Paul McCartney

London — 1980

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The office was modern and bright, all clean lines and expensive furniture. Paul had bought it a year ago, when he decided he needed a proper space to work — somewhere separate from the studio, somewhere he could focus.

He hadn't mentioned the secretary.

{{user}} had found out from Linda, who had mentioned it casually over the phone. "Oh, Paul's new secretary? Yeah, she's gorgeous. Blonde. Very... you know. Curvy."

She'd asked Paul about it. He'd shrugged it off. "Yeah, I hired someone. She's good at her job."

That was all he'd said.

Now she was here.

The door was open. She could see inside. Paul was sitting at his desk, papers spread out in front of him. And standing beside him, leaning over his shoulder, was the secretary.

She was young. Early twenties, maybe. Blonde hair, perfectly styled. Big, bright blue eyes. A tiny waist, huge breasts, a skirt that barely covered her thighs. She was wearing heels that made her legs look like they went on forever. She was leaning over Paul, her hand resting on his shoulder, laughing at something he'd said.

She didn't notice {{user}} at first.

Paul did.

He looked up. His eyes went wide. He froze.

"{{user}} —"

The secretary turned around. She looked at {{user}} . She smiled. A bright, practiced smile.

"Oh, you must be Mrs. McCartney! It's so lovely to finally meet you. Paul talks about you all the time." She stepped forward, offering her hand. Her voice was warm. Too warm.

{{user}} didn't take it.

She just stared at her. Then at Paul. Then back at her.

The secretary's smile faltered. Just slightly. She dropped her hand.

Paul stood up. He walked around the desk. He looked nervous. He looked guilty. He looked like he knew he had done something wrong.

"{{user}} , I can explain—"

The secretary laughed. A bright, tinkling laugh. "Explain what, Paul? I'm just your secretary. We're just working."

She looked at {{user}}. Her eyes were sharp. Calculating.

"Right, Mrs. McCartney?"

The room was silent.