Paul tossed and turned miserably. He was exhausted after ten straight hours of filming, three of editing, a couple more writing a song or two with John and then a few extra just lingering in bed. The weed had worn off. He cursed the hour when he had proposed Bahamas as a film location. All he had wanted was a chance to be in the Caribbean and have a few laughs with the lads. He had no way of knowing that there was a tropical storm, and the weather, despite the blue sky and the crystal blue waters in the ocean, was freezing cold.

He huffed in his bed before sitting up. He turned to his side and chuckled as George uttered something in his sleep before turning around with a peaceful sigh. If only he could get to sleep like that at the moment!!

“Fuck it…” he mumbled, and stood up, reaching for the plush hotel bathrobe. He sat on the edge of the bed, determined to at least do something entertaining while insomnia lasted. He leaned forward and turned the telly on. The light and the sound of a horse race made George suddenly rise like a string puppet being pulled out of its box.

“What the… Paul, what in ‘ell do you think yer doing??” he moaned groggily.

“Watchin’ telly… I can’t sleep.”  Paul moaned, not even turning around to look at the vicious “I’m going to murder you” stare coming from his band mate’s groggy eyes.

“Tirn it off…

“No, I’m bored.”

“Well, go ‘ave a wank in the loo, and tirn the shaggin’ telly off, then!!” George stood up and stumbled over, turning the huge Telefunken off.  “Bloody tosser…” He jumped back into bed and covered himself up with a sigh of relief.

“Aww!!” Paul moaned, just before he felt George kick him under the blankets. The handsome bassist stood up and whimpered as he fought the urge to do as George had suggested. Instead, he decided to venture out into the lobby.

As he stepped out into the hallway, he looked at the clock that stood in between the elevator doors. It was only quarter past three, and yet another frustrated whine left his face with a grimace. Still, he paced down the hall and pressed the button to call the elevator. It was late at night, his hair was a mess and it was quite unlikely he’d get mobbed at that hour, especially inside the hotel lobby bar. Maybe a drink or two would warm his blood enough and make him a tad sleepy.

Such were his musings when a loud “ding” pointed out it was time to leave the elevator. He rubbed his eyes and walked past the lounge into the bar. As he had suspected, there wasn’t much of a crowd, except for a huge black bartender, a very drunken couple (probably honeymooners), a lone girl in a far corner behind a portable typewriter and a piano player plinking away, looking as groggy as Paul felt.

He shuffled across the floor and sat by the bar.

“What will it be, my man?” The bartender asked, drying a beer glass with a white cloth.

“Please stir sum rum into a tall glass of milk, eh? Hot milk…”

The barman chuckled. “Can’t sleep?

“Me mum used to give it to me bruther and I when we wuz kids, and all… Per’aps it can still do the trick…”

The barman smiled and shook his head as he walked over to prepare Paul’s not-so-unusual request, it seemed. Paul sat there, tapping his fingers on the bar as he looked out the huge window panels that faced a dark ocean. He could see the palm trees moving as the howling  ocean wind wheezed through the huge leaves, and a loud sigh left his lips as he imagined what it would have been like to actually be there in nicer weather. Had he wanted wind and rain, he would have proposed Liverpool, not Paradise Island. What sort of paradise was this, anyway?

His attention was suddenly drawn to the loud tapping coming from the corner. He turned and saw the same girl behind the typewriter, only now she was going crazy behind the little machine, typing faster than anything Paul had ever seen. He winced as she suddenly stopped, banged the table, ripped the paper out from the heavy looking machine, and angrily wrinkled it before inserting a brand new sheet of paper into the rolling pin.

“Here you go man.”  The barman placed a tall glass of milk in front of Paul

“Err.. ta…” Paul mumbled erratically as he turned his eyes back and forth from the girl to the milk to the girl, and then to the barman.  “Excuse me, mate, err… that girl, the one with the typewriter…”

“Oh, Eliza!” The barman laughed.  “She’s Canadian. Quite successful for her age… She’s a writer, you know…”

“Not Eliza McAllen!!” Paul asked, wide eyed.

“Same one, why?

“I read an essay of ‘ers!! An essay on the supposed healing powers of music on disabled children! It was brilliant!!” Paul smiled at the barman  “And what did you mean, ‘er age?”

“She’s eighteen, and already quite huge.”  He leaned over and spoke to Paul. “Word has it she’s lost her touch… She came to Bahamas to clear her mind, and is here every night, trying to write the last chapter of her latest book… But she’s never happy.”

Paul looked at the girl as she once again ripped the page out, wrinkled it, threw it away and inserted another one.  “What’s ‘er book about?”

“No one knows, man. She has been in the hotel for three weeks and every night it’s the same thing, but no one has dared ask.”  He tilted his head to the girl.  “Look at her, she’s furious. Would you go near her?”

Paul chuckled. “If I were curious enough, I might…”

“Tell you what, man.”  The barman leaned over to Paul.  “You go and find out what her book is about, and if you do, there’s no charge on the milk…”

“No bother, I don’t pay fer it anyway…” Paul laughed and began to drink his milk and rum.  “Charge it to me room…”

“All right, so you are scared, then.”

Paul turned sharply.  “You wha’?”

“You are scared of the girl getting mad at you and throwing the typewriter at you!!”

“Bollocks.” Paul muttered as he sank his lip into the milk.

“Well? Let’s see you, man!!”

“Why don’t YOU go, if yer so keen on it!” Paul smiled.

“Because, one, I already tried and all I heard was “Bugger off and get me a drink”… Second, you have a better chance to win, man, you’re a Beatle.”

Paul smiled and shook his head as he stirred the bottom of his sleeping cocktail.  “And thought you ‘adn’t recognized us…”

“Are you joking? Everybody knows The Beatles are in the hotel, man!”  the barman looked around and leaned over, whispering,  “I’ll make you a bet.”

As a Liverpudlian, Paul had always been unable to resist a bet.  The barman had just hit the right angle of his Scouse heritage.  “I’m listening…”

“If you are able to sit down and converse with her, you can have all my tips of the night. If you lose, I get your autograph..” He raised his hands by his head.  “It’s a fair proposal, all right?”

Paul sighed and nodded. “You cunning little swine… All right… You ‘ave a deal.” Paul wiped his lips with a napkin, huffed and stood up, pacing to the girl, who was now head in hand, staring at a blank sheet in front of her.

“Writer’s block?”

Eliza lifted her face.  “Huh? What???”

“Writer’s block…” Paul repeated charmingly.  “I get it all the time. It’ll pass…”

“Will it?” Eliza looked at Paul angrily.  “Is that the best pick”up line you could cook up?”

Paul laughed. “No, yer right,  I’ve done better…” He sat down in front of her bewildered stare. “How about this one… Can I buy you a drink?”

“Can you buy a vowel??” she snapped back aggressively.

Paul stared at her and grinned. “I’m sorry….” He began to stand up, looking down. “I guess you wasn’t such an angry person when you wrote tha’ essay on healing music…”

Eliza shot her eyes up at Paul as he began to turn away. “Wait!! You read my essay?”

Paul turned back slowly. “Yeh… The healing influence of music, it was called. Quite clever. I really enjoyed tha’…”

Eliza sighed and looked down. “I thought that was my worst ever.”

“Are you daft??” Paul smiled. “It was brilliant. It’s ahead of this time, like. I mean, you actually took the time to sit with sick children and play a guitar to make them sing, and discovered that the kids who ‘eard you play recovered faster… cancer children and Down syndrome, right?”

“Yes!!” She suddenly smiled a huge smile. “Indeed!! At least someone thinks it’s a good idea!”

“Well, music healed me as well, so I can relate.” He leaned back. “Me mum died when I was fourteen. Cancer did it… It was devastating. And then I picked up a guitar and threw meself into it…” He looked at Eliza square in the eye. “ Music does heal… it can heal the soul as well, you know. I was just amazed, however, at the lengths music can go… Healing children with cancer??”

“Well, not all of them were “healed”, but rather, they suddenly seemed stronger against the disease…” Eliza explained. “And the children with Down syndrome seemed more responsive to average learning THROUGH music…”

“Wow…” Paul smiled and sat back down. “ And to think I was about to go away thinking you was a cow…”

Eliza laughed. “No, I’m sorry…. I’m just… you know, really frustrated. I can’t get one goddamn chapter right… The last one in the book, as well….”

Paul swallowed hard. “What’s it about, then?”

With a resigned sigh, Eliza spoke out. “ A novel… A man and a woman, same old garbage…”

“Surely not! More detail, maybe?”

“Well, they meet one night in a club, and they begin to see each other, blah blah…” She sighed and leaned back. “They have some sort of strange affair, kind of fall for each other, but she has a huge career and he’s married to a very famous girl, so they can’t be… now they’ve come to the part where they have to break up, but not before letting each other know how much it hurts, and how they will take each other’s memory forever, you know… But I just can’t get it right, even with Casablanca’s Sam playing over there…” She tilted her head to the tired looking pianist.

“‘ave you tried sex?” Paul asked nonchalantly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sex, luv!!! Make them tell each other in silent luv making how much they care!! No words for their love, eh?”

Eliza stared at Paul and looked down, deeply saddened.

“Uh-oh, said sumthing amiss, did I?” Paul sat up.

“It’s just that…” She swallowed a fresh batch of tears and looked at Paul. “This book is… sort of based on real events…”

“Oh, I see…” Paul nodded. “So it’s a bit delicate, is it?”

“What you just said?? That never happened… I can’t write about it if it never happened…”

Paul pressed his lips together and sighed. “Ok, you said ‘e’s got a woman and she ‘as a uge career, right? So tha’ would make you the one with the huge career…”

“Yes…”

“And ‘e would be the unavailable bloke who is committed to sum famous actress…”  Paul trailed off, knowing exactly what had just come into his mind.

“ H… How did you know his wife is an actress?” Eliza sneered.

“Err, wild guess… Just seemed right…” he paused and looked at her. “God, this is odd…”

“What is?”

“You’ve just described me own life as well…” He smiled. “Only instead of a girl with a huge career, I’m torn between a famous girlfriend and me OWN career… and ‘ers as well…”

“Your girl is famous?”

“In England, yeh… quite a bit…”

Eliza leaned over and stared at Paul. “What’s her name?”

“Jane…” Paul smiled.

“Actress…”

“Yeh…”

The blocked writer stared at him for a few seconds before speaking calmly. “You’re one of the Beatles, aren’t you?”

Paul smiled and leaned back once again. “Not now, I’m not. I’m Beatle when I play onstage, I’m Beatle when I’m with the other three, and I’m Beatle when I get into the studio to work with the lads… But right now, I’m just Paul…” he held his hand out. “Paul McCartney.”

“Eliza McAllen. “The girl smiled and shook his hand.

“So, can I call you Eliza now, or is the barman right and will you throw that typewriter at me ‘ead if I do?”

Eliza laughed. “I won’t…”

“Okay, then, Eliza, back to yer story…”

“Yeah…”

“You could make it like tha’, you know… Not everything you write ‘as to be based on facts. Add a touch of yer own fantasy! So it never ‘appened… and if it ‘ad? What would it ‘ave been like?”

“Do you think that’s why I have the block?” she asked.

“Oh, aye!” He tilted his head to the side and winked. “Too much reality… Sumtimes, you need to let go off real life in order to get a better view of it, like I did with me guitar. Me mum died, it was too ‘ard to handle, so I put everything I ‘ad into music… After tha’, it was easier to deal with mum’s death. But detaching was definitely a lot of help…”

“Doesn’t it hurt at all any more?”

“Well, yeah…” Paul scratched his brow. “But I’m not clouded by it.  See? Tha’s what I mean!! I can control it, even make good use of it, even if it may still ‘urt a bit…”

Eliza stared at Paul and smiled.

“Okay, so she and her man meet….”

“By accident because neither could sleep…” Paul nodded.

“…so they both went to the same old bar they used to go to…”

“…where a tired old pianist played…” Paul turned to listen to the tune, and then turned back to Eliza with a grin. “…Unforgettable by Nat King Cole….”

“…and  they were both shocked to find each other there!!” Her eyes began to gleam with newly found inspiration.

“So, they ‘ad a drink…”

“… and a long talk about all things except love and romance…”

“Right.” Paul grinned.

“…and they finally spoke of each other… “

“She said she’d miss him, losing him to an actress…”

The young girl began to reach out on the table, softly touching Paul’s hand. “ …and insited they make love one final time, like all the nights before…

Paul swallowed as her fingers touched his. “The nights before… tha’s a good title for yer book…”

“Maybe you could write a good song with that as well…” She grinned.

“And what happens to your two heroes in the morning?” Paul gulped back even harder. “You know, after they wake up?”

“She writes a book, dedicated to the man who helped her regain inspiration…”

“And what does ‘e do, then?”

“Goes back to his business, lives a happy life with his actress… and vows never to forget that final night… silent… No words for their love, just memories.”

Her black eyes gazed into his, and silently, they both stood up, hand in hand. Paul walked over to the bar and smiled at the bartender. “Keep yer tips, mate. You’ll ‘ave my autograph tomorrow morning anyway..”  He winked and left the bar with the famous young writer leading the way to her bedroom, where they reenacted the story they had both written in the air.

***

Paul and his wife Linda sat behind a dreary window, staring at the rain one cold evening in December, 1973, while Paul read a book. His latest album had proven to be his best solo work, called Band On The Run.  It seemed odd that he had been the one to carry on after all the depression that came with the breakup of the Beatles. But to him, doing Band on The Run had been like the biggest outlet of every cloistered emotion inside him. Two or three songs were really close to home. Mamunia, for one, spoke of rain… All he had seen in Nigeria as he recorded the album. Let Me Roll It, a grooved out song based on a guitar riff and the overwhelming love he had felt for Linda… No Words was one of the big ones too…

It had been in the news. Super successful writer Eliza McAllen, author of six books, including the full-length romance novel All The Nights Before, had tied the knot earlier that year after showing no sign of wanting to sooner. For some reason, it had depressed Paul a little bit. He didn’t quite know why or how; She had been a one night stand, with black, burning eyes, silky white skin and chestnut hair. But for some reason, the memory burned on his skin, and hearing her name in the news, now calling herself Eliza McAllen-Miller, felt odd to him. No words for my love…

Every line of the song had been written as soon as the news reached his ears: You wanna give your love away, you end up giving nothing… I’m not surprised that your black eyes are gazing. You say that love is everything, and what we need the most of… I wish you knew that’s just how true my love was… No words for my love. Your burning love, sweet burning love is deep inside, you mustn’t hide your burning love…You wanna turn your head away and someone’s thinking of you… I wish you’d see it’s only me, I love you…No words for my love.

Both lyrics and song had suddenly popped in his head. He didn’t know why…

Until one day, he read the book, which he had never read before.

The final lines made him smile…

“Gary… Will you ever forget about this?”

“Not likely, love… but sometimes, you need to let go off real life in order to get a better view of it…”

Paul smiled and closed the book, catching a glimpse of a small dedication note, which read: To the young man in the bar, my inspiring muse, who gave me the strength to see the truth behind my own book, and the courage to challenge it with a little fantasy.

The young musician lay down the book, and once again looked out the window with a nostalgic grin.

“Was that any good?” Linda spoke, followed by the sound of distant thunder.

“Quite…”

“Never thought I’d catch you reading a romance novel…”

“This is not an ordinary one…”

“I read it…” She snuggled up against his chest. “ Didn’t make much of it. Must have gotten to you, though… To each his own…”

Vanessa Jayne Brand was born in 1977, of a British father and a Mexican mother. She has been writing for as long as she can humanly remember, dictating things to her mum for her to write. She was raised (mostly) in London, and currently resides in Mexico. Aside from Beatles fanfics, she is in the process of working on a novel based in Ancient Egypt, called The Widow of Wasset. She has been a Beatles Nut as long as she can remember, and she currently holds a non-paying job as an assistant for the daily radio Beatles show The Beatles Club, in Mexico City.

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