting his head, Paul followed their path with his eyes, fascinated. They merged and ran together like some kind of mystical roadmap until they dripped into the sink basin and disappeared down the drain. Paul strained to make some sense of message from it.
Suddenly, the gate buzzer sounded from downstairs, startling him out of his distracted observations. Shit, he thought, someone's here. He grabbed the nearest hand towel and wrapped it around one hand as he ran down the stairs.
