The way Phillip uses his hands while speaking; the way he cocks his head to his left a little bit, to hide that low slant to the outside of his right eye; that chin; the vibration he gives off when he looks straight into the camera; the fact that he's a WRITER...then there's this short story (nah, just a coincidence I'm sure):
The Stranger in the Penthouse
By Mary Spollen
"Is that the time?" Shelly Rand hissed to herself, catching a glimpse of the digital clock in the taxi. It had been a foolish idea to try and fit a dental appointment and all of these errands in this morning. She barely had time to grab a bite for lunch and get back to her office by two. She had an important meeting with the CEO of a British company. God, she didn’t want to ruin the opportunity of landing this account for her company.
Somehow she managed to flash her security ID at the doorman of her apartment building and hustled past him. The elevator door was just beginning to close. "Hold the door!" she cried. Magically it slid open again. Shelly scurried inside just as her grocery-bag split. Cans of peas, corn, and applesauce bounced to the carpet, followed by a package of tofu, fresh asparagus and a loaf of French bread.
"Rats," Shelly said softly, shifting her dry cleaning to the other arm and reaching out and pushing the button for the 26th floor. She knelt down and began to gather the groceries about her.
"Let me help you, Love."
"Thank you," she murmured, and looked up into a set of the most captivating hazel eyes she’d ever seen. For a moment her breath caught and her heart skipped a beat. With extreme effort she regained her composure. She studied his white hair, bushy white eyebrows and droopy white mustache. His hand brushed hers as he reached for the can of peas. Shelly could feel the heat of his touch race up her arm to send little tingles swirling in her stomach.
Too soon, the elevator slowed to a stop at the 26th floor. "Here," she said, "just pile the groceries outside the door. I live right down the hall. They’ll be safe enough."
"Nonsense," he said, stepping out with her. "Lead the way."
For a moment Shelly hesitated. But there was something about him that said she could trust him. They walked the short distance in silence. Shelly fumbled about with her key until he gently took it from her and unlocked the door.
'Shelly' got to be Nancy Shovell. She figured Paul out. They are neighbors in Hamptons.
"Allow me," he said, pushing the door open. He followed her inside and dumped the groceries onto a chair.
"Thank you, again, Mr. Um...?"
"McGregor. Philip McGregor, at your service," he said with a slight bow.
Shelly noticed he spoke with a delicious British accent. The way he tilted his head when he spoke seemed very familiar to her. "Thank you, Mr. McGregor," she said. "You’re new in the building, right?"
"I just moved into the penthouse flat last week. If you’ll excuse me, I must be going. I have some errands of my own. I can find my own way out."
Shelly stood dumbly in her living-room long after he’d closed the door behind him. Mentally shaking herself, she remembered the time and dashed into the kitchen.
*
Paul McCartney threw the dead bolt into place and leaned back against the penthouse door. With care he reached up and pulled the white wig off. Shaking his head, he ran his fingers through his damp hair. Paul looked into the hall mirror. The fake eyebrows and mustache were still in place. His thick black hair, peppered with gray, looked odd against the remainder of his disguise. So far it was working. The middle-aged rock star had managed to keep his identity a secret. The only people who knew he was in Manhattan were his four adult children. He was available to them anytime they needed him. For now, his self-imposed exile was working.
His thoughts turned to the spunky little bird he’d encountered in the elevator. He liked the way her short auburn hair curled around her heart-shaped face. Her innocent blue eyes had made an impression on him as well. That he’d been able to come to her rescue had left him feeling oddly at peace. Maybe he was beginning to feel again. Brilliant, he hadn’t even asked her name. It didn’t matter anyway.
Paul realized he hadn’t thought of Linda yet today. The untimely death of his wife a year and a half ago had left him empty and dead inside. What he needed now was time alone, to heal.
Grabbing an apple from a bowl of fruit on the coffee table, he went into his bedroom. For now, he was going to live as Philip McGregor, businessman from London. He began to freshen up and change clothes. He had an appointment across town with S. Rand Inc., a large business consulting and investment house his son had mentioned in an e-mail the other day.
*
"Ms. Rand will see you now," the secretary said as she lead Paul into a spacious, nicely furnished office with floor-to-ceiling windows. He came up short when he saw the woman sitting behind the mahogany desk.
"Good afternoon, Mr. McGregor," Shelly said.
"You’re S. Rand?"
"Were you expecting a man?" Shelly asked, her tone even and a bit dangerous.
Paul recovered quickly. "Not at all. I’m just surprised, Love. Two chance meetings in one day." He lifted an eyebrow as he tried turning on the charm. "It’s a bit of a coincidence, I’d say."
"I see," Shelly said coolly. "Have a seat. Now, how can I help you?"
Paul began to lay out his plans to expand his business in the States, plus an investment portfolio he had in mind. As he spoke, Shelly studied him. She had a distinct feeling she knew him from somewhere. She’d figure it out in time.
"I think we can come up with a plan and a portfolio you’ll be pleased with, Mr. McGregor." Shelly made some notes and turned to her computer terminal. "So, tell me more about your woolens business."
Paul watched her work as he explained the details of the wool industry. Suddenly, he realized he didn’t want to face another evening totally alone. "We could discuss this further over tea, I mean dinner, tonight."
Shelly had no objections mixing business with a little pleasure. In fact, she didn’t think she’d mind being seen in public with this gentleman at all. "All right. I know of a nice bohemian café not too far from our apartment building. They serve the best humus around."
The thought of dinning out unsettled him a bit. He was not quite ready to be that public "I had something a little more quiet in mind," he suggested.
"Well, there’s a nice Italian restaurant across town. It’s very exclusive and private. I’ll see if I can get reservations for us." She reached for the phone.
"I was thinking of my flat," he blurted, and inwardly winced at his lack of tact.
"Oh." Shelly tensed. "Um...I’d rather not. I hardly know you, Mr. McGregor."
Paul put his hands up, palms out. "No, no, nothing like that. I was simply suggesting a friendly meal. Nothing more."
What was it about this man that seemed to ease all her fears? Once again, against her better judgment, Shelly found herself agreeing to be alone with him.
"I simply do not enjoy crowds and prefer eating in my own home," Paul was saying.
"All we need to do now is agree on a time." Shelly interrupted.
He flashed her a dazzling smile. "Please call me Philip."
*
Eight o’clock sharp, Philip had said. Shelly pressed the button on the door. This is simply a business dinner, she kept telling herself. So why was she so nervous? The bottle of chilled wine she had brought along was sweating into her linen blouse. The dead bolt clicked and the door swung open. Paul looked comfortable in his shirtsleeves, dress pants and slippers.
She had never been in the penthouse before and marveled at the cathedral ceiling with its numerous sky-lights. Each room was tastefully furnished with a distinctive masculine touch. She followed Paul through the living-room, which boasted a baby grand piano and a guitar on a stand next to it.
"Do you play?" Shelly asked, motioning toward the instruments.
"A little," Paul said. "They’re really for my daughter. She enjoys playing when she visits."
"You’re married, then?"
"Was," Paul said. "She died a while ago."
Shelly could see the instant change in him. His shoulders seemed to slump, and when he turned to face her, his expressive golden-brown eyes were filled with pain. He looked at the instruments before turning back to the terrace doorway. Shelly’s mind raced for a change in topic. "As I was putting the rest of the portfolio together for you, I ran across the profile of McGregor Woolen Products. Impressive company, Philip."
Paul’s mood lightened as he once again took on the role of Philip McGregor. He smiled and led his guest out onto the terrace to a table set for two.
Shelly stepped out into a forest of ficus trees, bushes and flowering plants thrown in for color. She loved the terrace immediately. It was a lovely evening, warm with a light breeze. She took a seat at the table while Paul opened the bottle of wine and set it aside to breathe. Then he served a bowl of tossed salad followed by a steaming casserole of macaroni and cheese.
It was incredibly delicious. This was not from a boxed recipe, she was sure of it. "Very good, Philip," she said, swallowing. "You made this?"
"Yes, it was a favorite recipe of my wife’s."
Shelly noticed how haunted he became whenever he referred to his late wife. So she tried to keep the conversation strictly business. Even so, before she knew it, her watch was reading quarter to twelve. She had another swamped day at the office coming. Excusing herself, she said good night and headed back down to her apartment.
Paul saw Shelly to the door. For the first time in months he actually felt good. Linda was still in the back of his mind, as she always would be. But just now, the pain was not as severe. Besides, hadn’t her dying wish been for him to go on? Maybe now he could.
His thoughts turned to Shelly. She was titillating, fun and alive. She had even managed to make him laugh with one of her business stories gone awry. Yes, he felt very good indeed. Paul moved to his computer terminal. Time to check in with the kids and see what was going on across the pond.
*
Shelly hummed to herself as she entered her apartment. It had been a lovely night. She always felt at ease talking business. She found Philip sophisticated, intelligent, and entertaining. Choosing her favorite Paul McCartney CD, she slipped it into the player. The first selection from Wings of Love filled her apartment as she got ready for bed. She picked up the CD cover and gazed at the picture of Paul It was one of her favorite poses. On a whim, she grabbed a bottle of correction fluid from her desk. Carefully she painted in Paul’s dark hair and traced his eyebrows making them look full and fluffy. Next she brushed in a droopy white mustache. "Oh my God," she breathed, dropping the tacky plastic cover in her lap. Paul McCartney was living in the penthouse of her building! She wanted to throw open the windows and announce it to the world.
Her heart hammered loudly in her ears as she quelled her excitement. Then she stopped herself. Shelly knew enough about the man to know how much he valued his privacy. And the fact that he was in disguise spoke volumes to her. She picked up the CD cover and gazed at the ceiling. "Paul, your secret is safe with me," she whispered, knowing in her heart, if necessary, she would put her very life on the line for this man.
*
Saturday morning was bright with sunshine. Paul pulled on a light jogging suit. He was growing tired of being cooped up in the penthouse. Maybe a quick stroll though Central Park would ease his cabin fever. Should he chance it? Shelly came to mind. Good God, he didn’t even know her schedule, let alone her phone number. On impulse he rode the lift down to the 26th floor and pressed the button on her door. He wasn’t prepared for the wild-haired angel that answered.
Shelly inwardly cringed and pulled her robe tighter across her pajama-clad body. "Oh, Philip, good morning," she said, pushing her unruly hair out of her eyes. "Um...come in."
"I’m disturbing you, Love."
"Not at all." Shelly grabbed his arm and gently pulled him inside. "I’ve been up for over an hour. I love reading the paper on Saturday. Did you have breakfast yet?"
"Yes, but I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee," Paul said, following her into the kitchen. "I was thinking of taking a stroll through the park. I was hoping you might join me?"
Shelly gathered up her New York Times and placed a mug of coffee in front of him. "I don’t really care for Central Park on Saturday. It’s just too crowded," she said, hoping he’d get the hint. She could see the disappointment in his golden-brown eyes. "I was thinking of getting my car and driving upstate. Come along, if you like. We could stop and have a picnic lunch."
"All right," he agreed. At least he’d be out of that bloody penthouse.
"Make yourself at home. I’ll be ready in a few minutes," Shelly said, leaving the kitchen to get dressed.
Paul couldn’t have had a better day then if he’d planned it himself. The drive through the New York countryside was calming. Shelly found a secluded spot by a stream where they shared a picnic meal of escarole sandwiches, cottage cheese and fruit salad . Too soon they were headed back to the city. He felt less withdrawn and more relaxed after his outing.
The weeks turned into a month. What really shook Paul was how he found excuses to see Shelly everyday. He could see how tired she was at the end of her day at the office. But she always gave him a smile and made time for him. Why, she even talked him into going to an evening performance at the theater, where they shared a private box for two. Having her around was beginning to feel as natural as taking his next breath. Even his guitar was starting to appeal to him again. He found it relaxing to sit alone in his flat and work on a tune.
He was going to have to leave soon. His real life was beckoning. Plus, it was time for him to get back to his recording studio. It would mean leaving Shelly behind. What if he told her the truth and asked her to come with him? Damn, her life would never be the same again. He should just leave her here as he’d found her. Suddenly he had the need to hold her, kiss her, make love to her. Bloody hell, now where had that come from? Yes, it was definitely time for him to leave.
*
Shelly couldn’t think of a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon than playing chess with Paul on the penthouse terrace. Today, though, he seemed a bit distant. Shelly made her move, then sat back to watch him concentrate. She giggled. "Let’s see you get out of this one, Philip."
Paul looked the board over, reached to make his play and hesitated. He wiped his hands almost nervously on his thighs. "Love… I, um, I have something to tell you. I’m not who you think I am," he blurted.
Shelly looked directly into his golden-brown eyes. "I know, Paul."
Paul’s mouth fell open, "How? When?"
"I’ve known for awhile," she said, softly.
"But you never said anything. You never let on."
"I could never betray someone I care about."
Paul began to laugh. The weight had lifted. Carefully he began to peel the disguise from his face and pulled the wig off. "What am I going to do with you?" he asked, his voice warm with affection.
"You could play chess," she said innocently. "It’s your move, Paul." She gestured to the board.
"Yes it is, isn’t it?" Paul stood and moved to her side of the table. Gently he pulled her to a standing position. "I’ve been waiting to do this for some time, Love." He drew her into his arms, tilted her face back and slanted his mouth over hers in a deep and tender kiss.
Copyright 2000, Mary Spollen
Then there's him telling us his intention in the David Frost interview from back in 1964 ?
It's right there on one of their records in backwards speak---"We quit--we quit!"...anyone else find any of this interesting ?
Or was he shot into space to dock with a space ship ?
Haha ha ha...if he didn't want to be found and he really wanted out due to the nervous system destroying mania they all lived under---what better way to not have people looking for you had you just said "we quit"---notice the "WE"---than to go into overtime telling us that he died ?