1964.

TWO

Even after fast-walking the few feet to Paul’s flat in the still pouring rain, he still thought that Grace was beautiful. Her long, dark brown curls were dripping, and plastered to her head, but here porcelain cheeks were flushed with the delight of meeting someone who could make her laugh as much as Paul did, and her brilliantly green eyes were incredibly bright and sparkling, a shade that could rival that of emeralds. An enchanting smile playing on her rose-colored lips, and Grace courteously thanked Paul as he opened the door to his apartment for her, and they walked inside together.
Setting Grace’s bags down on the messy, cluttered counter, he looked around and blushed slightly, saying, “I’m sorry about the mess, I live her with my band mates. They can be a handful.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, her eyes lit up in recognition. “I knew I knew you from somewhere! You’re in The Beatles, right?”
Paul smiled at her, scratching the back of his neck in an almost sheepish manner. “Yeah, that’s us,” he stated, half expecting her to go crazy and fly at him like most girls would.
“You boys aren’t half bad,” Grace said with a laugh at Paul’s wary expression. “At being musicians, I mean. The house keeping could use a little work.” Paul chuckled at her comment. She was an absolute pleasure to be around. She was adorably bashful when they had first met, but now that Grace was more comfortable around him, she was quite outgoing- an enigma, almost.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Paul asked, wanting to be around her as much as possible. He felt that this could be the beginning of a great friendship between them.
Grace tapped her chin in mock thoughtfulness, blushing at the look of hope on his face. “I’d love to, but on one condition,” she said playfully.
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“You’ll let me cook for you. I’m guessing you’re quite hungry, and I’m also guessing you have no idea how to cook. I just bought the ingredients for chicken Parmesan, if that sounds good.”
“You, Grace Willington, are magnificent. The lads will be joining us, I think. You’ll love them,” Paul said with excitement.
Grace let out a laugh, and said, “You’re something else, Paul McCartney. And I’m looking forward to getting to know all of them! Now go on, I have cooking to do!” She jokingly shooed him out of the kitchen, and placed her hands on her hips. Surveying the mess that consumed the kitchen, she decided she would go ahead and clean it all. Who cooks without a neat space, anyways?
Grace started with the dirty dishes. Collecting them in stacks, she emptied the remnants of the food into the trash and piled them into the sink. Filling one sink with clean water, and one with soapy water, she let them soak in the soapy section while she scrubbed the counter tops. Expertly washing and drying the plates, bowls, glasses, and utensils, the kitchen was finally sparkling. Grace assessed her work with a sense of accomplishment, and started on the chicken, deciding she would make spaghetti and heat up Italian bread along with it.
She quickly located the things she needed- a cutting board, a pan, a glass cooking dish, and a large pot for the pasta. She swiftly put the pot on the stove and poured in the water. While waiting for it to boil, Grace got out her ingredients, and started on the chicken. Pulling out the raw breast, she sliced through each section thinly, until it was in ten large pieces. She proceeded to crack five eggs in a smallish bowl, beat in a splash of milk, and added in salt and pepper. Grace dipped each side of the chicken slices into the mixture, and then placed them in a bowl of breadcrumbs, until they were fully covered in them. By now, the water was boiling, and she added in the spaghetti, stirring it gently. Returning back to her chicken, she placed the pan on the stove as well, greasing it with a small amount of olive oil. Once the oil was sizzling, she laid the chicken in with it, and the kitchen was soon filled with the mouth-watering smell of it frying. Once both sides of the slices were golden, she removed them from the pan carefully with a spatula, and placed them in the baking dish. Turning off the pasta so it wasn’t over cooked, she got the Italian red sauce from her grocery bags, and poured a generous amount over the chicken, and topped each piece with a slice of Parmesan cheese, and place it in the oven. Grace drained the pasta, emptied it into a large bowl, and spooned out the remaining sauce over it. She checked on the chicken in the oven, and saw that the cheese was nearly melting, and got out the Italian bread. Wrapping it in foil, she put it carefully in the oven to heat it up. She cleaned up a bit, and after five minutes, turned off the oven. She put on her oven mitts, and started carried the chicken over to the table.
“Grace, the boys are going to be here in- Wow. That looks amazing!” Paul said, walking in the kitchen. His mouth was hanging open, and he look as if he was going to drool from the smell.
Grace blushed. “Thank you! Would you mind getting the pasta from the kitchen, and bringing it to the table?”
“Sure, whatever you need!” As Grace had set the chicken on the table, she heard Paul from the kitchen.
“Holy shit!” he exclaimed. She laughed from behind her hand. Paul rushed in, carrying the pasta. “I haven’t seen it that clean since we moved in! You’re utterly outstanding, Grace.” She blushed again.
“You give me too much credit,” she said with a simple smile, and fetched the bread, bringing with her a stack of plates and utensils. As she set the table,
Grace didn’t notice she was humming until she heard a voice behind her saying, “That was really beautiful, Grace.
“Oh!” she said, startled, whirling around. “You scared me! But thank you, it’s from the Phantom of the Opera.”
“The what now?”
Grace laughed, the wonderful noise sounding like bells. “It’s a play. Well, it’s a musical, really. I’m performing in it on the West End.”
“You’re on the West End?” Paul asked in excitement. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She shrugged, smiling. “I had forgotten about it.”
“When’s the production? We would love to come see it!”
“Opening night is next Friday at six, if you’re interested. But don’t go causing riots in the theatre, there’s enough violence in the play already!” Grace said humorously.
“I thought it was a musical?” Paul asked in confusion,
Grace laughed again. “It is, Paul, but not all musicals are like the stereotype.”
Paul opened his mouth; ready to cover his mistake, when they heard the front door open, and the loud sound of voices fill the flat.
“We’re home!” several voices shouted.