August 1968
Paul

That kiss.

That fucking kiss.

That fucking kiss was slowly driving me mad.

Ten glorious seconds that had felt so right, like the whole bloody world had been created for that moment. Like I'd been sleepwalking for the past year and finally had a reason to wake up.

But then Alice had left without looking back. She'd given me an unreadable look and climbed into the taxi. So I'd fucked off back to London and spent the next week wondering if I'd taken advantage of her. Was she sitting around thinking about the kiss, or was she too busy contemplating that I'd used a fucking funeral to foist myself upon her?

I'd rung her twice as promised, and she'd accepted the call, which was more than I expected. Neither of us brought up what had happened, nor did I fess up that I was halfway to crackers because of it. But they were short conversations, barely enough time to move beyond the superficialities.

I didn't have time to worry about the kiss. I didn't. I was extremely important and extremely busy and we were finally recording my new song.

Trident Studios had the only 8-track in London, which meant it was the only place deemed suitable to record Hey Jude. Plus, we'd abandoned EMI a few days prior after a camera crew got in our faces and made it impossible to work there. It didn't hurt that Trident didn't lock up the milk at night, nor the fact that they had Dolby noise reduction technology.

It wasn't a pretty studio by any means, and they hadn't managed to keep their mouths shut that we'd be there. When I'd arrived that afternoon, at least a dozen girls were crowded around the entrance. How did they always know where to find us? Was Pattie in on it? Mo? Was Yoko writing our whereabouts on acorns and distributing it to the gate birds?

We'd been working on Hey Jude for a few hours when Derek popped by. Everyone was a bit relieved to see him, mainly because the session had gotten a bit contentious and our press officer was a welcome distraction. He'd recently returned from Los Angeles, where he'd been doing press for the Byrds and the Beach Boys. Brian Wilson had rung me up and said he was relinquishing Derek to us but to tread lightly because the pressman was a "purveyor of good vibes."

He appeared wearing a blue-and-white zigzagged shirt and chevron trousers, his aviator sunglasses pushed atop his head. His hair has a natural wave that most men would kill for, and he always knew where to score the best drugs. Good vibes, indeed.

"How do the birds always know how to find you?" he asked with a perplexed expression, walking down the staircase into the studio.

George gave him a pained look as he placed his guitar on a nearby metal chair. "I reckon it involves aluminum cans and vast quantities of string. Like that telephone game, except they actually get it right."

"I understand them standing outside of EMI," Derek continued, scratching his chin as if contemplating the meaning of life. "But how in the holy hell did they know you'd be here? I didn't even know until I showed up at EMI and they told me to fuck off."

"The birds always know," John interjected, his eyes serene behind his specs, which made him look like a wise old owl. "They're all-knowing."

"Omniscient beings," Yoko added matter-of-factly from her perch beside him. They were the first words she'd uttered in hours, ever since she noted that it was somewhat lazy of me to rhyme "better" with "better." Which it was, sure, but it worked, didn't it?

Derek glanced at each of us, trying to sense the general vibe. He was always good at reading the room and was the first to escape when he felt a row coming. I liked that about him, his strong sense of self-preservation.

"Groovy threads," I commented from the piano bench, eyeing his outfit. "It's a very Englishman in L.A. look that you've got going on."

He smirked. "Joan spent about a million quid at your girlfriend's shop."

I scowled. "She'd not my girlfriend."

Except, we'd kissed. And spoken twice for a total of six minutes. Maybe we weren't back together, but it was better than no kiss and no phone calls. I'd even invited her to the studio that night, knowing she wouldn't come but wanting to put it out into the universe.

"And it's not her shop," I continued, causing a collective eye roll.

"She's Alice bloody Edwards," George said, the same way one might say, That's George Harrison, Beatle Extraordinaire! "There was only so long it would stay a secret."

"Even I've been asked to comment on it," Derek said, causing me to still for a moment.

"Did you?"

He gave me a withering look like of bloody course he hadn't, so I turned back to the piano. I'd been in a shit mood ever since the kiss, mostly because I didn't know what it meant or how to make it happen again. I'd totally lost my focus and, apparently, my ability to collaborate with my bandmates.

"Want to hear what we have so far?" I called back to Derek, eliciting groans from everyone else because we'd listened to so many playbacks already. But, really, was there anything better than standing in front of four giant Tannoy speakers that totally dwarfed the room? No, no, there was not.

We all huddled in the control room and listened to the last take of Hey Jude. I glanced at Derek occasionally to see his reaction because I wasn't sure if the song would be a hit or a flop. Mr. Martin liked it but thought it went on too long; John said it wasn't long enough and that the deejays would play it because it was a Beatles single so we could do whatever the fuck we wanted.

I just wanted to know what the kiss had meant.

And how did no one seem to notice that the guitar part was all wrong? I'd been trying to ignore it for the past 18 hours to no avail. It was so glaringly apparent that it wasn't what the song needed. We needed empty space for the vocals and the piano, not this call-and-response bollocks. We couldn't risk the all-out gospel feel that Theodore Wanker Dormer had warned me about.

We eventually went back to rehearsing and recording, alternating between good-natured banter and slightly less good-natured arguing, which, in those days, was difficult to differentiate between. Studio sessions were like wading in a minefield. Never mind that my songs sounded perfectly fine in my head... if only it was acceptable for me to physically play all the parts so that they were just right.

And what was the meaning of that fucking kiss?

We stopped for the fifth break of the night, and Yoko commented for the fifth time how odd it was to add dairy to one's tea. I added copious quantities of milk to my cup, nearly rendering the actual tea invisible, then I slurped it noisily to show how delicious it was.

It was after midnight by the time we got to working on the vocal track. I experimented with various forms of scatting for the na-na-nas, and we even invited Yoko to do some spoken word stuff for a few of the takes. There was another tea break and another remark about how diluted tea wasn't really tea at all.

By half-two, we were all dead tired of playing the same thing over and over. I was beginning to regret our decision to show up to the studio and sort out the songs while the tapes were rolling. Surely there was a better, less tedious way to go about it all?

And what had the kiss meant?

I ran a hand through my hair and leaned closer to the mic. "Let's crack on, lads."

"Hey Jude," John sang into the mic. "I'm going mad."

"Take this old thread and knit a sweater," I continued in a falsetto. He grinned over at me, and, for a moment, it was like old times. We stared at each other for a bit too long, breaking eye contact only when George tripped over a cord and let out a colorful curse.

"Alright, Macca," John said. "As a special favor, I'm going to give it me best this time. The other times I was just fucking around, but here we go."

I laughed and stretched out my back before placing my hands just above the piano keys.

"Let's do it for the children," I said into the mic in a posh BBC voice. "With real gusto this time, lads."

There was a pause as the Trident engineer changed the tapes. I glanced up to see Mr. Martin hunched over the control boards, likely reading the papers. He'd given up on trying to corral us and had been especially standoffish since Geoff quit.

"Take 14," the engineer said, his voice echoing through the studio from the screechy intercom. I rubbed the heel of my hand over my forehead before stretching out my shoulders once more.

Hey Jude

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement and glanced over to see Ringo trying to sneak into the studio, drumsticks in hand. He caught my eye and shrugged, inclining his head towards the control room. Just before it was his cue to play, he dove behind the kit and managed to hit the snare at just the right beat. Good old Ringo.

Furrowing my brow but not faltering with the vocals, I glanced up at the control room where Mr. Martin spoke animatedly with a pleasant smile, the one he reserved for studio execs or pretty girls. There was movement in the small space, and a few seconds later, I was absolutely gobsmacked to see Alice peering through the window.

The minute you let her under your skin, you will begin to make it better

She looked wary like she couldn't believe that she'd shown up. Her slim navy trousers fit her like a glove, and about a billion bangles jangled on her wrist. Her expression was pensive, like she was trying to sort out what I was singing and why it sounded familiar.

Hey Jude, don't let me down

Our gaze met, and her expression softened slightly as she gave me the smallest of smiles. I knew that smile: it was her private smile, which she reserved for those closest to her. Surely she must've forgiven me the teeniest of bits if she was willing to give me that smile.

Better, better, better, better, betteeeerrrrrrrrrrr

I tore my eyes away from her and focused on the song, really giving it my all. I screamed into the mic for what seemed like ages as everyone sang endless rounds of na-na-nas.

I went full-on gospel -- sod off, Theo Dormer -- feeling a little wild and unhinged. I prayed that the tapes were still rolling because this was fucking it.

Jude, Jude, Jude, Judy, Judy, waaaaaaaah!

It went on so long that I was out of breath when we finally stopped jamming. I stared at the piano for a moment as I collected myself.

"Bloody hell," John exclaimed with a laugh as he put his guitar down and jumped up. "That was a motherfucking groove."

Everyone was chattering happily, but it all faded to the background as I stood and made a show of carefully placing the lyrics on the top of the piano. Finally, I turned around and motioned for Alice to join us in the studio. She hesitated momentarily, then tilted her head like she wanted me to come to her.

I climbed the stairs, fully aware that everyone was pretending not to stare. Paul and Alice: What does it all mean? Tune in next week to find out.

Poking my head into the control room, I flashed what I hoped was an unperturbed grin. She turned to me, her eyes unreadable.

"Fancy a cigarette?" I asked, holding up a packet and arching an eyebrow. She nodded, and I put a hand on the small of her back as we walked through the small building, ending in a grotty alleyway with a rickety metal gate protecting each end. I could hear the chatter of a few dedicated fans standing several feet away, unaware of our proximity.

I offered her a smoke, but she shook her head. "I quit."

"Quit? Why would you quit?" Bloody hell. Who had heard of such a thing?

"I went to a reiki healer in San Diego who said it's not good for the chakras."

I eyed the cigarette in my hands, wondering if, all along, it was the smoking that had led to imbalanced chakras and not my entirely imbalanced life. Oh, fuck it. I lit it anyway and inhaled deeply.

"You came to the studio," I said, stating the obvious.

She nodded, her expression betraying nothing. "I was in the neighborhood."

I offered a crooked smile. "It's past 3."

She shrugged. "I'm a night owl."

I grinned. "No, you're not."

We stood silently for a few minutes, watching the tendrils of smoke float above us.

"You're sure you don't want a smoke?" I asked finally. "I'm sure your chakras will recover."

She shook her head. "They make me too jittery now."

I nodded and threw the end of the cigarette on the ground, stomping it lightly with my loafer. Suddenly, I wish I'd dressed up a bit more. I felt dowdy in my jumper -- a jumper in August! I could've at least worn my new striped trousers from Liberty & Co.

"Derek-- he's back now, did you know? Anyway, he says that the papers are going to run the story about Zarby," I said. "You alright?"

She tilted her head to one side and reached up to massage the back of her neck like even just thinking about it stressed her out.

"I'm hoping it'll be a one-shot wonder sort of thing."

She sounded casually hopeful, even though we both knew it was hopeless. If the whole world felt like George -- it's Alice bloody Edwards! -- then there was no chance that the attention would die down soon.

"Did you give them a statement?"

She gave a little half-laugh, once again brushing her fringe away from her eyes. "I did sort of yell at a fellow who was hanging round the house."

"You're supposed to say 'no comment.' Didn't I teach you anything?!"

It was meant to be a joke, but her face sobered.

"It probably won't surprise you that I don't enjoy being in the spotlight," she said quietly. "It was too much for me before. I just want to be... faceless, I suppose. The man behind the curtain, or whatever."

I winced internally, knowing that I'd dragged her into the spotlight. Not that she'd been a nobody when we'd met; she'd been quite well-known in the right circles. But our relationship had created utter chaos in her life. It had made her world smaller, and it was one of my biggest regrets about it all.

"I'm sorry," I murmured. "It's a bitch. The press, I mean."

She nodded and stepped backward so that her lower back was pressed against the crumbling brick wall. She placed one foot against the wall near her other knee and slumped down a bit. Not for the first time since she appeared, I wondered what she was doing there.

"Why'd you stop by, Alice?" The words came out sharper than intended, probably because I was trying to hide how bloody hesitant I felt around her.

"I just..." she trailed off like she was collecting her thoughts or, more likely, deciding how much of herself to give away. "I forgot what it's like to hear you all play music together."

Not exactly the reason I'd been hoping for, but I'd take it.

"What'd you think of the song, then?"

She smiled a joyous grin that reminded me of the sun. "I'm quite sure you know that it's brilliant."

"We'll have to trim it down a bit."

She shook her head, the smile still playing on her lips. "Don't you dare."

There was another long pause as we stared at each other. It should have been uncomfortable, but it somehow wasn't. Perhaps all my years of extended eye contact with John had prepared me for bouts of unabashed staring.

"I can't stop thinking about the kiss," she admitted softly, finally shifting her gaze downward like she couldn't bear to look at me any longer.

I stilled, surprised that she'd brought it up. Running a hand over my collarbone, I considered what to say.

"Look," I finally replied, tripping over my words because I couldn't quite work them out in my head. "I'm sorry if it came off like... I know it was a difficult day for... well, what I'm trying to say is...."

"It was a really good kiss," she said, looking up at me with a hint of mischief in her eyes. There she was, the girl who'd fallen in love with me.

I nodded. "That's... an understatement."

She stared just past my shoulder as she twisted her fingers around one other, a tell that she was much more nervous than she otherwise let on. I took a step closer and slowly leaned forward so that our foreheads were touching.

"Tell me how to make it all better, Liss."

I winced at how vulnerable my voice sounded, but perhaps we were beyond all that. Surely she must know that I was a wreck inside.

Alice stilled and then pulled away enough to look up at me. Her eyes were brimming with tears.

"If I knew the answer, don't you think I would have told you already? I'm a fucking mess without you, Paul."

She sounded utterly defeated, the way you would if you'd played a game of chess and considered every strategy but had still lost the championship.

"Oh, Liss."

Closing the distance between us, I folded my arms around her. She pressed her forehead into my shoulder and tentatively wrapped her arms around my waist. I had that same sense of calm and rightness that I'd felt when we kissed, and it knocked the breath out of me.

"I hate what you did," she murmured into my shoulder, her lips vibrating against my shirt.

"So do I, love," My voice was ragged as my lips skimmed the top of her head out of habit.

She raised her face to look at me, her eyes totally fucking unreadable. A glimmer of hope welled inside me, something I hadn't dared to feel in months.

"I'll find a way to make it right," I said softly, brushing away a tear at the corner of her eye. She gave me a look like she wasn't sure that was possible and was about to reply when there was a high-pitched cry from a few feet away.

"Paul's back here!"

The girls who had been waiting outside the entrance for hours immediately crowded around the narrow metal gate separating the alleyway from the studio entrance. I eyed the rusty structure, not sure that it would hold if they really tried to get to me.

"Jesus fuck," I muttered, putting a hand on Alice's back to angle her away from prying eyes. She froze momentarily before pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration.

"I should go," she said quietly. I hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Her retreating figure was backlit by the harsh lightbulb by the door, and I knew she wouldn't stick around to find out what happened next. There was nothing like some overeager fans to throw a bucket of cold, harsh reality on a situation.

Once she was gone, I whirled around and stalked over to the gate. One of the girls had already shoved her autograph book through the metal bars.

"Will I-- no, I will not fucking sign for you," I barked. "There's something called privacy, have you ever heard of it? I'm a bloody person, y'know, not a robot with a weird ability to conjure up melodies. I'm a fucking person."

My voice was louder than I intended, and they shrank back and eyed one another nervously. Running a hand through my hair, I cursed silently.

"I'm sorry, girls," I said wearily, feeling like I could sleep for days. "It's been a long night... you should go home. We'll be back here tomorrow at 5. I'll sign for you then, alright?"

They stared at me with wide eyes, and I knew they'd tell everyone they knew that Beatle Paul had shouted at them. It wouldn't surprise me one bit if it ended up in the papers, and I wondered at what point in my life I'd be allowed to make a mistake and not have the entire world know about it.

"It's late," I repeated miserably. "You should go."

Two days later, there was a piece in the Daily Mail about Beatle Paul's run-in with fans. It only fed into the rumor mill about out alleged split, nevermind the fact that we were in the bloody studio making a new album.

The following day was a front-page article about Alice Edwards, the woman behind Zarby. Next to it was an old photograph of the two of us at the Royal Albert Hall. I had my arm wrapped around her shoulders, both of us looking slightly stoned and happy. What does Beatle Paul think of this? What does Prime Minister Edward have to say?

God, she'd hate that. An article about her successes and it was the men in her life who were inserted into the narrative.

I rang her, but her line was occupied. I rang again, and there was no answer.

What the fuck had that kiss meant? And where did we go from here?