August 1968
Alice

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

I hadn't wanted to go to the Vesuvio, but my press officer had talked me into it. I'd been told by those in the know that Paul was busy at the studio, so I truly didn't think he'd show up. And I definitely didn't know that Michael would be there since he wasn't due back in London for a week.

I wasn't even supposed to be wearing that dress. The daringly short silver dress that an up-and-coming designer had sent over with a note begging me to wear it to an event. I'd debated it all afternoon until, finally, Suzie convinced me to give it a go.

None of it was supposed to happen, yet somehow, I found myself in a pitch-black closet with my back against a wall and my hands twisted in Paul's shirt. The combination of rage and lust made me dizzy as his hand dropped to the short hemline of the dress. I pressed my hips forward because I couldn't bear for him to stop, and he groaned.

"This dress should be illegal," he murmured, his lips beside my ear. He tugged my thigh further toward him, allowing me to feel his hardness.

"Fucking hell," I gasped. It was all too much:  the darkness, all the sensations provoked by the close proximity of our bodies, even the fact that I was there.

His lips trailed between my jaw and collarbone, where he paused. Pressing his forehead against my shoulder, he hesitated to collect himself, then turned toward me. I was thankful for the darkness because I knew he was full of questions -- Why is this happening? What does it mean? -- and I didn't have answers for any of it.

Outside the closet, the party raged on. The bassline from 'Sunshine Girl' by Herman's Hermits made the walls vibrate slightly, and I could hear snippets of conversations from people crowded near the door.

How absolutely bloody marvelous! Did he tell.... Oh, darling, you didn't!... They've rung for a taxi three times and it's still not here, is there a strike?... A fucking groove, man, it's a fucking groove.

It should have made me feel exposed because if someone decided to open the unlocked door, we were well and truly fucked. Instead, I felt cocooned in the small space, like we were hiding in an alternate reality. The hash I'd smoked just after arriving at the party made the sharp edges in my mind seem rounder and more mellow, like perhaps everything would be alright.

"This is mad," Paul whispered hoarsely, his vocal cords vibrating against my skin.

I nodded, closing my eyes for a moment. "We should stop."

There was another moment of hesitation before it was mutually yet silently decided that we would not stop. There was no going back. Our bodies knew exactly what to do, muscle memory from thousands of times together sparking back to life.

My fingers wove into his hair, tugging lightly to bring his face closer to mine. He hesitated once more when we were a breath's distance apart, his nose brushing against mine. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, I wondered what was holding him back. Honor? Regret?

"Paul."

My voice was full of want and need, and that was the last moment that either of us hesitated for quite some time.

His calloused fingers brushed against my inner thigh, tugging the barely-there dress higher so that it pooled around my waist. I fumbled wildly for his belt, determined to get his trousers off, but was cut short as he pushed my knickers aside and slipped a finger inside me. A moan escaped my lips, echoing through the tiny space as I leaned my head against the cold, concrete wall behind me. A second finger joined the first, and all I could feel was a glorious feeling of overwhelm.

"Wait--" I said breathlessly, my voice louder than intended.

He froze, his hands moving to clasp my waist.

"Liss," His voice was ragged and almost pleading.

I shook my head, realizing he thought I was trying to walk away. Instead, I slipped my hands into his trousers, feeling the length of him.

"Fuck," he hissed, letting his forehead again fall to my shoulder. "We're so good together, Liss."

The words were so quiet that I wasn't sure if he'd said them. Even if he hadn't, I couldn't disagree with them. Paul and I were remarkably good when we were together. What we had to sort out was how to make things work when we were apart.

We somehow made our way to the floor after I muttered something about needing to feel him inside me. It was dusty and probably filthy, and someone could walk in at any moment, but I didn't care much as I straddled him, wishing I could see his face beneath me.

It was an intoxicating combination of love-making and fucking; sheer lust mixed with apologies and forgiveness. It seemed to last forever, and yet not nearly long enough. I wondered if it was a fever dream, too good to be true because Paul was right, we were really fucking good together.

I collapsed on top of him afterward as we both fought to catch our breath. The world slowly came back into focus, and it occurred to me again that only an unlocked door separated us from everyone we knew. I ran a hand through my damp fringe, waiting for the inevitable regret to set in. What had I just done?

The music outside paused momentarily before 'Simon Says' by 1910 Fruitgum Company started to play. I felt Paul fumbling around for his clothes, and I panicked that he thought we'd done something truly daft.

I heard the flick of a cigarette lighter, and there was a soft flare as Paul leaned toward it. His hair was just as disheveled as mine, his expression serious as he concentrated on lighting his cig. He flicked his eyes my way, looking equal parts blissed out and unnerved.

Then the flame went out, and we were plunged back into darkness.

Feeling like an idiot, I started to sit up and somehow put myself back together again, but his arm tightened around my waist to prevent my escape.

"This deejay is off his bloody rocker," he commented, inhaling smoke deeply into his lungs. "First Herman's Hermits and now this."

I smiled into his chest, my lips brushing against the sprinkling of hair in the center. "He played your song, didn't he? All 20 minutes of it."

Paul's voice was gleeful. "Ah, but that was a treat for the partygoers. Seven minutes and eleven seconds of auditory perfection."

"Written by quite a humble and unassuming person," I replied drily. "I'm surprised your ego fits through your front door."

"Oh, it doesn't," he shot back. "I use the back door now. It's wider."

Smothering a laugh, I rolled onto my side with my head still cradled against him. Sighing, I reached for the cigarette between his lips and propped myself on one elbow to take a drag.

"Thought you quit," he said softly.

I nodded as I exhaled, remembering how good it felt to get that first swift kick of nicotine.

"So did I," I replied.

There was a pause as I handed him the cigarette and lay next to him, throwing a leg over his so we were tangled up together. He groaned softly but didn't say anything.

"Sometimes..." I trailed off. "I guess sometimes there are things we think aren't good for us...."

"But then we remember how fucking good they feel?" he asked, and I could just imagine the smirk on his face. We both knew we were no longer talking about cigarettes.

I stared into the darkness momentarily, feeling his hand brush the fringe off my face and gently trace my jawbone. It was such a familiar gesture that it made me want to cry.

"But then we remember how much we liked them in the first place," I corrected. "Cigarettes, that is."

I felt the pressure of his chin against the top of my head as he nodded. "Right, those death sticks that muck up our chakras."

"Precisely that."

There was a thump as someone knocked against the door, and we both sat up, startled. Even though it was quickly apparent that no one was coming in, we scrambled for our clothes:  me frantically feeling around for my knickers and Paul pulling on his trousers.

There was another clicking noise, and the small flame flared once more. Paul was a few feet away, his face bathed in a soft amber glow. His hair was sticking every which way, and his shirt was buttoned all wrong. He studied me with a wary expression.

I stared down at my dress and straightened a row of the silver discs before looking back at him.

"Do I look awful?"

He brought a hand to his chin like he was considering it. Then a smirk appeared. "Depends if you want to look like you were just shagged on a closet floor."

"I prefer cloakroom," I retorted as my hands attempted to smooth down my hair. "It sounds much more ladylike."

He chuckled and let the flame die down, only to light it again. The chatter outside the door was still going strong, and the deejay gave no clues that he was winding down for the night.

"Can't believe we bloody did that," he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"You mean shagging in a closet in the middle of a Rolling Stones party full of journalists?"

He looked up at me, the flickering flame creating shadows on his face. "Something like that, yeah."

The flame died, and he cursed under his breath. I heard him rustling around, muttering about finding the light switch because surely there must be a bloody light switch in this godforsaken closet.

I walked slowly toward where I thought he was, my arms stretched out so we didn't collide. As soon as I made contact with his arms, his body stiffened and then relaxed as his hands met mine in the dark.

"Or we could just wait until everyone leaves," I suggested softly.

He considered it, his hand tightening around mine. "Now that you mention it, there's no one I'd rather wait in the dark with."

It was a line; he knew exactly what he was doing. He was born to say stuff like that and had spent years honing the skill. But still, it melted a bit more of the glacier surrounding my heart.

Paul slid down the wall until he was seated, and I followed suit, laying perpendicular and resting the top of my head against his thigh. If I'd been able to see him, I'd have noticed a reflexive moment of panic as though, in his experience, nothing good had ever come of two people in that position.

There was a long pause before his hand found the top of my head in the dark, and he began to run his fingers from the top of my skull to the base of my neck and back again. I knew my hair must look a fright, and this wasn't helping, but it was a lost cause by that point.

At that moment, sitting in the dark with the world raging around us, I knew that Paul would always be my home. And even as I felt the truth in my bones, I didn't know how to return to what we'd had. No matter which way I looked at it, the prospect didn't seem possible.

"So you and Mike, huh?"

His voice was casual, but I knew the question was anything but. I had a vision of Clementine leaning into him and laughing. Of course, I'd heard of her; everyone had. Paul McCartney's new bird who looked slightly like his old one. Except Clementine was curvier than me, a bit lusher in all the right places, which made me secretly hate her.

I sighed. "We're friends."

I could envision his eye roll even if I couldn't see it.

"Friends who shag?"

I nodded in the dark. "Yes, precisely. It... I needed something to anchor me."

Because it had been Paul who had anchored me before, I understood that now. We'd held each other to the ground, ensuring the other couldn't float away on a cloud of self-indulgence and whimsy.

He made a scoffing sound. "May as well have shagged half of Europe."

"That's rich coming from you," I retorted. By all accounts, Paul had been a right harlot for months after we broke up. In fact, I very much regretted not having just used a condom because God knows where his cock had been. And anyway, I hadn't been with Michael in months. I hadn't been with anyone.

There was a moment of silence before Paul replied.

"I'm not..." he trailed off. "I'm done with all that."

I smiled, knowing that he couldn't see me. Perhaps we needed to have all our conversations under the cover of darkness, allowing us to emote and show our natural facial expressions.

"He was a good friend to me," I finally said softly. "He held me together when I couldn't manage it myself."

There was a deep sigh, and I thought I heard him run a hand over his face.

"I'm sorry, Liss. I... I know that I...."

A long pause.

"It'll never happen again. Nothing like that will ever happen again."

I believed him. Well, mostly, anyway. More so than I had since I'd confronted him that night at Cavendish. Twisting a long strand of hair around my finger, I twirled it nervously.

"How's your new record coming along?" I asked. He leaned his head back against the wall and groaned, either in a complaint about me changing the subject or because he didn't want to think about the studio.

"It's coming along, I suppose."

I sat up to look at him, even though I couldn't see him.

"Since when do Beatles records just come along?"

I felt his shoulder raise in a shrug, and there was a long silence as he sorted out what he wanted to say.

"It's just... something's off."

He sounded annoyed and frustrated and, most alarmingly, defeated. Until then, I hadn't put any stock in the rumors that the band was close to splitting up, but perhaps a lot had happened in the past year.

"Off?"

He paused again, raising his head to stare at the ceiling. "Ever since we came back from India... it's just been a bit unhinged. The dynamic is just... off. I don't know how else to describe it. We've always been able to count on the four of us, you know? And even when we were rowing or whatever, we knew that we had a job to do, and we did it. But now it's... scattered, I suppose. Everyone feels like they're off on their own tangent, and anything I do to bring more order to things just makes everyone cross with me. Like I'm the conductor trying to make the orchestra play in tune, but they don't want any part of it."

He lowered his head so that it rested against the side of mine.

"But we'll sort it out. We always do."

His voice had a hint of vulnerability, an invisible question mark at the end of the sentence, like he wanted me to convince him that the world was still spinning round the way it was meant to.

I fumbled in the dark for his hand and squeezed it. "It's been a lot for you since Brian died."

He nodded but didn't say anything, so I decided to change the subject.

"I heard Yoko's been hanging around a lot."

I'd met her a few years ago in New York City at a happening that she hosted at her Chambers Street loft. Then I'd chatted with her again at an exhibit for Fluxus at their Wooster Street space. She struck me as both quiet and loud, taking up as little space as possible when she wanted to but dominating the room when it suited her. I hadn't entirely understood what she was all about, but I'd liked her.

Paul chuckled wryly. "All our sessions, yeah. She's been to all of 'em. Look, she's nice and far out and all that-- really, she is. I like her a lot as a person... but she's... well, I don't always want her around, do I? Not because she's her, but because sometimes it just needs to be the lads, you know? That's how it's always been done."

I nodded. The few sessions I'd attended had left me feeling like an outsider, unable to keep up with the creative genius and unsure how to decode all the glances and quips. The four of them were a bit insufferable about it, really, and I couldn't imagine being in the midst of that all the time. And I couldn't fathom that a woman like Yoko would want to spend all her time there.

"Why do you think she comes, then? Surely she had her own things going on."

He exhaled heavily and ran a hand over his face. "This sounds mad, I know, but.... I think John doesn't want to be alone with us."

I furrowed my brow. "Doesn't want to be alone with you?"

The question made me realize that he'd been referring to himself--singular. After a short pause, he nodded. The words spilled out too quickly, as if he wanted to make a point but simultaneously walk it back, which was so Paul.

"Look, I know it's crackers to even think it, much less say it out loud. It's just young love, John and Yoko. They can't get enough of each other, right?"

"The honeymoon period," I said in agreement.

Paul nodded and stared up at the ceiling again before he replied miserably. "Honestly, Liss, I don't know which way is up anymore."

With a sigh, I pulled my legs closer to my body, my arms surrounding them. "Let me know when you find out, will you?"

We were lost in our thoughts for a long while, and Paul chuckled when a song by The Tremeloes came on the speaker outside the door.

"Off his bloody rocker," he muttered as he stretched out his legs in front of him. Someone else bumped against the door, once again making me panic at the idea of someone finding me there. Of finding us there. Whatever this would turn into, it wouldn't bode well if we were on the cover of the Daily Mail for having a naked tryst at the Vesuvio Club.

Once it was clear that no one was coming in, Paul's body slumped against the wall. "You could go out," he offered. "I'll stay here until it's all quiet."

I shook my head. "I'm the one who pushed you in here."

"Yes, you bloody did," he agreed.

"So I'm the one who should stay."

Paul made a little snorting sound like there was no fucking way that would happen.

"Why is Theo in California?" he asked in a total non sequitur.

"He's working for a magazine called Rolling Stone."

I'd never heard of the publication until Theo mentioned it, but apparently, Paul had. He stilled and seemed to sit up straighter.

He stilled. "Is that the magazine that broke up Cream?

I squinted in the darkness. "A magazine broke up Cream?"

"Bloody hell," he muttered. "I bet it was Theo who wrote the fucking thing."

"I've no idea," I replied. "I haven't spoken to him since he left. Though I think Hayes keeps in touch. He got kicked out of school, so his parents are sending him to boarding school in Belfast... so, of course, he's after Theo to find him a job in America."

"He's 12," Paul said, stating the obvious.

"He's an old soul," I said solemnly. "And maybe he's the one who wrote the article that broke up Cream. Though I don't see how a review could break up a band. What could possibly have been so awful, or was it just the fragile ego of men?"

Another thump on the door, another moment of panic. I wished one of us had the foresight to have some grass on us since, clearly, we would be discovered and being high would make it all the more tolerable. I wasn't even sure my knickers were in one piece; there was no way I'd make it out of this room not looking like I'd been fucked by Paul McCartney.

"Fucking hell," he muttered. "We're going to be found out."

"Another notch on your bedpost," I replied, elbowing him lightly. "You'll come out on top, don't worry."

He sighed.

"Tell me what to do, Liss."

I blinked. "Do about what?"

"Us." The emphasis in his voice was unrestrained, and I'd never heard him sound so serious. "What can I do about us? I love you more than anything, and I've been a shell of a person since you left me. And I think that you also love me. And we just made love in a fucking closet. So tell me what to do next. I don't want to fuck it up again, love."

I sighed and leaned against him, feeling his lips against my head. After a moment, I reached over to take his hand and once again thanked Christ that we were in the dark where we apparently could be more honest with one another.

"We'd have to take it slow," I replied.

"We just fucked in a closet," he repeated.

"Perhaps we could start with dinner, then."

There was silence as Paul processed my words, his thumb tapping rhythmically against the back of my hand like he had a melody in his head.

"Dinner," he repeated, his voice sounding full of hope.

Before I could reply, there were three sharp taps at the door, and it cracked open. The chattering voices from outside got louder, as did The Supremes' song that was playing. I could see Paul's profile in the narrow band of light streaming in, and I wanted to lean over to kiss the bottom of his jaw.

"Loves," Marianne called into the room. "It's going to be ages before we all leave. I just thought you should know."

I slumped slightly into Paul as he struggled to contain his laughter.

"Hey, Mari," he called out.

"Don't worry, all the reporters have fucked off," she said merrily, somewhat more lucid than earlier in the evening. "Keith kicked them out an hour ago."

"So, who's left out there?" Paul asked, wrapping an arm around me as I tried not to dissolve into giggles.

"Oh... well... everyone, darling. But...we all know you're in here anyway."

"Cheers," I called. "I'll just be in here dying of embarrassment til the end of time, don't mind me."

The door shut, and we were back in the darkness and relative quiet. Paul stood and reached down for my hand, which I fumbled for. He pulled me up and wrapped his arms around me. We stood like that for who knows how long until he took a half-step back.

"So, dinner?" he asked.

"You mean now? It must be half-three."

"No, love. I meant, would you fancy coming to dinner with me one night. Somewhere quiet where no one cares who we are."

I didn't reply immediately because I was still trying to catch up with what had happened. Had we really shagged in a closet? Was I really ready to do this?

"Dinner," I replied finally. "Yeah, alright."

"Dinner," he repeated, taking my hand and kissing the tips of my fingers. "Okay, yeah, dinner."

I thought he might kiss me, but he squeezed my hand and opened the door, slipping out into the crowd. There was a smatter of applause and some good-natured ribbing, followed by Paul's oh fuck off, the lot of you, but I could hear the grin in his voice.

The door opened again, and I squinted at the sudden light, expecting to see Paul. Instead, Marianne slipped in and fumbled around for the light switch, which did indeed exist. A decrepit lightbulb hanging from the ceiling turned on, causing me to blink rapidly.

Marianne looked fabulously chic in leather trousers and a black corset-style top with a lavender faux fur coat thrown on top of it all, even though it was August. Her long blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders, and her fringe brushed her eyelashes. Her eyeliner was smeared slightly, and her eyes were dimmed somewhat like she was coming down from something.

She took one look at me and burst out laughing.

"What?" I asked, knowing that there were at least ten things she could be reacting to.

She couldn't stop laughing, just walked over, and turned me toward the corner where a small mirror was attached to the wall. I peered at my reflection, taking in a woman whose cheeks were flushed, whose lips were slightly swollen from too much kissing, and whose dress was horribly wrinkled because she'd been writhing around on the floor. But I also saw a woman who had hope in her eyes for the first time in ages.

"There's nothing funny about this situation," I said, laughing as I turned away from the mirror and toward her. 

"There's everything funny about this situation," she countered. "You should have seen Paul. He was so gleeful that he could barely put together a sentence. Please tell me that it was an amazing shag, even if it was just a break-up, revenge sex sort of thing."

When I didn't reply, she arched an eyebrow. "It was more than that?"

I shrugged non-committedly. Not because I wanted to keep anything from her, but because I didn't know. What had just happened had been everything, but it just as easily could have been nothing at all, and we'd manage to fuck it up.

Marianne stilled. "Oh, God, you're back together."

I shook my head vigorously. "No, no, no, nothing like that-- Christ, give me some credit, Mari."

"Does Michael know?"

I ran a hand over my face. "We're just friends, you know that."

She made a snorting sound that would have been much less attractive if it had been anyone else. "He's crazy about you, Dutch. Surely you must know that."

No, that was mad. We had an arrangement. We reinforced said arrangement all the time, and, besides, it'd been months since we'd done more than talk on the phone because he'd been away.

Marianne watched me and started to laugh. "Oh God, you're trapped in a love triangle and don't even know it. How glorious. Now let's sit here until everyone goes home so that you can leave this cloakroom with your honor intact."

She threw her fur coat on the ground and plopped down on it, tucking her leather-clad legs beneath her. She looked up at me expectantly as I grinned and joined her on the floor.

"Now, tell me everything," she commanded. "The good, the bad, and the ugly. Especially the ugly. I've heard a rumor that Paul has three nipples, and I'm desperate for it to be confirmed or denied."

We sat there for another hour until, finally, Marianne opened the door and shouted that the party was over. It took another half-hour, but eventually, we creeped out of the cloakroom, giggling like schoolgirls. Mick's driver took me home, where I collapsed into bed fully dressed and stared at the ceiling, my mind whirling. I lay like that until morning when I heard Mrs. Bennington put the kettle on downstairs.

With a sigh, I got up to start another day.