I sat on the red porch of the house, hugging my knees. Elizabeth had gone out shopping with Amber and Renny and knew I wanted to "explore." I stood up and got into the car and absently thought of Paul's house in St. John's Wood and how the fans gathered around it. I turned the keys in the ignition with a click. I may have been famous, but no one was staking out our little house. That did not mean I didn't have my share of fame, because I did. At the premieres of my films, I was mobbed. I had to change my phone number too many times to count. Fans often stopped by my house in America to "chat" and I usually would sign autographs or quietly explain the plots of my books and all incomprehensible parts to my reading fans. But I was glad that no one really knew about the flat. Since it was in Elizabeth's name…no, not really. The press had already dubbed her as "Lynne's best friend the fashion designer" and she was photographed quite often too. I slung the straps of my writing bag over the front seat and started to drive to the country. There were a few "small" towns I came to along the way and I stopped for breakfast. It had been sheer stupidity to go driving on an empty stomach. I talked with a few people in a small café I ate at and noticed, blushing, my picture on the cover of People magazine on a table.

"That's you, a'n't it?" one of the diners asked me.

I nodded.

"Will you be signin' it fer me, then, dear?"

I smiled. "Yes."

My hand flourished my signature as we talked. I dashed of a few notes for a story—these people somehow inspired me—on a napkin and shoved in my pocket, whistling as I went out.

I got back into the car and back on the road, not really knowing where I was going except that I was going south from London. I drove for an hour or so, windows down (nobody was really on the road), my CD player blaring out Beatle songs. I felt great; I was full of story ideas and was not pressured to write them down. In my relaxed state, the ideas would stay fixed in my memory. I was also out of the house seeing more of England just as I had wanted to. My favourite music filled my ears and my heart and I felt like standing up and flying on the wind by going on the top of my car. I couldn't do that, so I contented myself with singing the lyrics of the songs with much love and fervor. "Paperback Writer," the title quite suiting me ended and since I had the songs and albums on shuffle, the next one was "You Never Give Me Your Money." I felt myself lifted from the steering wheel as the piano introduction filled the car.

I started to sing along, substituting words, "Out of school, money spent, see a future, pay some rent….Oh, that magic feeling, nowhere to go!"

I was approaching a town. I could see water in the distance. That agreed with me, as I had not seen water in a long time. Even though I was a southern California girl, I had lived about ten to fifteen miles from the ocean until I was ten and a half and saw water only in summer after that. A sign rushed past the car. I caught a glimpse of it and it read, "Rye."

Rye. That meant I was in Sussex. And I knew I was only a few miles from where Paul McCartney lived. Why was I always running into him? I gently laughed at the thought, remembering that had been one of the reasons I'd come to England early—I'd wanted to meet him. Well, I'd met him at the restaurant and I'd certainly "re-met" him at the Liverpool Institute. But this was beyond it all. I'd had not much of an idea where I was going except for the general direction and I ended up where Paul lived! I did not mind this very much because I wasn't pissed at Paul anymore.

I looked at it as luck given to me from Above. Maybe I was here for a reason—Elizabeth's words echoed quietly at the back of my head. I could have gone to Dover or Oxford or someplace, but I was in Sussex (of course).

I drove for a few more minutes and saw a fenced-off area which contained green, rolling hills, peppered with flowers and the sea in a close distance.

I think there was a "NO TRESPASSING " sign, but I didn't notice. I just wanted to get over there. I parked my car at the side of the road under the shade of a tree, grabbed my writing bag and got out, looking around before jumping the fence (it wasn't that high and it was just barbed wire).

I walked in the direction of the water and soon settled down amongst the tall multi-green grasses that the cool wind fingered. The beach spread out directly in front of me. I was sitting on a grassy ledge that I could swing my legs over. About four feet below me was sand. The sand stretched out about one, two, maybe three hundred feet until it touched the water.

The sky was softly gray and hung a little low. The wind picked up a bit and I pulled my coat closer around me. I settled comfortably and took my writing bag and set it down. I had had experience with the meadow-grass around me when I was younger. There were valleys and hills I used to play in that had this long grass that tickled my neck and I knew how to keep warm in it on a cool day.

My hands went out and pulled the grass into a "wall" without uprooting it. After my makeshift shelter was finished, I looked out with hungry eyes at the landscape. The grass moved like the dark blue waves in front of me, smoothly. Flowers of all colours and sorts bobbed like small boats adrift on the sea. The yellow ones especially caught my eye as they winked back at me. A few birds flew past me, barely stirring the air in their wake. The grayness of sky perfectly suited the day. Everything seemed so relaxed and peaceful around me. There was no one telling me where to go, what to do, what to say, how to act….

I could be myself. The birds and flowers couldn't care less if I was famous or not; right now I was what I had been ever since the age of seven—a young, starry-eyed, dreaming Writer. I yanked my scrunchie free of my hair and felt the pleasing freedom as my hair took flight on the wind.

I closed my eyes and lifted my head to the heavens, peace washing over me.

I felt a presence behind me. I turned quickly and saw….

…..Paul McCartney.

"Hello," he said, saying a lot more than just one word.

I stared at his expression. The anger that was there seemed to be washing away as he saw my face, but that was probably what I wanted to see.

Suddenly I knew where I was. I was on his land, on his property…..

"Oh." I felt as if I had been hit. I stood up swiftly, grabbing blindly for my bag—what was wrong with me? I couldn't see—oh, that's why.

Tears stood in my eyes.

He was angry with me—again. I couldn't handle that. I had never wanted it to be this way. I had always wanted to be with him—as a friend.

Not like this. Not like a trespassing fan. My groping fingers finally found my bag, but spilled the contents. My story papers fell out.

Paul was suddenly the furthest thing from my mind. I grabbed frantically for the papers. I saw the manuscript for my new story being picked up by the wind and taken away.

"No!" I shouted. Not after all that work! I shoved the rest of my papers into my bag and ran after the missing pages.

"Don't just stand there!" I yelled over my shoulder. "Help me out here!"

I could see in my peripheral vision that he just stood still. I was furious, but poured that fury into retrieving my precious fancies. I collected the last of them from the air and returned to the spot that had once been so peaceful. Without looking at Paul, I shoved the crumpled papers into the bag and pulled the strap onto my shoulder. And walked away. Without another word.

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