September 1968
Alice

Before I even opened my eyes, I knew I was still a bit stoned from the night before. Despite my best efforts, my eyes popped open, and I slammed them closed in reaction to the harsh early morning light.

I shifted slightly and froze.

Bloody hell.

Paul was sound asleep next to me.

Slowly, I opened my eyes again to take him in. He lay on his back, his hair frightfully mussed like he'd also slept fitfully. One arm was thrown above his head; the other lay heavily atop my thigh. I breathed a sigh of relief that we were still clothed and wondered what this all meant. I'd told him that it meant nothing, but, of course, it meant something. I'd gone out of my way not to spend the night with anyone for ages--since the last time I'd slept in Paul's bed, actually--and now I'd gone and done something hasty.

And, of course, he looked younger and more innocent in repose, like he'd never harm a fly. Like his todger wasn't a menace, like it hadn't been inside half of London by now. He looked like someone who would never hurt me, who would never dream of it.

That clearly wasn't the case... and, yet.

And yet...

I could've spent hours staring at him, obsessing over the tiny details of his face, which looked much more delicate in profile. Instead, I showed a modicum of restraint and inched my way from under his arm. Once free, I quietly stood and padded into my dressing room, worried I might awaken him, thus forcing a much-needed but highly-awkward conversation.

Ten minutes later, I stole out of the room wearing light blue palazzo pants and a cotton sleeveless blouse. Cream-colored espadrilles dangled from my hand as I carefully closed the bedroom door, not allowing myself a final glance back.

Mrs. Bennington had just arrived and was tidying up the foyer as I crept down the stairs. She straightened, obviously startled that I was awake so early on a Saturday, and began to ask if I wanted her to put on the kettle.

"Shhhh!" I said much more loudly than intended. I winced and looked upstairs as if Paul might materialize. Mrs. Bennington glanced upward and then at the shoes in my hand. Then, I swear to God, the tiniest smirk appeared on her face.

"Mr. McCartney is upstairs," I said, wondering why I suddenly had defaulted to formality. "He'll... well, at some point, he'll have to leave."

She nodded, somehow managing to school her expression despite this ridiculous conversation I was forcing her into.

"You mustn't be unkind to him," I admonished. "Just.... offer him a cuppa and see him out, is all... but do be sure he leaves."

She nodded again, looking like she was using all her self-restraint herself not to judge me. We stared at each other for a long moment, and then I hastily nodded. The telephone beckoned to me, practically begging me to ring a taxi to take me to Weybridge. All my childless friends would be asleep, but surely Cynthia would be awake?

As the car approached Kenwood, I realized it was my first time there when no girls were hanging around. It was a strange sight: a little too peaceful, just the sound of actual birds chirping as my manicured finger jammed the buzzer. After a long pause, it squawked and shrieked as I said my name.

Cynthia greeted me at the door in her dressing gown, with curlers in her hair and an unlit cigarette dangling from her fingers.

"Alice," she said, looking genuinely pleased. "I wasn't sure it was really you. What a lovely surprise."

There was no reproach for appearing unannounced as the arse crack of dawn or that I'd been out of touch for several weeks. It hadn't been intentional; it was only that I couldn't sort out her new number. I glanced around, noting how different the place looked without John's mess. I wondered if he'd taken the gorilla suit to Ringo's flat or if Cynthia had gleefully shoved it into the basement.

I waved to Julian, who was playing with a firetruck in the living room. The cracked porcelain cat that he adored was right next to him. I'd personally glued it back together several times after it had taken an unfortunate spill, and it was a miracle it was still intact. Cynthia ushered me into the kitchen and offered me toast with homemade marmalade, which I happily accepted.

"I'm famished," I said, the toast already halfway to my mouth. "And I apologize in advance, but I'm afraid I'm still a little high."

She gave me a saucy look as she sliced another piece of bread to put in the toaster.

"I slept with Paul," I said as quietly as possible. She dropped the knife in her hand, and it fell to the floor with a clatter.

"No, no, no, not like that," I said hurriedly as she hurried to retrieve it. "Not-- you know. We didn't sleep together... We just slept together. In the same bed, I mean.... with all our clothes on."

She took a deep breath and put on the kettle while I devoured several slices of toast. Over four cups of tea, I filled her in on the whole evening, ending with me sneaking out in the morning like I wasn't in my own goddamn house.

"I don't know," I said after I'd gone on for bloody ages about it all. "He said... well, he said that I'm the only thing in the world that he's sure about. In his world right now, I mean... I suppose things with the boys must be tense at the moment. But, Cyn, I'm not sure about him. Not at all."

"But you love him."

It was more of a statement than a question. I nodded miserably, feeling like a criminal.

She rinsed the sponge, placing it on the side of the sink. "Well, love, it sounds like you have it all sorted in your heart, if not your head."

I buried my head in my hands. "Why does he have to be so difficult to hate? It was all so much easier when I was halfway across the world... is it pheromones, do you think?"

"Pheromones?"

I nodded, debating whether to beg a cigarette off her. But, no, the chakras!

"There was an article about it in the Journal last month," I explained. "It's... well, I don't know the scientific details... some sort of scent that certain animals exude that attracts other animals. They used the example of female silk moths, which release a trail of chemicals that draws in male moths."

Cynthia looked at me like I'd grown two heads but nodded like everything made sense.

"So you think Paul is exuding a... chemical that draws you in?"

"Yes," I said earnestly. "It's the only thing that makes sense. I'm never this daft in real life. This isn't me at all. There must be another explanation."

"He's not terrible-looking," Cynthia offered. "He's like a brother to me, but one must admit that he's not completely awful on the eyes."

Julian rushed into the kitchen and jumped on my lap, causing me nearly to spill the cup of tea. I grinned and listened as he chatted about everything happening in his world, mostly where the cats had been hiding and the fact that he was finally allowed to go in the front lawn since all the girls had gone away.

When he was finally back in the living room, I turned back to Cynthia, who was curiously watching me.

"Whatever happened? Between you two, I mean."

I realized that I'd never told her. I'd never told anyone.

She waved a hand in the air. "I mean, I can guess... but... did he...?"

I nodded. "Maggie."

Her eyes widened, and I wondered what the story was there. "Bastards.... They're all rotten, aren't they? Every single one of them."

We avoided eye contact for a few moments, me out of embarrassment and her out of pity.

"How did you find out? Sometimes I wonder how bloody blind I had to be not to realize that John was... that for all those tours, he was...."

There was a long pause.

"It was John who told me," I said softly.

She stilled. "Told you what?"

"About Paul and Maggie.

She blinked a little too rapidly, looking like she was having some sort of realization. "John told you that Paul had...?"

I nodded, and we stared at each other for a moment.

"But you mustn't tell anyone," I said, sounding slightly frantic. Was this going to end up in their divorce negotiations?! "No one knows about it... he was off his face... John, I mean."

She once again looked at me like I had two heads. "Paul doesn't know that his best mate sold him down the river?"

I shook my head. "No, and I don't want him to."

Cynthia nodded like it made sense, but it didn't make any bloody sense. Why were my loyalties with John? Except they weren't, not at all; in some roundabout way, they'd always been with Paul. Even when I was furious with him, I'd still protected him. Surely that had to mean something.

When I glanced at Cynthia, she was staring off into the distance with her jaw clenched.

"Cynthia," I said. "You mustn't tell anyone. Do you promise?"

She gave me a withering look like I was daft to suggest it.

"How are things with him, anyway?" I asked.

She grimaced and rubbed the sponge on the same spot she'd cleaned just minutes ago. "He rang me up this week. You know I've been begging to talk to him--just the two of us, to speak like two humans who shared a life together. Just to try to sort out everything cleanly. He said I would get nothing from him, and I'd end up back with my mum, just like I deserve."

"Oh, Cyn."

She wrinkled her nose and shrugged. "But lawyers say I have a good shot at things, especially since she's...."

She trailed off and gave me a look. It was a look that every woman knew.

"She's... pregnant?" I asked. "Blimey."

There was a long pause as the unfairness of it all set in between us.

"What does Paul say about her?" she asked finally, and I shrugged.

"Just that she's around a lot. Sounds like it's driving them all a bit crackers just to have the group dynamic shift. Can you imagine being in the studio all the time? Sounds like a one-way ticket to the madhouse to me. Couldn't pay me enough."

Cynthia gave me a grateful smile and stood to busy herself with re-tidying up the kitchen. I got the feeling that she couldn't bear to make eye contact, so I stood and stared out the window as I made small talk about the going-ons at Zarby.

When it was nearly noon, I realized that she'd have to offer lunch if I stayed any longer. So I yawned and stretched, making a show of how tired I was, and surely Paul had left, so I could go home and go back to bed.

"Want to come to a party tonight?" I asked as I was halfway out the door. It was an afterthought, mostly because I hadn't decided whether to go to the party until that moment.

She scrubbed a hand over her face. "I haven't been going out much... it's too much, with everything in the papers. I think everyone would stare at me and whisper, which would be too much."

I shook my head. "You're Cynthia Lennon. If anyone is staring, it's because they want to know where you got whatever fabulous dress you're wearing. Anyway, it won't be the usual crowd. More film types."

She gave me a sly look. "Film types? Is Michael one of those film types?"

I shot her a look and grinned. "Yes, he's having a do at Frankie's. Have you been?"

She shook her head, and I was again reminded what a relatively cloistered life she'd lived, considering she was married to a Beatle. I remembered the many times I'd asked John where his wife was and the many times he told me she was at home.

"It'll be a groove," I said. "No cameras, no Beatles-- in fact, his crowd is a bit older, so everything is a bit more civilized."

She arched an eyebrow. "What's going on with you and Michael?"

I shook my head. "Nothing anymore. Strictly mates."

"Does Paul know that?"

Again, I shook my head. "Absolutely not, and that's just fine by me. He can sweat it out for a bit longer. Serves him right."

She laughed, and then her expression became thoughtful. "So you are going to give things another go with him?"

I exhaled so forcefully that my breath ruffled my fringe and offered a lopsided grin. "I suppose I have to... what with the pheromones and all. And anyway, I did a karma assessment last week, and there were powerful vibes that I've already met my soulmate, and he's a bass-playing fiend with very serious lapses in judgment but tries his best most of the time."

Cynthia walked closer and wrapped her arms around me, taking me off-guard momentarily. Neither of us was really the hugging type, mainly because we weren't overeager Americans.

"Paul's a good man," she said quietly. "A rotter, but nonetheless, there's hope for him still."

**

When I arrived home, a note from Paul was sitting on a velvet-covered bench at the end of my bed.

This bird has flown, it said in his neat handwriting, with a little doodle of his profile staring up at a bird in the sky. I wondered if that's how he thought of me, as someone always ready to fly away. When really, more than anything, I just wanted to be tethered to Earth.

Hours later, as the taxi drove through Chelsea, I realized I hadn't been to the King's Road in ages. It was meant to be the place to be, but it seemed to me that it was already done. Perhaps I'd spent too much time on the mean streets of Shoreditch, but there was a grittiness missing, a realness. Like everyone here was trying a bit too hard.

The row of clothing shops whizzed by, all looking vaguely the same. Chelsea Girls, The Shop, Quorum, Just Looking... all my competitors. We rounded the bend, and I could see The Chelsea Drugstore, the futuristic building that housed several boutiques, a cafe, a record store, and even a chemist. They famously had the Flying Squad, girls who made home deliveries wearing catsuits and driving motorcycles.

Groovy, but, again, trying a bit too hard.

The car slowed as we approached Angelique and Francoise, otherwise known as Frankie's. It started as a restaurant on the top floor and a bar in the basement. But I suppose rent was raised, so a few months ago, they'd leased the top floor to a clothing shop and crammed everything else down below. It was strictly an eatery until 10pm when the tables were hidden away, and it transformed into a discotheque.

A man in a dark suit with a skinny tie stood discreetly at the door to the darkened boutique, shifting slightly in front of the door as I approached. He didn't even glance down at the paper in his hand when I gave my name, just moved aside with a deferential nod. Michael had stopped by yesterday to tell me about his party, saying that all of his best mates happened to be in London on the same night, and I just had to drop by.

I descended the steep staircase toward the smoky darkness and music, mindful not to trip on the fringed hem of my chartreuse green dress. I was convinced it would be the following season's color, and I was determined to show it off to those in the know. A bluesy-jazzy number was playing, and I vaguely recognized the musicians. I'd met them ages ago with Theo Dormer at that jazz club near my house but couldn't for the life of me remember their names.

Glancing around the room, I was fairly taken aback by the star power surrounding me. It was all actors and screenwriters with a sprinkling of authors and aristos thrown into the mix. It was Hollywood meets the West End meets a literary soiree on the Upper East Side.

"Alice!"

Diane Cilento grabbed my elbow, grinning like a loon. Her hair was the perfect shade of platinum, and she wore the most divine dress that was all beads and leopard print and shimmer.

"I just adore that dress, love," she said, looking me up and down as she took a sip of a martini. "When can I stop by the shop and buy it?

"Next month," I replied, laughing. "This is just the sample. It's from a one-woman shop in Mendocino."

"Is that in California?" she asked, and I nodded just as Sean Connery walked up behind her and looped an arm around her neck.

"Hullo, darling," he said to her before turning to me. "Hiya, Alice... Michael didn't say you were coming."

I looked toward the door just in time to see Cynthia step into the room, blinking as she adjusted to the dim light. She'd been to the hairdresser since I'd left her at noon, and she looked divine in a royal blue mini-dress. I wondered if we could get her photographed because John would absolutely die if he saw her looking like a bombshell in the papers.

As a round of G&Ts was brought over, I introduced her to Diane and Sean, who did an excellent job pretending that her marital woes weren't common knowledge worldwide. Diane even asked her several times how to pronounce her last name as if it weren't one of the most famous names in the world. Although her husband was one of the world's most famous spies, so perhaps it was all relative.

A man drunkenly stumbled into Sean, which caused him to nearly topple into Diane. The stranger looked up at him, squinted, and said, almost automatically, Bond!!! before he wandered off.

"Keen fellow," I said sarcastically after a pause, and Sean grimaced.

"I've half a mind to tell them I'm done with it," he said, his voice almost a low growl. "I'll be typecast for the rest of my fucking life."

I spotted Michael across the room and met his eye, raising my drink as a toast. He tilted his head and gave me a cheeky look as he leaned in to say something to the fellow he was talking to.

"Is it me, or does he get better with age?" Cynthia murmured so that only I could hear, and I couldn't help but silently agree. Michael looked good. Really good. As usual, he was wearing a suit that should've seemed too formal, but with the specs and the hair, he exuded an aura of cool.

"Hi, love," he said as he approached, leaning in to kiss my cheek. He looped an arm around Cynthia's shoulder, pulling her close in a friendly manner. "I see you brought my favorite blonde."

"And James bloody Bond!' He grinned over at Sean and then at me. "Mr. Bond himself! Who let him in the door?! I gave them strict instructions not to let you anywhere near!"

"Fuck off, Alfie Elkins," Sean said jokingly, giving him a playful shove that ended up in a pretend tussle. Diane rolled her eyes, giving me the impression that this happened often.

Michael finally managed to redirect his attention back to me, quickly taking in my dress. "That's a far-out color. What're you calling it?"

"Far-out green," I replied with a smirk. "Thanks for the invite tonight. It's a proper knees-up, isn't it?"

A grin spread across his face, but a dark-haired man dressed like a shaman pulled him away before he could respond. Michael leaned over to hear what he was saying, and it looked like they were plotting to take over the universe, or at least Joshua Tree. After a moment, they pulled Sean into the huddle as well.

"Can you believe that he's here with her?" Diane murmured to Cynthia and me, nodding discreetly to the other side of the room where the actor Albert Finney was practically drooling over Anouk, a French actress who had been in practically all of Fellini's films. She was gorgeous in a very happening way. And, for better or for worse, married.

"She's a dish," I replied with a wink. "I wouldn't say no."

"Speaking of dishy...." Cynthia glanced across the room. Diane and I both followed her gaze and simultaneously wilted.

"Chris is here," Diane breathed. "I thought he was filming in Lake Como til October."

"Do you know him?" Cynthia asked.

Diane nodded, breaking her eyes away to look at us long enough to roll her eyes. "Oh, yes, he and Sean--"

Her husband must have heard his name above the din and followed our gaze across the room. "For fuck sake," he muttered before raising his hands to his mouth.

"Oi! Captain Von Trapp!"

Christopher Plummer twisted his head toward us, and I wondered if all actors casually answered to their character names. He saw who had called him, and his beautiful face twisted into a smirk. Running his free hand through his dark hair, he raised the cocktail in his other in greeting.

"James Bond!" he called back loudly, and everyone around him laughed. Christopher had moved to London several years ago, and I'd heard he was quite the rake. He was fresh off his second divorce and, from the looks of it, was quite pleased about it.

I heard a Welsh voice next to me and turned to see Siân Phillips, who wore a groovy brocade dress and a fabulous teal turban. Her eyes were heavily lined with kohl, and she looked like a modern-day Cleopatra.

"Oh, he is divine, isn't he?" she said appreciatively, looking at Christopher. "But I'm afraid he's no longer on the market. Jane told me that he's seeing Elaine Taylor now."

"Is she here tonight?" Diane asked, looking around. "Because if not, two single girls are standing right here."

I froze momentarily, instinctively wanting to say that I wasn't single. Bloody hell, my stupid brain had already accepted that I was already with Paul, even though I hadn't even spoken to him about it. For all I knew, he was just looking for someone to shag on the floor of an unused closet.

Cynthia looked startled as well, probably because she was, in fact, single for the first time in a decade. Before I could further contemplate this, Siân turned toward me.

"I believe that you're Alice Edwards," she said brightly. "I've read everything about you, of course, and feel like we're practically best friends."

I wasn't used to such straightforwardness, so was slow to respond, so she turned to Cyn.

"And you're Cynthia Lennon. You're lovelier in person, aren't you, and your husband is a bloody fool."

Cynthia simultaneously blushed and beamed, and I once again had the urge to find a photographer to capture her like this. Perhaps a photograph with Christopher Plummer would do the trick, really get John up in arms that his wife was moving on without him. Perhaps the article could be titled, Oh, Captain! My Captain!

Michael walked back and introduced us to a friend who was trying to set up funding for a discotheque called Tramp. He went on at length about how it would cater to those in-the-know who valued privacy, and I couldn't help but notice that he said it in a way that presumed that I would give him all the money I had in the bank.

"It sounds interesting," I said as non-committedly as I could manage. More drinks were brought over, and soon Cynthia talked animatedly with Diane and Terence Stamp while Michael and I bantered with a Frenchman who revealed himself to be Jean Moreau's ex-husband. Apparently, he and Michael had met on set and had staged a series of practical jokes on the director for the duration of the film.

"And you?" the man asked me."You're also in the industry?"

I shook my head. "Not at all. I own a clothing shop."

Michael rolled his eyes. "She's being modest. She's the brains and the beauty behind the most with-it brand in London right now."

"Says the man who has a lot of money to lose if it's not," I laughed. "I mostly just make sure that everyone is paid on time. A paper-pusher, really."

"She's a trendsetter," Michael said. "A tastemaker, a--"

"Stop," I said, laughing again. "You're being ridiculous."

The man looked interested. "What's the shop?"

"Zarby," I said, wishing everyone would stop making a fuss. "It's called Zarby."

"Ah!" his face brightened in recognition. He raised his wine glass and waved it about. "You're the prime minister's daughter."

I felt my smile fall the tiniest bit. "That's true, yes."

He nodded, looking excited like he'd had so many realizations at once. "And you were with-- Beatle George?"

My smile fell even further. "No, George's wife's name is Pattie. I'm Alice."

"Oh, yes, yes," he said. "It was-- you were with the one who wrote 'Yesterday.'"

I could tell Michael was watching in horror and wondering if he should dive in and save me. To his credit, he let me save myself.

"Well," I said, draining the last of my cocktail and looking coolly at the Frenchman. "It was a pleasure meeting you, I'm sure. Shall I fetch us another round, Michael?"

A few minutes later, Cynthia said she was ready to go, and I decided to leave with her. I adored Michael and his friends, but I knew if I stayed any longer, he'd find an excuse to corner me and ask if I'd decided about moving to New York for a few months to oversee the opening of a Zarby outpost.

The taxi was halfway back to Belgravia when I changed my mind and promised the driver an obscene sum of money to drive me to Greenford. Paul had mentioned that his mate was renting out the Starlite Ballroom for the night, and I wondered if he was there.

Because, pheromones. And vibes from the karma assessment. And the fact that I was simply in too deep with him and was exhausted by trying to fight it.

The music venue was mobbed outside, which gave me hope that Paul might be inside. Girls squealed and tried to push to the front as I elbowed my way through. Unlike at Frankie's, the man at the door didn't seem impressed when I gave my name. Luckily for me, Mal was smoking a cig down the street and managed to get me in.

The club was packed with beautiful people, but it was a very different scene than the party I'd just come from. Los Bravos was playing a set on stage, and I waved a hand in front of my face to clear smoke out of my eyes. Scanning the room, I spotted Anita Pallenberg and the gorgeous Tarot-card reader from The Fool huddled together in a tete-a-tete. Anita glanced over, and her face brightened as she motioned me over.

Just then, I spotted Paul sitting in a booth in the far corner. He looked gorgeous in a rumpled light gray suit jacket and pale orange shirt, his hair mussed like he'd run a hand through it about a million times that day. He was sitting with his brother, George, Pattie, Miles, and a few others I'd ever met. His shoulders were slightly slumped, meaning it had been a shit day, and his expression was slightly glazed over, meaning he'd smoked a joint somewhat recently. He howled in laughter at whatever Mike said, but it didn't quite meet his eyes.

Mike said something as he gestured wildly, causing everyone at the table to laugh even harder. Paul's gleeful chuckle didn't quite meet his eyes.

"Could I buy you a drink?"

A man materialized by my side, a bit younger than me with fiery red hair. He looked at me devilishly, and I wondered who he was.

"Not tonight, thank you," I said, smiling apologetically before training my eyes back on Paul. The music was pounding, and the smoke oppressive, making me wish I'd had fewer cocktails. Though I supposed I'd needed liquor courage for what I was about to do.

Just as I was about to cross the room, a blonde shimmied up to the table and perched on Paul's lap, uninvited. She was gorgeous and just his type, and I held my breath, waiting to see how he would react.

He paused mid-sentence and glanced up at her before simultaneously turning back to his friends and placing his hands on her hips to remove her from his lap. He did it so seamlessly that I wondered how many girls had sat on his lap uninvited and if he even really processed that she was there in the first place.

She stood there momentarily, but Paul didn't glance over again, instead focusing on whatever George was saying. He grinned and ran a hand over his face before sipping his drink. Finally, she walked away, making a beeline for Eric Burdon on the other side of the room.

Slowly, I made my way across the room, almost losing my nerve at the last moment. Paul laughed again, and the corners of his eyes crinkled a bit, making me want to melt. But I also knew that we were in a very public place, in some ways more public than if we snogged in Leicester Square. Because these people... well, these people loved to gossip.

But I was determined. It was karma. And pheromones. And, fuck it, love.

My hands slipped over his eyes, my lips next to his ears.

"Hi."

He reached up to grasp my hands and swiveled around, our hands still entwined.

"Liss."

He sounded delighted and surprised but also like he was trying to play it cool for the benefit of others. We stared at each other for a long moment before George leaned across the table.

"Hullo, Alice. Haven't seen you in a bit."

I tore my eyes away from Paul to look at George, who looked very dapper with a shaggy haircut and a faint mustache. He and Pattie wore Eastern-inspired garb in harmonizing patterns that made me wonder if they'd coordinated outfits.

"It's been a while," I agreed, leaning further back into Paul as his arms wrapped around my waist and held me there securely. "But here I am."

"Here you are," George repeated, looking between Paul and me. "Well... welcome back, Lady Alice."