Chapter Text
Happiness hit her like a train on a track
Coming towards her, stuck still, no turning back
She hid around corners and she hid under beds
She killed it with kisses and from it she fled
With every bubble, she sank with her drink
And washed it away down the kitchen sink
The day Linda started breathing again was one like any other, of no particular importance for the world at large. In retrospect, she wished it happened over some larger-than-life event but it simply came overnight, as she carried its silent seed inside her heart for months.
The unpleasant thrill of the landline phone interrupted Linda's plans of going for a horse ride; unusually unbothered by this sort of thing, she dashed through the kitchen to get to the phone and get it over with.
“This is Linda.”
“Linda, oh my god? What does this mean? Have you gone daft?” From Paul’s piercing voice, she deduced that he learned about her divorce papers. She instinctively smiled and shrugged at the questions.
“Never been saner. Can we not do this on the phone though? I was actually–”
“Of course we’re doing this! What do you mean you want a divorce? Since when? Why didn’t you consult me about this, I had to find out through our secretary! Do you know how humiliating that is?” He was screaming at her. She flinched at that last quip and moved the receiver away from her ear; she waited for Paul to talk to himself until the muffled sounds on the other end of the receiver stopped for good.
She waited a couple more seconds to recollect herself and said: “Paul, listen to me, you’re panicking. Take a deep breath in, like this…” She inhaled loudly, squeezing her eyes shut.
“I’m not panicking, Linda. Answer me instead.” She ignored him and kept on breathing deeply.
“Come on, now exhale slowly, like this.” On the other side, Linda could hear the sound of his uneven breathing.
“I’m sorry you had to find out about it through Betty. I wanted to tell you tonight over a cup of tea,” she continued. “The decision is final. Just come back home so we can sort it out better, all right? I have to go now. Take care,” she declared before finally hanging up the phone and storming out of the house.
Linda walked straight to her appaloosa resting at the back of the family stable. The patter of her riding boots woke up all the horses, who greeted her with happy whinnies. She rested the side of her face against Lucky Spot’s cheek, caressing his black mane with one hand.
She murmured: “Oh Lucky! Paul found out about the papers, it’s so surreal. Somehow having him acknowledging it makes it all the more frightening…” She gesticulated in the air: “Not only that, but I let him talk to me like that! And what did I do instead of screaming back at him? I calmed him down again, like all of the other times I had to baby him! I am furious!” She then started to rub her hands all over her face, trying to peel that sin out of herself.
“We should go for a run, Lucky. What do you reckon?” Her horse was staring at her with his placid black eyes. “Yeah, I thought so too.” And with that, Linda freed him and mounted on top.
Linda couldn’t care less about her hair going in her face and the cold air on her skin; after she spurred her horse to run even faster, she let out a long scream at the top of her lungs. A feeling of freedom spread throughout her chest and she smiled as the appaloosa kept his steady pace.
“Yes, Lucky! To hell with everyone but us!” she yelled, but her throat was then burning, “Oh fuck,” she coughed so harshly that tears came down her cheeks. Linda tried to slow down her horse, feeling mighty embarrassed about it. She managed to regain control of herself but a shrill shout called her attention: “Mummy! Mom, come here please!”
It was Mary who, bless her heart, wanted her for god knows what. Linda loved her kids, but lately she would catch herself always craving more alone time than the allotted one at the crack of dawn.
“Give me a moment!” she yelled back. She slowed down the horse’s pace and turned back to the farm with every intention of taking all the time in the world.
***
Paul had been noodling on his guitar all day, in search of something good to put in a new album, but he had no big vision to push him through this time around.
So naturally, even the beeping sound of a fax in the far distance of his studio caught Paul’s attention. The bloody machine couldn’t find peace at all; once he gave up on covering it with distorted melodies, he really couldn’t focus on anything else.
Annoyed, he got up in one swift motion, sliding his guitar onto the floor as he walked towards the secretary’s office’s door. She was sitting with her back to him and was holding a sheet of paper. He squinted his eyes, trying to get a better look at it; the message on it was rather short, even though that thing had been going on for ages. He noticed her trembling ever so slightly inside her blouse, which perplexed him. Did she receive personal bad news at work? And since when is that an allowed thing? he wondered.
He cleared his voice and knocked on the door before saying:“Hey Betty, is there anything for me?”
Even if she had been startled by the sudden noise, she didn't let that on. The secretary quickly turned around, with a hinted smile.
“No, sir. But I’ll let you know if anything comes up,” she replied. The answer didn’t satisfy Paul though, who was getting restless. He frowned at her and pointed his finger at her.
“What is that piece of paper about?” he said, in his deep mocking voice.
“Which one? Today the fax couldn’t stop printing.” She smiled a bit wider.
“The one you just hid behind your back, y’know,” he pointed out. Is she taking the piss?
“Oh, that one! It’s a message from Miss Linda, she gave me a project to work on,” the secretary replied. “Do you need me to take a message for you? I can send one right away now that the fax is free.”
Certain suspicions started to flurry around in his mind; Paul stared blankly, his body frozen in place, which prompted the secretary to say in earnest: “Mr. McCartney, are you feeling unwell? Is it okay if I make you a cup of tea?” She got up and grazed over his arm. That seemed to snap Paul out of it, letting out a: “I want sandwiches with eggs too, dear.”
“All right, I’ll make some right away. I’ll be back soon,” she replied with a snort and walked right past him.
Paul, on the other hand, looked over his shoulder and then ran to her desk to open every little box and folder he could get his hands on. Management papers, PR stuff, messages from his friends to be delivered to him… until a brown paper bag, hidden under her personal stuff, caught his eye. He opened that too, just in case.
“Mr. McCartney, your food is ready!” Betty announced herself, with her smile still on. That is until she saw Paul holding the papers she thought she hid well enough. His eyes, red and swollen, tried to burn her on the spot.
“What the fuck is this, Betty? Is this a bloody joke?” he whispered.
“Well, uhm… you see, there’s just a big misunderstanding here. You–”
“Actually, I don’t give a fuck about what you have to say! You thought you could hide this forever? All you had to do was tell me everything that goes on… Just get me Linda on the phone and after that, you’re fired.”
“What?! Please Mr. McCartney, don’t fire me, I was only doing as I was told. I tried to tell her I didn’t want to do it but she insisted!” She pleaded with him with as much emphasis as the tray of food could allow her to. And Paul really didn’t want to be an asshole. He really, truly tried to be as pleasant as a madeleine for everyone. However today, God said no. God said: just be the pettiest prick you can be, Paul. I believe in you. And there’s no fighting God, is there?
“Just put down the food. Call me Linda. Get your things and get out of the door.”
“Please, I really need the money right now.” Her voice cracked but she nonetheless put down the tray on the floor where he could reach it easily. He didn’t say anything more.
She got to the phone, almost as an automatism; dialed Linda’s number and wordlessly passed him the receiver. He grabbed onto it as if it was a lifeline.
“Well, now that I’m fired let me just say that it isn’t fair that you took this out on me. Now we’re both miserable.”
“Boo-hoo, Betty. News flash: life isn’t fair,” Paul said as he curled up and turned his back to her. “Just leave me alone.”
Betty saw the last of the most famous pop star on that day; she tried to impress in her mind his small and fragile frame rocking back and forth on the floor. She tried to feel sorry for him, but she only felt sorry for herself.