August 1968
Paul

All summer, it had been rumored that Mick Jagger and Keith Richards were planning to open up a club in London. But they were in Hollywood recording an album, so no one thought it would happen. So imagine my surprise when I received an invite to Mick's belated 25th birthday at his very own Moroccan-themed hash den. Bring your own delirium to the Vesuvio Club, the invitation said. Enjoy a biting preview of our new album, courtesy of the moon.

Donovan had just returned from his American tour, so I invited him to join. We hadn't seen each other much since India and his hair was shaggier and his face even more bronzed. He stopped by Cavendish before the party, where we smoked a joint whilst listening to the new Aretha Franklin single. When we were good and properly stoned, we called a taxi to take us to Tottenham Court Road.

"Hold this, will you?" I asked him as I shoved an acetate into his hand. He glanced down at the label, which read only Take 4, and then back to me.

"What's this?"

"We just finished mixing a new song," I explained as we walked down the driveway. I heard the taxi come to a halt outside the gate, and the girls standing there started to get audibly excited because it meant there was a good chance that I'd walk out.

"What're you going to do with it?" he asked as we emerged onto the pavement and were immediately surrounded.

"Play it," I explained over the commotion as I flashed a generic Beatle smile toward the girls. One of them wore a red skirt so short that I could practically see her fanny. I politely averted my eyes while mentally congratulating myself for the new-and-improved Paul, who wasn't at all interested in that sort of thing.

"What, play it at the club?" Donovan sounded slightly flabbergasted. I flashed a thumbs up to the girls, then jumped headfirst into the taxi, followed by him.

"Sure, why not?" I asked once we were safely ensconced in the backseat.

"Isn't it a listening party for the Stones' new record?"

I considered this for a moment. "More like a birthday thing, I'd say."

He didn't reply momentarily, staring at the ample cleavage pressed against the window several inches from his face. Then he started to laugh as we pulled away from the kerb.

"What?" I asked.

"Do you even possess an off-switch, man?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" I wanted to feel affronted, but simultaneously, I marveled that he understood that there was no off-switch. I was on all the bloody time, whether I wanted to be or not.

He didn't reply, just chuckled the entire way to the club.

The basement lounge was a heady assemblage of beautiful tapestries and enormous, overstuffed cushions, all lit by dim Moroccan-inspired chandeliers suspended from the ceiling. A small helium-filled blimp floated around the room above our heads, and I could just make out the words written on the side:  Adjust Your Expectations. 

"Christ," I said as we stood at the entrance taking in the kaftans, all the bare skin, and an insane number of Turkish hookahs.

Before we could move further into the room, Mick waltzed up with a swagger, barechested except for a fur-lined vest. His thin legs were clad in skintight velvet trousers, and his hair was artfully mussed up.

"This is a groove," I said, offering a hand for him to slap. "Didn't know you had it in you."

"Is Yoko real?" he demanded in a low voice. "Really real?"

I blinked and looked around to see if anyone could overhear. "Real enough to be in the studio every day."

His eyes widened. "Every fucking day? In the studio? Goddamn. So it is real, then."      

I shrugged because, sure, it was real, and I was happy for John. But it was also invasive and really mucking up my songwriting. But what were we supposed to do? I could hardly tell John that it was an all-boys club... and forget about trying to explain that my preferred creative process only involved him, me, and a notebook.

Just then, Mick spotted Danny Fields, the A&R man for Elektra Records. Word on the street was that anything he touched turned to gold. He was responsible for getting Jim Morrison on the cover of American teen magazines all summer, even though I'd heard that he and Jim despised each other.

"Oh, he's here!" Mick's face lit up momentarily before disappearing into the masses with an indecipherable mutter. 

Not even a minute later, I was sprawled on an oversized crushed velvet cushion with a blonde in my lap and a hookah in my hand. The hash was unbelievably strong, and it would either be the best or worst night of my life. Through a haze of smoke, I could see John and Yoko holding court across the room.

"You should grow your mustache again," the blonde murmured in my ear. She was Australian and looked vaguely familiar, which meant that I'd possibly shagged her at some point. Once again, I congratulated myself that I wasn't even thinking about shagging her again.

"Is that right?" I asked as I took a hit from the hookah. "I was thinking more of a beard."

John noticed me, and his face brightened for a moment. We made eye contact through the dim club as he gave me a jaunty salute with his hand. I leaned over to where a woman with sizeable breasts and long pigtails was sitting on Donovan's lap. He looked at me with slightly unfocused eyes.

"I'm gonna make the rounds."

He nodded and then, as an afterthought, handed me the vinyl. I tucked it under my arm and made my way over to John, stopping en route to greet at least a dozen people.

"Is that an acetate in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?" John asked as I sauntered up. His words were slightly too close together, and I wondered what he'd taken.

"Mescaline." He answered the question as if I'd spoken aloud, and I wondered if telepathy really was a thing. "Wonderful, trippy, marvelous mescaline. Fancy some? Marianne gave it to me."

I shook my head and leaned down so I could hear him better.

"Talk me out of the idea of slipping the deejay our single."

John's eyes widened, and he looked delighted. "Why would I talk you out of that brilliant idea?"

I nodded, satisfied that it was the sensible course of action. I was in a roomful of artists and creative types, the sort of people who had their pulse on what was cool. What better place to really ensure that Hey Jude was good enough? Anyone would do the same. I was just being efficient.

The deejay also thought it was a cracking idea. Halfway back to where John and Yoko sat, I ran into Gram Parsons, who had grown a rather fab mustache in the past few months. He'd just gotten back from Joshua Tree in America, so we got into a deep conversation about cacti and peyote, as one does. He was telling me about a particularly vivid hallucination when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Alice in the corner of the room.

She wore a short dress made of silver mesh covered with hundreds of coin-sized sequins that danced along her body. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and her eyes were heavily lined. Her mouth was open mid-laugh as she air-kissed a woman's cheek, looking like she didn't have a care in the world.

A few days prior, the Sunday Times had run a full-length feature on her, complete with a photograph taken by David Bailey that could've been on the cover of Vogue. It was a close-up of her face turned to the left, her hand raised to cover most of her face save for one eye peeking through her fingers. She looked mysterious and chic and devastatingly beautiful. The article featured lengthy quotes from her and focused almost entirely on Zarby and Alice's vision for fashion. Her father wasn't mentioned, nor was I. She was taking back control of the narrative, and I'd re-read the article at least five times and stared at the photograph for longer than I'd be willing to admit.

I sensed John's presence next to me before he spoke. His eyes were slightly glazed over, and I realized it was the first time I'd seen him in weeks without Yoko also present. I glanced over to see her lounging on an oversized cushion. Her long hair touched the floor as she stared serenely at the reflection of the flickering lights on the ceiling.

John made an odd noise at the back of his throat, like he was both clearing it and scoffing at the same time. He leaned closer and pointed across the room.

"Oh, look-- Tangerine's here!"

I squinted to see who he was talking about. The smoke cleared for a moment, and I spotted Clementine hanging on the arm of the drummer for Manfred Mann. Our eyes met for a moment, and her smile widened.

"Fucking hell," I muttered.

"And Mike's here too. Thought he was filming in the West Indies."

I glanced toward the entrance where Michael Caine had just walked in, his arms open as if to say I'm here! The party can get started! He wore a well-tailored navy suit that should have made him look square, but it didn't. He'd traded in his usual black specs for thicker, more cartoonish ones that were somehow even groovier.

He shook the hands of a few people before making a beeline over to the corner where Alice was talking to a woman I'd never met. She looked up at his annoyingly tall frame like she'd been expecting him, and he leaned down to kiss her cheek. It looked friendly. Really friendly. Too friendly?

"The whole gang's here," John proclaimed. "Didn't know that Mike and the Viscountess were mates."

"Oh, sure," I said with more confidence than I felt. "They met at Keith Moon's thing... or maybe it was Julie Christie's? Whatever, we all hung around together, y'know."

We'd done no such thing. To my knowledge, Alice had met Michael once or twice, and that was it. And yet here they were, looking like close confidantes. I glanced over again, squinting to see more closely. Was his hand on her waist? Was his hand on her bloody waist?

I jumped slightly when Clementine's hand wrapped around my waist.

"Hi, stranger," she said, giving me a knowing smile. "Thought I might see you here?"

"Hey, Clem," I replied easily, smiling politely whilst moving further away.

"Greetings, Satsuma," John said grandly. "Asked any questions today?"

Clementine rolled her eyes good-naturedly, making me wonder if she'd been in on the joke the whole time. She began to talk about a new photography project she was working on, wondering if the Beatles might want to participate. John eventually wandered back to Yoko, and I realized that the hash from earlier was starting to hit me hard.

There was a pause in the conversation when Clem looked just past my shoulder. I whirled around to find Alice looking lovely and a little stoned. Her eyes darted to Clementine and then back to me, and her face somehow became even more pleasantly neutral.

"Oh-- hi," I said, trying to look surprised. "Didn't know you'd be stopping by."

She leaned past me and offered a hand to Clementine. "Alice Edwards. How do you do?"

I waved vaguely in Clem's direction. "This is Clementine-- she's a photographer."

Alice smiled politely. "Was it you who had the exhibition on Henry Street last year?"

Alice hadn't even been in the bloody country then, yet she'd had her pulse on the scene. How irritating.

Clementine beamed and began talking a mile a minute, barely taking a breath between the question-mark sentences. I stood there like an idiot, watching them go back and forth, wondering what Alice was thinking. Finally, I got fed up with the self-doubt and wandered over to the nearest hookah to take a hit.

When I looked over, Clem was back with her drummer, and Alice was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly exhausted, I collapsed onto the oversized leather pouf next to Donovan.

"Goddamn," I said.

"What's the matter?"

"Birds."

He nodded knowingly, like he'd been there before. The overhead speakers began to play Beggar's Banquet. I wondered if they'd recorded it on a 4-track or an 8-track. Given that they'd gone all the way to America to make the album, it better be a bloody 8-track. Although good on them for getting out of the country and changing up the scenery. Maybe that's what The Beatles needed to get us out of the doldrums that we were in.

All in all, it was a cracking record, but ours would be better.

As if to prove my point, the deejay put on Hey Jude immediately after the final track of the Stones' record. Even though everyone was off their faces on hash and mescaline, everyone knew it was my song. I could feel eyes on me as I stared at the floor, trying to listen with fresh ears. Did the drums come in a bit too early? Did the backing harmonies make it sound too corny? Was it just too goddamn long?

Everyone was in a reverie, swaying slightly and bobbing their heads. A flash of silver across the room caught my attention, and I saw Alice standing with Mike, Graham Nash, and Glyn Johns. Our gaze met for a moment. She smiled, mouthing the na-na-nas like it was a private joke amongst us.

Even before the song ended, Mick made his way over. I braced myself for a bollocking about hijacking his party, but instead, he was in awe.

"Fucking hell," he exclaimed. "It's like two songs, isn't it? Fucking hell, man."

Usually, I'd be all over this sort of thing, making a show of humility whilst really just lapping up the praise. But that night, I was distracted by the fact that Mike had his hand on Alice's waist again. It was just for a moment, but something about the ease of that movement made me wonder if they'd been together. Together together.

The Stones' She's a Rainbow started to play on the speakers, and I heard John yell something in the distance, followed by Yoko loudly trying to shush him.

"Back in a mo," I said absently to Mick as I began to walk across the room. "Oh-- the record's brilliant, man."

It was slow-going across the crowded room because everyone wanted to give me their thoughts on the song they'd just heard. "Aren't we all the greatest bunch of geniuses to grace the planet?" said a very stoned Marianne Faithfull as she flipped her long hair over one shoulder. "Isn't this the most amazing time to be alive?"

I kept up the banter whilst keeping an eye on Mike and Alice. "Yeah, it's all happening, right? Ta, cheers, thanks for the kind words. Yeah, it's about a lot of different things, y'know. Well, I rather think it's up to us if we'll release a song of that length, not the record company. Ta, cheers, very kind of you."

Mike's arm was no longer touching her waist, and he seemed keener on chatting with Glyn than anything, but they looked very much at ease together. Even though he and Alice stood apart, they leaned slightly toward each other as if they were two halves of a whole.

The volume of the music was cranked up, and the cheery piano chords seemed oppressive. She comes in colors everywhere, she combs her hair, she's like a rainbow.

The closer I got to them, the more my blood boiled. Had they shagged? Had my good mate Mike shagged my girlfriend? Alright, fine, we weren't great friends, but we'd certainly known each other a long time. There was a fucking code, a set of rules governing this sort of thing amongst lads. One didn't fuck a mate's girl.

Graham spotted me first, and his smile widened. "Happening song, man. What's it called?"

Glyn lifted his enormous sunglasses and looked at me. "I gotta know, how're they going to fit in on an LP? Like, physically fit it on the vinyl? Are there enough grooves?"

I shrugged like such things were beneath me and mumbled something about the EMI people being magicians with the technical stuff. Then I turned to Mike, who was taking a sip from an oversized tumbler of whisky.

Again, the music seemed to get any louder, though perhaps it was my descent into madness. Strings came in, and I wondered idly if they'd recorded the orchestral bit at Olympic Studios or elsewhere.

Have you seen her dressed in blue?

"Alright, man?" I asked brightly-- too brightly. He and Alice shared the tiniest of glances, and I knew. I fucking knew.

See the sky in front of you

"Hey, man," he replied gamely, offering a hand. I shoved my palm towards his with more force than was strictly necessary, wanting to slap the perfect fucking blonde wavy hair off his stupid forehead.

And her face is like a sail, speck of white so fair and pale

"I heard you just got back from the West Indies." I refused to let go of the hand that I was shaking too vigorously.

Have you seen the lady faaaaaaaaaaairer?

He glanced down at our joint hands and then back at me. "Yeah, we just wrapped the film."

I finally released his hand and settled for thumping him heartily on the back -- again, with more force than was strictly necessary. "Well, it's good to have you back."

I turned to Alice. "Right, Alice? Isn't it good to have Michael back?"

She raised an eyebrow, looking entirely unamused at the whole scene. "Yes?"

They traded another look, and I wanted to break something. But I was Paul McCartney, the Cute One. I didn't throw strops in public. I was in a room full of the biggest gossips in London; I wasn't going to kick Michael Caine's arse in front of them.

"Cool," I replied, struggling to keep my face neutral. "Good stuff."

Without further ado, I whirled around, intending to find all the mind-bending hash I could. Or maybe I'd seek out Marianne with the mescaline. Whatever. All I needed was something that would help me feel differently than I did at that moment.

"The fuck's his problem?"

Mike's voice was low, and there was an undercurrent of amusement there: like, wasn't it so cute that Paul was upset that his fucking friend was shagging the love of his fucking life?

Fuck this.

Mike's expression was slow to register surprise when I barreled toward him. She comes in colors everywhere. My shoulder slammed into his chest, forcing him to take two steps back. She combs her hair.

"What the hell?" he exclaimed.

Oh la la la, oh la la la, she's like a raaaaaainbow.

"Paul--" Graham tried to intervene, but I could barely hear him over the noise in my head and the fucking song. She's mine, I wanted to scream, even though it was totally absurd and wholly untrue. Alice had never been less mine than at that moment.

"Oh, Christ," Alice murmured as she moved to position herself so that the whole room wasn't aware of the fact that Paul McCartney attacked Michael Caine. Fucking hell, I could see the headlines before they were even written. "McCartney Manhandles Michael:  Full Details on Page 3."

"Did you sleep with her?"

I was panting slightly and knew that I looked half-mad. Michael adjusted his specs and scratched his head like he didn't have time for this.

Incensed, I turned to Alice. "Are you sleeping with him?"

"Not sure that's any of your business, mate," Michael said with a stupid smirk on his stupid face that indicated that yes, yes they fucking had.

I cocked my head. "Not sure 'at's any of yer business, mate," I replied in an exaggerated Cockney accent.

"Paul," Alice said, putting a hand on my arm. I turned toward her, taking in her unreadable expression, which only pissed me off more.

"You did, didn't you? You fucked him."

"Paul," Alice tried again. She used her stewardess voice that was reserved for emergencies, like a passenger about to open the door mid-air or a plane hurtling toward the sea. "Could we talk in private?"

I stared at her for a moment. "You said you wanted to stay out of the spotlight-- be faceless. And yet you're shagging Alfie bloody Elkins?"

I heard my voice crack somewhere in the middle and Glyn turned his head as if not wanting to intrude on such a private moment. Soon enough, he, too, had melted away in the crowd.

"What about Theo?" I asked. "He's a hardworking fellow, and you're just stepping out on him?"

I had no idea why I felt the need to stand up for my arch-nemesis, but there we were. Desperate times and such. Alice gave me an odd look.

"He moved to San Francisco."

I paused. "Theo moved to fucking San Francisco?"

She nodded slowly. "He went to go work for a music magazine there."

For some reason, this news upset me even more. Don't ask why; there's no good answer. I was just generally out of sorts, and logic had left the room long ago. I ran a hand through my hair and tugged the end in frustration.

"You know what, fuck this," I mumbled as I turned toward the crowded room, intent on finding John or Donovan or even fucking Yoko.

"Such a tramp," I muttered, confident that all the music, chatter, and ambient noise would cover it up. I didn't even know who I was referring to:  possibly Alice, almost certainly Mike, and potentially even me.

Except I suppose it was audible because the next thing I knew, Mike's fist made contact with my nose, and I was on the floor. Luckily it was dark enough that only the people closest to us saw. Unluckily, one of those people was Lillian Roxon, the Australian music writer. Her eyes widened as Alice repositioned herself again to block as much of this mess as she could.

I sat up, cradling my nose and feeling like a lorry had rammed into me. Bloody hell, you could take a lad out of East London, but you couldn't take East London out of the lad.

Several feet away, Michael was shaking his fist and wincing, like my head had somehow accidentally found its way to his knuckles. Graham apparently decided that he didn't want to get involved -- or, more likely, didn't want to show up in the papers beside us -- and slowly melted into the crowd.

"Are you both out of your minds?" Alice asked, her voice low but clear. "We're in a very public place right now. Jesus Christ, Michael."

"He can't talk to you like that," Mike hissed, eyeing me like he wouldn't mind another go. Alice walked over and took his hand in hers, examining it before she released it. She said something to him that I couldn't hear as I slowly stood. After a moment, he nodded and shoved his hand into his trouser pockets.

"Tosser," he spat in a low voice as he walked past, his shoulder hitting the edge of mine. "You never fucking deserved her."

I stood there momentarily, wondering what Alice had said to him. Feeling like a rotter, I chanced a glance at her.

She was seething with anger. Maybe it was the hash, but I had the notion that I could see actual waves of indignation and humiliation billowing off her skin. They were blue and sort of floating around her body.

"Liss--"

She shook her head but didn't say anything for a long moment. I suspected she was doing the thing where she counted to ten, and the world would be better by the end.

Then, finally, she spoke.

"It's none of your bloody business, Paul."

"Why him?" I asked. "Why Mike? Of all the people, why him?"

She shook her head. "It's not like that."

Even though the rational part knew that I was in the wrong, the irrational part of me was living its best life.

"Yeah, you can do whatever you want, can't you? Never mind that I've been going out of my fucking mind without you, and you're out there just throwing open your legs for anyone."

For a moment, I thought she would also punch me in the face. She stepped forward, the silver discs on her dress shimmying wildly. I'd never felt so jealous and angry, nor had I ever wanted her as much.

What happened next, I never would have expected. She took another step towards me, and I braced myself for a slap or maybe even a kick in the bollocks. I decided that I would deserve either and wouldn't bother to defend myself if one or both came to pass.

Instead, she reached out for my paisley shirt and twisted some of the fabric in her hand. She shook her head that she couldn't believe what she was about to do, and I winced in anticipatory pain.

She glanced behind my shoulder and then shoved me backward, hard enough that I almost went flying. She shoved me through a small door to the left, both of us tripping in the darkness of what seemed to be an unused cloakroom. It smelled musty and old, like the last time anyone had stored a coat here was before the war. 

"You can't keep doing this, you egomaniacal twat," she said, pushing me backward until my shoulders hit a wall. Her hips bumped against mine almost painfully, and my hands reflexively moved to steady her.

"You can't keep doing this," she repeated, and I readied myself to be on the receiving end of a slap. We were inches apart, and I wondered if she'd hit me from close range or take a step back first.

"I'm so tired," she said in a softer voice just before she pressed her forehead against my chest. I could feel her body slacken against mine as if the will to fight was slowly draining away.

"Are you here with Clementine?" she asked, her voice muffled against my shirt. I blinked, my too-stoned brain unable to follow the plot.

"No," I replied finally. "She's shacking up with the bloke from Manfred Mann."

Alice nodded, her forehead still against my chest, and I slowly realized that my hands were still on her hips. It was so dark that I couldn't see her face when she lifted it.

"I'm so tired of it all," she whispered in the dark as her hand clumsily found my cheek. Then her lips were on mine, at first tentative and then more assured.

"Liss," I murmured, feeling like I needed this more than I needed to breathe. Fucking hell, this put every other kiss in my life to shame. Her body was soft against mine, and I flexed one of the hands on her hips, eliciting a soft moan that I'd heard in my dreams for the past year.

A breathless laugh rumbled through her throat when I lifted her slightly to change our positions:  her against the wall and me pressed against her. My hands roamed down her sparkly dress until they reached her bare thigh, which I pulled upward around my leg.

"Fucking hell," she gasped as she felt all of me against her.

After that, all bets were off.