October 1968
Alice

My office at Zarby was small by design, tucked away on the third floor just above the rickety stairwell of death. And yet, at that moment, six dark-suited men were crammed inside, each with a thick sheath of papers balanced on their laps.

"The market data seems to indicate...."

"Are we certain there's a gap in the current market?"

Their voices began to blend together, a cacophony of investors, bankers, and lawyers, all there to persuade me to make up my bloody mind.

"Foot traffic?! You think that anyone was trekking to Shoreditch before Zarby opened?"

"...a robust advertising campaign on the radio, possibly featuring...."

"Well, there's Bloomingdale's and Bendel's--"

The banker mispronounced the name of the Upper East Side department store, which snagged my attention. I refocused my gaze, wondering if it had been evident that I'd zoned out.

"Bendel's and Bloomingdales aren't Zarby's competition." I kept my voice low so they were forced to lean closer to hear. It was a trick I'd learned from my mother. "They cater to the Fifth Avenue society types... they're still stuck in the land of mod."

The accountant cleared his throat and looked again at the sheaf of papers. "And Zarby isn't... er, stuck in the land of mod?"

I shook my head, glancing down at the beaded Chloe dress from several years earlier. I'd had it shortened and added full-length sleeves to bring it up to date. In retrospect, it wasn't the best choice for a three-hour meeting.

"One possible competitor would be Ossie Clark's boutique," I said. "It was one of my inspirations for Zarby. But if we open a second location... I'm not sure it's worth doing unless it's different. What if we changed the model to make it more accessible? Like Paraphernalia, but more high-end."

The gaggle of men looked at me agog, and I forced myself not to peer at them disapprovingly over the rims of the black specs I'd nicked from Michael ages ago.

"Paraphernalia," I repeated with a sigh. "It's a shop on the Upper East Side... Paul Young founded it... he's the one who brought the mini skirt to America. I went to their launch party back in '65, and I swear, it felt like just by being there, I could transform into Jean Shrimpton instantly. It's a groove, as they say."

More blank stares.

"Warhol practically lives there," I added, and they nodded eagerly, almost like they were grateful to have a familiar name to grasp onto.

"But," I continued, "it's too much of a schtick for Zarby. I want something free-spirited but still high-end. Something new and unconventional... bohemian but still a bit straight-laced... free-spirited like only things in America can be but still... well, English, I suppose."

The suits nodded again, and I turned to my chief financial officer. "Alright, then, can we afford it? Or are we all sitting around talking about it because we like to sit around and talk?"

He nodded and was about to reply when Suzie knocked on the door and entered, looking slightly flustered by the interruption. She hurried over to my chair and bent down to whisper in my ear.

"Paul rang the shop when he couldn't get through on your private line. Apparently, he sounded very agitated."

I pulled back and looked up, feeling my forehead wrinkle slightly in concern. Keenly aware that a roomful of people was watching us, I quickly schooled my expression and nodded.

"Tell Mr. Lagerfeld that I'll ring him back," I replied to Suzie, turning back to the men. "Thank you, gentlemen. Please run the numbers once more, just to be certain. Then we'll move forward."

There was a subtle groan of relief throughout the room that I'd finally made the call, but I was already halfway out the door with Suzie trailing behind me. We trekked down the rickety steps and emerged on the second floor, where one usually could find a quiet spot just behind the haberdashery counter.

"What do you mean he was agitated?" I whispered, and she shrugged.

"That's all Myrtle said. He wants you to drop by his place straightaway."

My first instinct was that Paul had created a fictitious drama to lure me to Cavendish, which I had refused to visit since we got back together. My second instinct was to ignore his call and say I'd been in meetings all day, thus teaching him not to ring the shop. The girls were so chatty that he may as well take out a full-page ad in the Daily Mail with photographs of us shagging.

Instead, I walked to the counter with the ancient French till that barely worked and reached for the telephone receiver. It wasn't yet noon, so there weren't yet heaps of customers, just a handful of fellows browsing vibrant-colored jackets and tasseled trousers. I smiled at one as I listened to the subtle click-clicking of the line connecting. There was a pause of dead air and then the beep-beep-beep indicating that Paul's line was occupied.

"Alright," I said to Suzie, replacing the receiver. "Call a taxi."

The drive to Cavendish took about 45 minutes, during which I alternately stared out the window, lost in thought, and tapped my foot madly against the floor, wondering what sort of emergency it was. Suppose it was something to do with Paul's father? He'd been ill a few weeks earlier, after all. Or suppose another of the lads had quit, this time for good?

The universe must've been on my side because only three girls stood outside the gate when the taxi pulled up, one of whom I recognized from my time living there. They all turned to stare as I alighted from the car, throwing my shoulders back as I strode toward the intercom box.

"He's not here," the old-school gate bird said a bit too loudly. "He's at the studio. I heard he's outside signing autographs for anyone who wants one."

She looked pointedly at the other two girls, who looked uncertain whether their best chance was to run to EMI now or continue to wait there.

I paused for a moment and turned toward her. According to Paul, she was Dutch, and her favorite Beatles album was Rubber Soul. Or at least it had been... perhaps she had a new favorite now.

"Mila, isn't it?" I asked, plastering a warm smile on my face.

Her face brightened at the fact that I knew her name, and I remembered something that Paul had once told me: something that took 5 seconds of his time might be the best part of someone's day, so it was usually worth taking the time.

"It's good to see you," I said as I walked toward the buzzer and paused. Was Paul really not at home? Before I could overthink it, I felt a presence behind me and realized that Mila was standing slightly too close for comfort.

"Suzie rang," she said quietly so the other two girls couldn't hear. "I live just down the way-- anyway, she asked me to come run off all the others."

I smiled to myself, once again thanking my lucky stars for the day I'd run into Suzie at an art gallery several months after Paul and I split up.

"Best hurry, though," Mila advised. "They'll realize quickly that he isn't standing outside EMI giving out hugs."

"Thank you," I whispered, pushing the buzzer three times. "You're a godsend."

The intercom screeched, and I wondered if it was malfunctioning again or if it had deteriorated over time because of frequent use. Surely when the engineer came up with the design for this model, he didn't realize that girls would be buzzing constantly for 18 hours per day.

The front door was unlocked, and Martha nearly knocked me over when I entered. I could hear Paul talking loudly in the other room, presumably on the telephone. After petting Martha momentarily, I hung my fuschia coat on a hook in the entryway and walked cautiously into the living room. It was generally less tidy than the last time I'd been there, and even more knick-knacks were lying around.

I passed the dining room, where a half-eaten plate of food sat forlornly on the table. A wooden chair with a thick cushion was leaning askew against the wall as if Paul had gotten up in such haste that it had been knocked backward. Bending down, I picked up a fork on the floor and placed it on the table.

"A fucking set-up." Paul's voice drifted in from the kitchen, his accent sounding more Liverpudlian than usual.

His head popped out the kitchen door, followed by the rest of him. One ear was pressed against the telephone receiver, and the beige coiled cord stretched until it was almost taught until he was forced to stop. He waved at me distractedly before he grimaced and turned his attention back to the caller. His expression was strained, the circles under his eyes pronounced. He listened intently for a moment and then began to shake his head.

"Nah, man, it was a fucking set-up... no, they...."

He looked back at me, his eyes roving down my body in a delicious way. His gaze stopped at the bottom of my short hemline before his attention was pulled away by whatever the other person said.

"Eight? Eight?" He puffed up his cheeks and then exhaled noisily, throwing his head back to stare at the ceiling.

The buzzer chimed, and Paul covered the receiver, looking again at me. "Could you get that? It's Mal."

As I walked back toward the entryway, he continued to half-shout into the receiver. "Why not bring the entire bloody police brigade? Bloody fucking hell."

A moment later, Mal burst through the front door, sounding slightly out of breath. I always forgot how tall he was until he was next to me, and this time was no exception. The harried expression on his face was made more urgent by the unruly beard and mustache he'd grown since I'd seen him last.

Martha jumped on Mal, who seemed just as accustomed to it as I was. He knelt down to let her sniff his coat before hanging it beside mine.

"Yeah, do keep me posted, obviously," Paul's voice echoed through the house. "I gotta go.... Yeah.... Sure, great... yeah, cheers."

The receiver was noisily slammed down, and Paul released a creative curse. A moment later, he appeared before us, both angry and mildly distraught. He wore striped Zarby trousers I'd given him and a wrinkled white shirt covered by a vaguely African-looking sleeveless sweater.

"Hi, love," he said distractedly, walking over to kiss me quickly. "Sorry to call the shop."

Before I could ask what had happened, he turned to Mal.

"Any updates, then? Took you bloody long enough to get here."

Mal ignored the rebuke and shook his head. "They're at the police station in Paddington."

Paul swore again and rubbed his collarbone absentmindedly. "Were they photographed?"

Mal nodded. "Someone tipped off the paps. There was a whole swarm of 'em, Neil said."

Another curse, another hand through the hair.

"Fuck," Paul muttered. "Fuck. This is just what we fucking need. This is just what I fucking need. I don't need the bloody drugs squad in my house, going through my shit--"

"Paul," I said, using my stewardess voice that always managed to get attention. It worked. Both men looked at me expectantly, like I might have all the answers.

"What's happened?" I asked calmly. "Start from the beginning."

He threw his hands up in the air like I should have been able to keep track of his rapid-fire conversation with Mal. As infuriating as the gesture was, it was also somehow endearing, and if it had been just the two of us, I'd have pushed him against the wall and smothered him with kisses.

"It's fucking Yoko and John," he cried, scrubbing a hand over his face. When his eyes reappeared, they looked even more weary than before. "They've been fucking arrested."

"For... drugs?" I asked, making an educated guess based on my last few interactions with John.

"Yes, for fucking drugs!" Paul replied, exasperated.

"Alright," I replied. "Did the police.... Well, did they find drugs in the flat?"

"Well, I assume so, since John and Yoko were fucking handcuffed and--"

"I don't think they were handcuffed," Mal interjected. "Just, y'know, the coppers told them they had to go to the station."

"Fucking frog-marched down the street in front of the press," Paul continued. "Is something in retrograde? Is that it? Can nothing go as planned this month? Jesus fucking Christ."

He began to pace around in the small space, his hands gesturing as he went on about how it was a set-up, but that didn't matter because we all had targets on our backs. At that moment, I noticed that Mal was looking at me with an odd expression on his face. Paul saw it too, and after a moment, it was like a lightbulb went off in his head. He stopped and turned toward me, his doe eyes looking at me pleadingly.

I glanced at Mal, who had the same, albeit less effective, pleading eyes.

Shaking my head, I held up my hands in front of me. "No."

"Liss..."

I took a step back for good measure. "No way."

"Baby..."

"I'm not calling him."

Paul looked at Mal, widening his eyes and gesturing toward me. I wasn't sure if it was meant to be a sort of male solidarity thing, like women! Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em! Or a plea for Mal to reason with me.

Mal cleared his throat, looking like he'd rather not be a part of this. "Er, Alice--"

"No," I repeated.

"Baby," Paul tried again, walking toward me to reach for both hands. "I know things between you and John have been...." He paused as he searched for the right word.

"No, that's--" I interrupted. "I'm not calling my father for two reasons. One, I try to have as little contact with him as possible."

The two men stared at me, much like the roomful of suited men had stared at me several hours earlier. In a moment of clarity, I wondered if this would be my lot in life.

"Which surely you can understand, Paul," I continued. "Since the last time you saw my father, he called you a 'fribbling failure of a pup.'"

Paul tilted his head and pursed his lips. "Well, I took that more as a metaphorical sort of--"

"Secondly," I continued, holding up two fingers for emphasis. "If they found drugs in the flat, then do you really think that the Prime Minister is going to, what, grant them clemency? Just tell them to go home and enjoy a spliff in his honor?"

"C'mon, man, it was a set-up," Paul repeated. "Do you know who was staying at Ringo's flat before them? Jimi. So you think that John wouldn't have the place cleared out after Jimmy bloody Hendrix was there?"

Mal raised a hand in the air. "Pete and I tidied it up ourselves. Clean as a whistle!"

It took everything I had not to ask Paul on behalf of his band of merry Beatles why Mal was sweeping their flats for drugs. Instead, I inhaled deeply and tried remembering the mantra the reiki master had given me the month before.

"Of course, he had someone go through the flat," Paul continued, "We've all known for months we're on a hit list. Christ, he's not bloody stupid...." He paused, and his eyes widened and looked semi-feral. "Maybe they planted the drugs! Brought 'em in with 'em!"

I stared at him and began to speak in a slow cadence, which usually had the effect of calming down overwrought men.

"You told me that the police let Pattie and George leave Keith's place before they raided it. Surely they wouldn't do that if you were all on some sort of hit list."

Paul nodded earnestly. "But that was then. Baby--"

He'd never before called me baby this frequently.

"This is bad for all of us, you see? Now we have targets on our backs... even more than before."

I eyed him doubtfully. "You went on television and told the world that you've done LSD... how did you not already have a target on your back?"

I glanced around the room, wondering if the gigantic bowl of pot was still sitting on his mantel. It appeared to be gone, and then I remembered that he'd never returned my Hermes teapot, which most likely was packed with loose grass or cocaine or uppers.

"How are you being so fucking calm about this?" he asked before turning to Mal. "How is she being so fucking calm about this?!"

Then he took a step toward me.

"That was before," he emphasized. "But, baby, Yoko's... well, she's in a delicate way, isn't she? She can't be under this stress. They're in fucking jail!"

"Technically, the police station," Mal said, ducking his head slightly when Paul turned to glare at him like he was missing the entire point.

"And, Liss," Paul continued, swiveling his head back to me. "You should see the album cover they chose for their solo record--"

"What's an album cover got to do with it?" I asked doubtfully.

He gave me a look like I'd know it when I saw it.

The telephone rang, the shrill mechanical bell making us all jump slightly. Paul hurried to the kitchen to answer. Mal looked at me sympathetically for a moment, so much so that I wondered if he knew something I didn't.

"...fucking disaster," Paul was saying in the kitchen. "No, no use in coming here... no, tell Pattie not to... well, yeah, obviously... yeah, if you're at the studio, then may as well swing by... Could they call Sir Lockwood, do you think?"

There was a long pause as the person on the other end of the line, presumably George, talked. Paul poked his head out, glancing over at me and then down at the carpeted floor.

"Yeah, no, she's here... no... no.... Great, yeah, amazing, let's just all..."

He glanced meaningfully at me again. "George says you should ring your dad."

"You're welcome to call him yourself, George," I called loudly, my voice sounding shrill. Paul gave me a long look and then mumbled that he'd ring him back. A moment later, he had my hand in his and tugged me into the little room off of the kitchen. It was meant to be a pantry, but Paul had shoved all sorts of knick-knacks and old paintings in there.

He held both hands in mine. "Baby--"

"I'm not ringing my father, Paul."

"Lissy--" he tried again.

"Paul," I said, squeezing his hands, wanting him to understand how deeply I meant the following sentence. "It's too much to ask, love."

His eyes darted between mine as he debated whether to continue to push. Then his shoulders slumped, and he nodded.

"I know," he replied. "I'm fucking everything up, aren't I?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "It's alright, you asked... I suppose if I had a problem with... I dunno something related to music... I'm terrible with analogies... Anyway, I'm not calling my father. End of story."

He nodded, his gaze softening for a moment like he might be about to kiss me, but then his expression tensed like he remembered his best friend was still facing a drug charge. He nodded again and pulled me closer, leaning his forehead until it rested on my shoulder, his eyes glued to the floor beneath us.

"What are the implications of it all?" I asked softly. "You weren't there. None of you were."

Paul rubbed his forehead with a weary hand and quietly scoffed. "Everything that one of us does affects the rest of us... it's bloody exhausting. And I know it could have just as likely been me. I have your old teapot full of grass--"

I knew it! I thought, despite myself.

"--And intellectually, I get it. It could have been me; it could have been George or Ringo. Could've been any of us. I just... I woke up this morning, and I'd had this dream... I never sleep as well when I'm not with you--"

"What was it about?" I asked quietly. By this point, we were both nearly whispering, both aware that Mal wasn't far away. "The dream."

He shrugged again and pushed his forehead against my shoulder to propel him upwards so we were face to face. I brushed his fringe off his face, leaving my palm on his cheek for a moment longer than necessary.

"It just feels like nothing can go my way," he replied miserably. "Even this morning, I had the sense of... well, you saw what it was like at the studio; it's fucking bollocks all the time. And we finally finished the record and sorted the cover, and we're meant to do press for it... and now we're just going to be asked about the drugs thing and John and Yoko's fucking album cover."

"Is it really that awful?" I asked, and he nodded.

"George told him off about it," Paul said. "I tried to be a bit more diplomatic... like we don't need to see all their bits, do we?"

I raised an eyebrow, beyond curious about the album cover but not wanting to derail the conversation. "Alright, so this might muck up the press for the new record. What else?"

He ran a hand through his hair for what must've been the hundredth time that day. "George said that Neil told him that this could fuck up our ability to go to America as a group, to tour or record or whatever... like John won't be able to get a visa sorted if he has a drugs offense."

At that moment, it hit me that we should all be less concerned about John's ability to tour in America and more worried about Yoko's ability to remain in the UK.

"And I'm just... I'm fucking tired, Liss," he continued. "I'm knackered, baby. This past year... it's done me in."

We stood there in silence, and I could hear Mal quietly talking on the phone, presumably to someone at Apple. I thought about John and the trouble he was in and the mess he'd made. What divine retribution it would be for him to spend some time in jail, thinking about the havoc he'd created in my life, in Cynthia's life, in his son's life.

In Paul's life, even if Paul didn't know it.

I sighed, pulling Paul against me and resting my head against his chest. His odd sweater vest smelled vaguely like cigarettes and the joss sticks he burned while working in his music room. I wanted to tell him that I could wave a magic wand and make it all better, which, perhaps, I could... but also, I couldn't.

"I can't call my father, Paul." My voice was barely a whisper, and he ducked his head slightly to catch the words.

He nodded, his chin brushing against my temple. "I know."

I took a deep breath and pulled away, looking up at him. He did look knackered, the circles under his eyes noticeable. His eyes darted between mine as if trying to solve a puzzle, and something about the vulnerability in his expression made me want to do everything in my power to take care of him.

"But I'll speak to the foreign secretary," I said.

He blinked. "The foreign secretary?"

"He's my godfather."

His eyebrows scrunched together. "What does he have to do with it?"

"Yoko," I said. "She could be deported."

"Deported?"

He said the word dully, not betraying if that would be a good or bad thing.

I nodded.

"Why?"

"Well, perhaps Her Majesty's government doesn't fancy having a foreign national here who's a convicted drug user."

"Fuck," Paul said, running a hand through his hair. "I hadn't thought of that."

The buzzer rang in the distance, and a moment later, there was a knock on the door. I imagined Mal standing awkwardly, wondering if we were rowing or shagging.

"Georgie's coming in," he said through the door, his voice distorted slightly. "Think Ritch is on his way, too. And Neil as well, obviously."

Paul started for the door, but I caught his sleeve. "I don't want anyone knowing, alright? I don't want John to know."

I said the last part a bit too emphatically, and Paul's brow furrowed momentarily. Then he nodded. "Of course not. I won't tell a soul."

Over the next hour, each member of the Beatles' entourage showed up one by one. The girls at the gate, who were back in full force, went bonkers every time someone new arrived. Neil asked if it was true that Paul had been outside EMI giving out free hugs, which made Paul frown and then start to laugh as he shook his head, fuck no, free hugs? Who said that?

As every new person arrived, there was a nearly-identical rant about how it was a fucking set-up, man, and Christ were they all fucked. Ringo wondered if it was a publicity stunt for Yoko and John's record, and there was grumbling about the photograph on the cover. Finally, I sent Mal to get sandwiches for them all and made a silly excuse to go upstairs.

Once in Paul's bedroom, I paced around for a while, stopping to close the curtains, which, for once, actually worked properly. Then I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the spot where Paul had been standing when we'd rowed about Maggie. I shifted on the bed, kicked off my heels, and then picked up the receiver.

It was a short call, mostly in code. Anyone listening would have thought we were discussing the results of a recent polo match and a mutual family friend's new baby. It couldn't have lasted more than three minutes, after which I went back downstairs and pulled Paul aside, whispering in his ear in a salacious way like I was suggesting a blowjob in the kitchen. A few minutes later, he asked Neil to come outside to see what could be done about the condensation on the top of the geodesic dome, which was bloody annoying and distracting when he was trying to meditate.

A few minutes after that, Neil left in a hurry to talk to whoever he needed to talk to, and I felt like I'd done my duty as a Beatle girlfriend.

After everyone had left, Paul and I tiredly pulled off our clothes and fell into his bed. I hadn't been there with him in over a year, and it felt both wrong and right.

"What a fucked day," Paul said, throwing an arm over his face. Then he uncovered one eye, squinting at me. "Turn off the light, will you, love?"

The room was blanketed in darkness as I collapsed onto the pillow. Paul hooked his leg around mine, his hand finding its way to my breast. He squeezed gently, pressing a kiss on my bare shoulder.

"I thought you were tired," I said drily, and I felt his chuckle vibrate against the side of my neck.

"Honestly, I never thought I'd get you back here, so I feel like we should commemorate the moment."

I turned to look at him, a grin on my face. After a moment, I slipped an arm around his waist and pulled him against me. He was already hard, something I bloody adored about him.

"I'm sorry it was such a shit day," I said softly.

"I never asked you how your day was," he said. "What did I interrupt?"

I shook my head. "Nothing important."

What was I supposed to say? "Actually, I just committed to open a new Zarby in America, something that'll take over my life for the next year. Something that'll take over my mental and physical bandwidth, leaving you with just the scraps!"

I couldn't fucking do it, not at that moment.

He lowered his head to my breast, flicking his tongue over my nipple. I could feel him against me and decided foreplay wasn't in the cards that evening. Reaching down, I wrapped my hand around him and then pushed him onto his back, climbing atop him.

He closed his eyes as I lowered myself onto him, both of us letting out an involuntary groan at the intensity of it. I began to move slowly, transfixed by the expression on his face as he allowed himself to get lost in the moment. When he opened his eyes, a look of such raw vulnerability and naked affection made me pause.

I lowered my torso slowly toward him so our faces were inches away. Placing my elbows on the mattress to support my weight, I dropped my forehead until it touched his and closed my eyes, feeling the rapid thump-thumps of his heartbeat against my chest and reveling in the sensation of him filling me completely.

At that moment, I loved him so much that it hurt -- actual physical pain shooting through my chest as I thought about how ruined I'd feel if this ever ended. At that moment, I could see it all: an impromptu wedding at the registry office, kids one day, a few more dogs, the whole bloody package. I wanted that with him, I really did, more than anything.

"Liss," he said, and I opened my eyes. His earlier expression was replaced by a puzzled one like he was trying to work something out. Slowly, I began to move again, and his eyes rolled back to the ceiling momentarily before refocusing on me.

"Fuck," he swore softly, turning his head sideways as one hand clenched around the corner of a sheet. "It's always so fucking good."

We'd made love many times, and we'd fucked many times, but this was by far the most intense experience of them all. It was like we were each asking the other a question without knowing what the other was asking or what we were answering.

I came first, followed shortly by Paul, and as I collapsed on top of him, I decided I was tired of all the secrets. Specifically, I was tired of the burden of keeping John's secret. I'd tried and failed to understand Paul and John's relationship, and it occurred to me that perhaps I was doing both Paul and our relationship a disservice by continuing to hold onto a secret that wasn't even mine to keep.

Before I had time to process what this even meant, Paul ran a hand over the back of my head.

"Why do you and John hate each other suddenly?" he asked lazily, looking sublimely happy and blissed out in his usual post-orgasm state.

I frowned, burying my face in his chest for a moment and wondering how it was possible that both of us were thinking about John at that moment. Finally, I raised my head.

"I don't hate John."

He shrugged and grinned. "Loads of people do. He can be a real twat when he wants to be."

I nodded slowly. "Yeah... I suppose you're right."

"C'mon," he said good-naturedly. "Tell me whatever happened between you two."

My first instinct was to shake my head, wanting to hide under the duvet until he forgot what we'd been talking about and it was a new day. Instead, though, I propped myself up on one arm. My messy, just-fucked hair cascaded over my face, causing me to shove bunches of it behind my ear.

I exhaled heavily as I looked down at Paul, who still had the smallest grin on his face like he was ready to hear about the silly spat with his best mate that had me in a tizzy.

"Paul..." I trailed off, unable to say more for a full minute. The longer I paused, the more serious his expression became.

Then, finally: "It was John who told me."

He frowned slightly; something about his face looked so fucking innocent at that moment.

"Told you what? You know he says shit he doesn't mean, Liss-- look, just tell me whatever he said to you, and we'll sort it--"

"No, Paul, John told me."

I couldn't say more; the words just refused to come out, and part of me wanted to shove the words I had said back in. Paul's eyebrows knitted together in confusion as we stared at each other, the silence becoming became increasingly weighty until his eyes widened.

"Told you... about... Maggie?" He whispered the last word as if saying her name aloud would make me disappear into thin air.

I nodded, feeling like I might cry. I was going to ruin everything. Our relationship, his relationship with John, the Beatles. Oh my god, I was going to break up the Beatles.

He shook his head. "No... that's daft, Liss. You must've misunderstood."

I didn't reply.

"No," he said, shaking his head again. "It was Suzie."

"Suzie?" I asked, leaning back slightly. "My Suzie?"

He nodded earnestly, just like earlier when he tried to convince me to call my father. "The only person who knew who... who it was... it was the fucking gate birds! I never told...."

He trailed off, his eyes trained on the ceiling for a long while. I rolled onto my side and stared at his profile. After a long time, I reached for his hand, which lay limply on the bed. Then he turned around to look at me.

"It was John?"

I nodded.

"I'm so sorry, Paul."

The muscle in his jaw tensed, and he looked just past my shoulder for a moment before refocusing on me.

"Was he... I dunno... stoned? Pissed? Something? Anything?"

I nodded, and Paul looked relieved as if perhaps his friend had betrayed him while off his face and then didn't remember what had happened. I debated letting him believe that for a moment, then decided this would never work if we had secrets this big.

"He came to Zaby a few months ago," I said softly. "To ask me why I hadn't told you."

Paul just stared at me as the words slowly sank in. Then he lay back on the bed, his head hitting the pillow as he stared at the ceiling. I could see his eyes blinking too quickly as if to prevent tears from falling. I wondered if telling him had been the right thing, and then realized that I would probably wonder that for the rest of my life.

"Fuck, Liss. Fuck."

"I'm so sorry," I repeated.

"Do the other lads know? ... Do you think Yoko knows?"

I shook my head. "I've no idea."

He rubbed the heel of his hand against his eyes. "Why would he do that?"

"I don't know," I said carefully because I'd asked myself the same question at least several times a day for over a year. I'd once asked Paul if he and John were in love, and, in a rare moment of honesty, he'd replied quite thoughtfully that no, they weren't, but it would make everything simultaneously easier and more difficult if they were.

We were silent for a long while until he turned on his side and cupped a hand on my cheek. "Thank you, Liss."

I shook my head. "I'm not sure you want to thank me... I've... I never wanted to tell you. I wasn't going to tell you. It seemed like it wasn't mine to tell."

He sighed. "You always do the right thing, Liss; it's bloody irritating sometimes."

"Are..." I trailed off for a moment. "Are you going to tell him that you know?"

He sighed again, this time so heavily that it vibrated through his entire body. At that moment, I realized I would forever question my decision to tell him. Had I just sacrificed his relationship with John so that Paul and I had a decent chance together?

"I..." he paused and sighed again, his fingers running up and down my arms until they stilled.

"I don't think I can."

Not knowing what else to do, I turned toward him and kissed him. We made love again slowly, his voice hoarse when he called out my name as he came.

John and Yoko appeared at the Magistrates' Court in Marylebone the next day. He pled guilty to possession of 200 grams of hashish, a cigarette rolling machine with traces of marijuana, and half a gram of morphine that he claimed was for medical use. He was fined £150, and Yoko was let off with a warning. They exited the courthouse amidst a small mob of reporters, all of whom swarmed around the couple. John put his arms around Yoko protectively, shouting at anyone who would listen that she needed space.

I watched it all on the telly; the fuzzy black-and-white images beamed into outer space and back to my house in Belgravia. Paul sat beside me, his arm thrown around my shoulder with an unreadable expression. We hadn't spoken again of what had transpired in the middle of the night, and I wasn't sure we ever would.

"I suppose the plan worked," he said. "Yoko stays, John pays."

"I suppose it did," I replied with a sigh. "How awful for them to be surrounded like that... she looked terrified."

"That's going to be us one day," Paul said half-jokingly.

"What, when we're arrested for all the drugs you have secreted away in my teapot?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He shook his head. "Nah, when we try to get married on the sly, and we're found out."

I shot him a look. "That's an odd way to propose."

He grinned and leaned over to press a kiss on my lips. "I'm not proposing, love. I've already done it once... twice, actually... maybe three times? Anyway, I've been advised by Maureen and Pattie that I should play hard to get, so like yeah, man, whatever."

"Have you been advised that?" I asked, bemused.

He nodded and gave me a wicked grin. "But mark my words; that'll be us one day."