November 1968
Alice

The captain's voice echoed through the first-class cabin as we began the final descent. Turbulence had forced the crew to suspend cabin service mid-way through the meal service, so everyone was grumpy and hungry. It hadn't bothered me since I'd been nauseous to eat anyway. It was called morning sickness, but perhaps a better term would be all-the-bloody-time sickness.

"The weather in London is cool and cloudy, currently 5 degrees Celsius."

The engine noise decreased, and there was a subtle thunk as the wing flaps extended. I remembered a passenger years ago who nervously announced that the captain should focus on flying the plane and not announcing the weather. Another more experienced stewardess interrupted to coolly explain that we would hardly trust our lives with someone who couldn't talk and fly simultaneously.

"Thank you for choosing Pan Am for your journey."

I had a vague notion of what awaited me at the airport, partly because I'd spent the past six hours poring through a stack of British tabloids, half of which had my face on the cover. And I'd had a brief, static-filled call with Paul from a phone box at the airport, during which he told me that the whole world had gone fucking mad. He couldn't say more because he was late for a Radio Luxembourg interview, but he promised to send someone to the airport to help.

"We look forward to landing shortly."

A clunk beneath the aircraft indicated that the landing gear had been deployed, which made it even more imminent that I was about to re-enter real life. Not easy, breezy San Francisco, where I could blurt out all my problems like a rookie debutante. No, I was back in London with all eyes on me. And I was very much in the family way.

I had no real plan about how to tell Paul. Should I blurt it out, just like I had with Theo? Wait for a good time? But there was never a good time for him. He was stuck doing all the publicity for The Beatles because George and Ringo had skipped town, and John was focused on promoting his own record. We hadn't spoken again about what I'd admitted about John, but I could tell it weighed on him. He hid it well, but his anxiety was there, hiding in the shadows.

No, it wasn't a good time to drop life-changing news on him.

Also, I wanted to sort out a plan for myself before I told anyone else. Zarby New York, was moving full speed ahead, and it was too late to stop it. I was expected to move there in a month, another fact I hadn't told Paul yet. It seemed too hasty to get married, mainly since we'd only managed to find our equilibrium as a couple.... But I also didn't know if I had the fortitude to face the world as an unwed mother.

Me, a mother. Me, a mother. It didn't make sense, and Theo's expression of raw pity and understanding was indelibly printed in my mind. Perhaps the fact that Paul had been born to be a dad would outweigh my general ineptitude when it came to that sort of thing.

The pilot barely stuck the landing, and I wondered if perhaps he couldn't talk and fly at the same time. With my stomach roiling, I collected my small suitcase from the overhead bin and walked onto the windy tarmac. Even from there, I could see that the arrivals hall was heaving with press.

Blimey.

I peeked inside the Ladies just before passport control. It was surprisingly empty, so I slipped in to collect myself. Leaning against the water basin, I took a deep breath to settle my stomach and glanced at the mirror. A gaunt, tired version of Alice Edwards stared back, my cheerful polka-dotted Marimekko coat no match for the dark circles under my eyes.

The door opened, and a frazzled-looking Pam Am stewardess entered, placing her standard-issue overnight case on the metal shelf by the door. She walked to the mirror and opened her purse, pulling out a tube of red lipstick and leaning forward to apply it. Without taking her eyes off her reflection, she spoke.

"Is all this commotion for you?"

She was American, very pretty, and vaguely familiar. Her tone oozed confidence, and I remembered the heady days of working for Pan Am when I felt fearless and full of moxie. Every destination was a new adventure, and life never felt too serious.

I straightened up and plastered on a weary smile. "I'm very much hoping they're all here for someone else. Is Elvis in town, by chance?"

My voice sounded uneven, and I wondered if I might be sick. My body was teetering between starvation and nausea, and I cursed myself for not stashing a few biscuits or cream crackers in my purse.

The stewardess offered a half-smile as she looked at my reflection in the mirror, eyeing me appraisingly.

"You look... peaked."

I nodded. "I'm a bit tired. Couldn't sleep on the flight."

"Who could with all the turbulence," she replied, rummaging around in her purse to produce a small compact. Leaning closer to the mirror, she dusted powder over her face until satisfied that the post-flight gleam was gone. Still looking at herself in the mirror, she spoke again.

"Paul McCartney, huh?"

After a brief pause, I nodded.

"Is he worth all this?" she asked, looking unimpressed at the thought of him.

I paused again, this time for longer. Not because I thought the question was too forward -- which it was, but also one I'd asked myself several times over the past three days -- but because I wasn't 100% sure of the answer.

"I hope so," I finally replied.

She leaned back and turned toward me, giving me a good once over. Muttering softly to herself, she rummaged through her purse until she produced a pair of oversized sunglasses, something like Jackie Onassis might wear. Wordlessly, she handed them to me.

"Oh, I couldn't," I said, slightly taken aback. "I've no way of returning them to you."

She shrugged and tossed her makeup back into her purse, picking up her Pan Am travel case. She was undoubtedly off to drinks at The Ritz or a late night with a stranger at Annabel's. God, I missed that life. It was unpredictable and wild, and yet totally predictable at the same time.

"The camera flashes will kill you, babe. Besides, you worked my first flight on Pan Am. Taught me how to sprinkle a bit of sugar in the vases so the roses wouldn't wilt so quickly. So I'm just, you know, returning the favor."

She offered a saucy wink and a sympathetic smile before flouncing out of the bathroom, leaving me alone again. I stared at the sunglasses briefly before carefully placing them over my eyes. They didn't look half-bad, and the camera flashes were awful, so I pushed them atop my head and headed to the queue for immigration.

As soon as I exited customs, I felt someone grab my arm.

"Just keep moving," a Liverpudlian voice said in my ear, and I looked up to see a very beleaguered-looking Mal. He wore thick black specs, and his beard was even bushier than before, making him look like a very tall mad professor. "The car's just outside."

It remained unsaid that "just outside" involved passing a large, overexcited horde of pressmen, all of whom would love it if I tripped or said the wrong thing.

"Is it as bad as it sounds?" I asked, wincing at the prospect of the roomful of people that I could hear but not see.

He nodded and scrubbed a hand over his face. "It's the same at Cavendish, except it's all angry girls."

We were about to turn the corner into the fray when an officious-looking security guard tapped my arm and wordlessly handed me a small piece of paper. He clasped his hands behind his back as he watched me read it and then crumpled it in my hand. I nodded to the guard, who slumped slightly in relief as if he'd been dreading telling his boss that I refused to comply with the request.

"Everything alright?" Mal asked with concern.

I nodded, even though everything was not alright.

It was a larger congregation of reporters and photographers than I'd ever seen before, and I felt a bit like John and Yoko must've felt on the steps of the courthouse. Not for the first time, I wondered how any of the fellows dealt with this regularly. Ringo had told me that there were several times during the early days when he'd actually feared for his safety. It wasn't normal, having the world so interested.

Mal walked beside me as we were both blinded by the flashes, and I worried that I'd trip and somehow disappear into the abyss. Even though I knew it would be double the circus if Paul were there, I still felt slightly abandoned. Everyone was shouting in my general direction, but I was focused on wordlessly reciting my reiki mantra and putting one foot in front of the other.

"Are you together again?" A reporter called, and I remembered what Theo and Ben had told me. It seemed like silly advice, but this whole situation was crackers, so what did I have to lose? Surely two Rolling Stones writers must have a pulse on what was groovy and what wasn't.

So I stopped short, causing Mal to almost run into me. A microphone was shoved into my face, and the shouting intensified, so excited they were that I might actually speak.

"Aren't you clever?" I asked, curving my lips into a cheeky half-smile and channeling the confidence of the stewardess in the loo. There was a brief pause as the men surrounding me processed what I'd said, during which I slipped the sunglasses over my eyes and moved forward.

We finally made it out of the airport and into the car idling at the curb. For a brief moment, I hoped that Paul was just inside and I could take refuge in a smile. Instead, I leaned my head against the glass and put a hand on my stomach, once again feeling like I might be sick.

"Are you alright?" Mal asked, looking even more concerned.

I nodded. "It was a turbulent flight."

"That was-- fucking hell, that was almost like when the boys arrived in America the first time."

I tried to focus on the cool glass against my cheek. It suddenly hit me that I hadn't slept more than a few hours in three days and hadn't eaten since the slice of pie from the Automat.

"'Aren't you clever,'" he said with a grin, sounding excited. "I didn't think it was possible to shut up those weasels, but you managed it for at least three seconds. Where'd you come up with that?"

I didn't reply, still putting my energy on not being sick all over the back of the car. We were nearly in London when I felt up to speak.

"Could you have the driver drop me in South Ken?" I asked, giving him the address. His eyes widened, but he complied, and we sat silently until we pulled up in front of the grand house and its carefully manicured lawn. Thankfully, there was no press, and I could hear the birds chirping.

I was halfway out the door when Mal called, "What should I tell Macca?"

I hesitated, running a hand through my fringe before I turned around to face him.

"Tell him that I hope he's worth it," I replied as I climbed out of the car and went to face my father.

**

The first thing I noticed as I entered my father's library was the rich, earthy scent of leather-bound books. It reminded me of my childhood, mostly because I'd spent a lot of time here perusing the bookcases that reached the frescoed ceiling. But also because it was an aroma that I associated with being in trouble, which I also spent a lot of time doing in my younger years.

My father was seated behind the colossal mahogany desk, one finger absentmindedly twirling his silver mustache. He wore a charcoal three-piece suit with a small enameled Union Jack pinned to his lapel, plus platinum cufflinks that the Queen Mother had given him long ago. He sat perfectly upright, a posture that told the world he wasn't to be trifled with.

"Alice."

"Dad," I replied, and he winced slightly. His scowl deepened as I threw myself in the supremely uncomfortable wooden chair in front of his desk in the most unladylike fashion I could muster.

He glared at me and, without breaking eye contact, picked up the morning edition of the Daily Mail. The bold-faced headline at the top wondered if the Prime Minister's anti-immigration bill would fail. Below was a smaller, yet still very attention-grabbing, headline: The Many Faces of Alice Edwards. There were two side-by-side photographs, one of me wearing a black Chanel dress and pearls at one of my sister-in-law's charity luncheons and another of me wearing a skimpy dress with an arm draped around Marianne Faithfull's neck.

"You're in all the bloody papers," he said. "Again."

"It's not as if I rang them up and gave them an exclusive," I offered wearily. "I was on another continent, minding my own business."

He scoffed and removed his wire-rimmed specs to rub his eyes, replacing them only to glare at me again. Despite my exhaustion, I fought the urge to wither under his gaze.

"Would you mind ringing for tea?" I mumbled. "I assume you know I've just walked off a flight from America... I'm a bit jet-lagged."

"Yes, well," he said, narrowing his eyes. "I would think you'd be used to that, given your previous... employment."

Not for the first time, he made it sound like being a stewardess was akin to being a prostitute. After a moment, though, he relented and pushed a buzzer on his desk, barking at a maid to bring tea. I slumped further in the chair, worried I might vomit all over the priceless Oriental carpet beneath me.

"Get ahold of yourself, Alice," he admonished. "Even with all this... nonsense... you're still an Edwards."

Begrudgingly, I pushed my back upwards until I sat properly, even crossing my ankles like a proper lady. We sat in silence until there was a light knock at the door, and one of the maids walked in with a small tray. She quickly prepared the two cups of tea, eyeing me curiously as she placed a small plate of biscuits between us on the desk. I smiled weakly and reached for one, nibbling on it.

My father watched this all imperviously before shaking his head like he couldn't believe he'd been given this lot in life. Why couldn't he have a normal daughter, one who was already married to a viscount, hosting lunches to raise money for the preservation of Honduran white bats, and pushing out babies left and right?

The good news was that I was about to fulfill one part of that equation.

The silence was about to become unbearable when he cleared his throat loudly and reached for a pristine copy of Melody Maker on his desk.

"'Long, Long, Long,'" he read. "'Not only does this aptly describe this paltry excuse for a song, but it could also have been the album's name. A single album would've been just fine, fellows!"

I took a cautious sip of my tea, unwilling to engage in a debate about the Beatles' songs.

"'Good Night,'" he continued, his expression still deadly serious. "'Cheers for the lullaby, boys, but I fell asleep 29 tracks ago.'"

"I had no idea you read Melody Maker, Dad," I said drily. "What do you think about the Turtles' new single? Do you fancy it or find it a bit too corny?"

He crumpled the newsprint and threw it toward the bin, narrowly missing it. Then he reached for a white record sleeve on his desk, which I quickly identified as the Beatles' latest record. He reached inside and unfolded a flimsy poster. He cleared his throat again for dramatic effect.

"Flew in from Miami Beach B.O.A.C.," he read in his deep voice. "Didn't get to bed last night."

Oh, fucking hell.

"I'm back in the U.S.S.R."

Was he... taking the piss? But he looked quite serious. I blinked and quickly tried to disassociate from the situation because, surely, I hadn't been summoned here to account for Paul's lyrics. Did he think I'd written them?

"You don't know how lucky you are, boy."

I slumped further into the chair and shoved a biscuit in my mouth, feeling ravenous but also like my body wanted to reject any form of nourishment.

"Back in the, back in the, back in the U.S.S.R."

He made it halfway through the song before I mustered the energy to sit up straighter. "It's meant to be satire," I explained. "Surely that's evident."

"Alice!" he said, slamming his palm onto the poster, probably mentally squashing the faces of all four Beatles. "Are you aware that the United Kingdom and most of the Western world are engaged in an ideological standoff with the U.S.S.R.?"

I paused to take a deep breath. "I am aware, yes."

"They're invading Czechoslovakia and Mr. McCartney--" he said Paul's name like one might refer to a cold-blooded sniper "--is talking about Moscow girls and comrades and balalaikas--"

My voice rose a decibel in an effort to be heard. "It's satire; he wrote it with Mike Love-- you know, of the Beach Boys. It's a groove, Dad. Have you never heard of the song, California Girls? This song is a play on that one."

His glare told me that, of course, he'd never bloody heard of California Girls. Or the Beach Boys.

"You cannot be publicly attached to a Communist, Alice!"

A wave of exhaustion threatened to overwhelm me as I watched him fumble for his gold pocket watch, which he opened and closed rapidly without realizing he was doing it. If there had been a settee in the office, I would have laid down to have a kip, but there wasn't, so I couldn't.

There was silence, and I realized that my father was staring at me, his expression making me feel like I was 16 and in trouble for snogging one of the stable boys.

"He's not...." I trailed off, not really believing this was happening. "He's not a Communist. He's--"

"He's a pop star."

From the way he said it, it was clear that being a pop star was perhaps worse than being a Communist, despite his ideological differences with the latter.

"Your mother--"

"Mum likes Paul," I interrupted.

"She likes him as a diversion," he said, nearly screeching. "We thought it was just a passing fancy, and surely you'd realize it was... whatever happened to Lord Dormer's son, by the way? Weren't you two friendly for a bit? He seems like a good chap, though I've heard he's moved to America, so no doubt he's a long-haired hippie just like the rest of them."

"He's a writer," I corrected. "For an up-and-coming magazine."

"Lord Carmichael's son is apparently available. His mother, the baroness of Kent, was telling your mother--"

A bout of nausea threatened to overtake me, and I placed a hand on the desk. "Dad--"

He snapped the pocket watch shut and placed it on the desk, leaning forward with both palms face down.

"Alice Louise," he said. "Is this really what you want to do with your life?"

I paused because his tone had changed, morphing from an accusatory "I fought the war for your sort!!" to an almost genuine curiosity about how I'd veered so far off track.

"Why do you want to be with this man?" he continued. "I truly don't understand. Is it a...." he trailed off and waved a hand in the air. "A sexual thing? Is that it?"

"Dad!" I said, mildly horrified.

We stared at each other for a moment before he continued.

"I simply don't understand, Alice. We may not see eye-to-eye on some things... how did you vote in the last election, by the way?"

"Labour."

"Bloody hell," he muttered. "Just because we don't see eye-to-eye on most things... I thought I raised you to have self-respect. But this? This?" He waved the crumpled tabloid in the air. "Where is the dignity in this?"

I couldn't reply because he was, for once, correct. There was no dignity in this aspect of being with Paul.

"Your grandmother helped you start a business. She was proud of it. Your mother and I are proud of what you've accomplished. We do wish it were a different sort of... aesthetic... but it's impressive, nonetheless.

This time I didn't reply because I was utterly gobsmacked.

"But if you have this following you around--" Again, he waved the tabloid in the air-- "I don't see how you'll ever be taken seriously... taken for who you are. You are Alice Edwards. Don't live in this man's shadow, Lissy."

Maybe it was the pregnancy hormones or the fatigue, but a wave of emotion washed over me, and I could feel tears streaming down my cheeks. My father instantly averted his eyes and reached for his handkerchief, which he handed to me blindly.

"He's a good man," I replied. He scoffed, still looking just over my shoulder like he worried that womanly emotions might be contagious.

"There are many good men, Alice," he said, more gently this time. "Surely you can find one who isn't one of the most famous people in the world."

Do you think I haven't tried? I wanted to scream. It all felt supremely unfair because it's not as if I went out looking for all this. I wasn't one of the girls standing outside of Paul's gate hoping that he'd notice me and we'd end up hitched. I'd been perfectly content with my life until he showed up and somehow demolished the walls I'd constructed to protect my heart.

And didn't Paul deserve happiness? Not the fame-and-fortune bit because he had plenty of that. But didn't he deserve a family and someone who loved him for himself, including his many flaws? He might be a conceited egomaniac, but he was my conceited egomaniac.

Still sniffling slightly, I sat up straighter and wiped a tear from my cheek.

"I'm sorry if it disappoints you, but I love Paul... even if it's wildly inconvenient at times."

He stared at me, unblinking for a moment. Then he began to blink rapidly and reached up to scrub a hand over his face.

"Bloody hell, Alice."

I wiped more tears off my face, finally feeling like I had the strength to do what I should have done in the first place.

"And I have to go home to him," I said, standing so quickly that I nearly knocked over the chair behind me. "I'll bring him for tea with you and Mum soon. Give him a chance. He's a good man, you'll see."

I was almost at the door when I hesitated momentarily and turned toward him. He sat motionless with the same expression as if frozen in time.

"And also, we're going to have a baby."

"Oh, bloody hell, Alice," I heard as I softly shut the door behind me.

**

I spent the entirety of the 25-minute taxi ride coming up with what I wanted to say to Paul. I decided I'd acknowledge that the timing wasn't ideal for either of us, but it hadn't been for most of our friends, and they seemed to have sorted out their lives. I desperately wished I could phone Cynthia or Teagan for advice, but I couldn't bear to tell anyone else before Paul knew.

As soon as we turned onto Paul's street, I could see that the crowd of girls outside the gate was nearly double its usual size. A few pressmen seemed to be standing amongst them. Where's the dignity in this? I asked myself, echoing my father's words. Quickly, I asked the taxi driver to go past No.7 and double back around to drop me off on Wellington Road. From there, I rang his neighbor's doorbell, an elderly gentleman who routinely rang up Paul, cursing up a storm about how he'd ruined the neighborhood.

By this point, I must've looked truly bedraggled because he didn't blink when I asked him if he could watch my suitcase while I climbed over his back wall. He nodded like it was a totally normal request and led me to his backdoor, which led to a slightly overgrown lawn and a stone wall that came up to my chest.

"You sure you can get over?" he asked. Before I knew it, he'd brought a dining room chair out and placed it by the wall.

"You don't do this for all the fans, do you?" I asked dubiously.

He shook his head. "No, but one of 'em climbed into his house two days ago. Watched them myself!"

My eyes widened. "They did what? How do you mean?"

"Up there," he said, pointing toward the second floor, roughly where the bathroom was located. "I saw 'em climbing on a ladder that I suppose was left out."

I inhaled deeply, and I hoisted myself onto the wall.

"Tell McCartney that he's brought down my property value by 25%!" he called as I caught myself at the top. But the sudden movement made me want to spew everywhere, which, in turn, made me lose my balance and tumble off the wall onto Paul's property.

Fucking hell. Where was the bloody dignity in any of this?

I was near Paul's geodesic dome when I heard a door open.

"Get the fuck out, or I'm calling the cops."

John's nasal voice echoed through the backyard, and I froze momentarily as if I was the guilty party. He stood at the French doors leading from Paul's living room, dressed in wrinkled trousers and a black t-shirt, his long hair looking slightly unwashed.

"I mean it, I'll fucking call the-- is that you, Viscountess?"

John and I stared at each other for a moment, and I was pretty confident that I had twigs in my hair from falling into the yard. After a beat, he burst out laughing.

"Well, come on in, then. Heard your arrival at the airport was like the Second Coming of Christ. Saw it on the news and everything. Aren't you clever?" He said the last bit in a very posh, very girly voice.

I desperately needed a bath and something to eat, but John propelled me into the living room, where a proper gathering was underway. The record player in the corner blared George Harrison's 'Wonderwall' while Paul played his acoustic on the sofa, strumming what sounded like a countryish version of The Kinks' 'Waterloo Sunset.' Chilly, chilly is the evening time-- Oh, sweetheart! Oh, darling! Various members of the London sat around the room, including Yoko, Barry Miles, Mick Jagger, and Peter Asher.

"Look what the cat dragged in," John drawled, leaning against the doorway. Paul looked up, and his fingers stopped strumming as he took me in.

Mick squinted at me, and I wondered what they'd taken. "Christ, are those leaves in your hair, Dutch?" he asked, his voice slightly slower and more mellow than usual.

"Liss!" Paul called over from the sofa, strumming a few chords like he was about to break into a theme song from a television programme. "How'd you get in, love? Didn't hear the buzzer."

"She climbed over the back wall," John chortled. "Funniest fucking thing I've ever seen, man."

Yoko smiled at me with a hint of worry as she looked me up and down. She wore all white, which emphasized the stark contrast with her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her hand rested lightly on her barely-concealed bump, which only served to remind me of the predicament I was in.

"Aren't yooooou clever!" Peter crowed. "Way to show 'em, Alice."

I stared down at my muddy shoes, thinking both that I might be sick and that the blokes from Rolling Stone knew what was what.

When I looked up, Paul had a concerned look on his face as he shoved the acoustic toward Mick, who picked it up and started playing an old Muddy Waters song. Paul reached me and leaned over to kiss my cheek as he put a hand on the small of my back to propel me into the kitchen. He shut the door behind us and pivoted to look at me. I studied his slightly dopey grin, which indicated that he'd smoked at least one spliff.

"Took you ages," he said, his brow knitted in concern. "You alright?"

I managed not to point out that he hadn't been too worried since he'd found the energy to invite all his mates over. But that was just Paul being Paul. No matter how shit he was feeling, he couldn't help but surround himself with others.

"You alright, Liss?" he asked when I didn't reply. "You look..."

"Peaked?" I asked.

He nodded. "Yeah, that's one way of putting it... you went to see your dad?"

A sob escaped my throat, and I threw myself into his arms, nearly knocking him over. "Hey, hey," he said softly. "What's happened? Is it about the airport? Mal said it was mental. I wanted to be there, Liss, but it would have been even worse, and--"

I shook my head, my nose rubbing against his textured shirt.

"Is it something your dad said?"

"No," I said, sniffling loudly. "I'm just... I'm so tired. I haven't slept in a few days, and... I think I just need to sleep."

He leaned back to cup the back of my head and look into my eyes. "Yeah? You're sure that's it?"

I nodded, wondering why I had thought today, of all days, would be a good time to tell him about the baby.

His eyes darted between mine with uncertainty. "Well, look... let me... let me get everyone out of here. We'll get some takeaway and--"

At the mention of food, a wave of nausea overtook me, and I ran to the nearest loo, which happened to be in full view of the living room. I bent over the toilet, retching violently because there was nothing much in my stomach to come up. Just bile and the rest of my dignity.

Just when I thought that perhaps I would expel vital organs, I felt a hand on my back. Another pulled my hair back from my face as I knelt on the floor and rested my head against the toilet seat, the cool enamel feeling marvelous against my flushed skin.

"Is she ill?" I heard Paul ask, though clearly from outside the bathroom. "Are you feeling ill, Liss?"

I twisted around to see Yoko behind me, her hand still rubbing up and down my back rhythmically, sympathy etched on her face.

"She's exhausted," Yoko told Paul as she helped me up. I was keenly aware that everyone in the living room was trying to pretend they hadn't noticed, though, of course, they fucking had. Mick was going on about a film he'd seen, while Miles was loudly asking totally unrelated questions, and Peter was making a show of bopping his head to Wonderwall, which wasn't an easy record to bop one's head to. Paul looked on helplessly as Yoko led me to the steps.

The climb to the second floor felt like it took ages, and I heard John make an off-color joke and Paul shush him. The bath was calling my name, but I was too shattered, so I half-heartedly stripped down to my bra and knickers, leaving my skirt, blouse, and tights in a heap on the floor. Climbing into the bed, I pulled the duvet over me and tried to find a position that made me feel less light-headed and shitty.

There was a knock on the door, and Yoko poked her head in.

"I brought you some toast," she said, walking in hesitantly. She set a small plate by the bed and then hesitated again. "The trick when you're... feeling poorly... is always having food with you. Even if it's just a biscuit, you must take tiny nibbles. That way, the nausea isn't as bad."

She gave me a look indicating that she had strong suspicions about my current state.

"Thank you," I said gratefully. Then, after a pause, "Please don't tell anyone."

Her brow furrowed. "Of course not."

But I couldn't imagine her not telling John; they seemed like the sort of couple that shared everything. This meant that now my ex-boyfriend, my father, John, and Yoko would know the news before Paul. What an utter cock-up this was turning out to be. How could I be a middling-to-decent mum when I couldn't even manage this bit?

"Please," I said, fighting another wave of nausea. Yoko broke off a small piece of the toast and handed it to me. "I haven't told Paul yet. I've just found out."

She nodded and watched me nibble the toast for a moment. When I looked up at her, I noticed that she looked much more knackered than usual, the lines around her mouth slightly more pronounced, like she'd been up for nights worrying.

"Are you alright?" I asked. "I haven't seen you two since...." I trailed off, not wanting to bring up the drug bust. "Since all the... trouble began... how are you coping?"

She shrugged one shoulder like raising the other took too much energy that she didn't have. "We do what we have to do, don't we?"

We stared at each other for a moment, both of us startling slightly when Paul burst into the room. Yoko quickly made her excuses and shut the door softly behind her.

"Are you feeling a bit better, Liss? Mal said the flight was turbulent."

I nodded. "There's always a strong jet stream over the Atlantic in winter. I was just so busy in Los Angeles that I forgot to eat properly, and I guess it just piled up."

He nodded like this made sense and sat on the bed beside me, brushing my fringe off my forehead. I closed my eyes at his touch, opening them again when there was a deafening shriek outside his gate. He stood and walked to the window, swearing softly. One of the girls must've seen him peering out, and the shouting intensified.

"Jesus Christ," he said. "I have enough shit going on, and now I'm practically held hostage in me own house."

I watched him in profile as he stared out the window, a hand running through his hair. He turned to look at me, and his gaze softened. I heard the strain of The Zombie's 'A Rose for Emily' playing from downstairs, complete with John singing in falsetto.

"Should we go on holiday, do you think?" he asked, looking at me hopefully. "I have a break in December."

I knew he'd been through the wringer the past few months, spending days in the studio producing Mary Hopkin's record and nights recording The Beatles. I'd heard an interview with him on the radio in San Francisco, and half the questions had been related to John and Yoko's relationship or their legal issues. There was no way he was coping well with any of this.

I turned my head, staring at the ceiling, my eyes watering again.

"I wish I could," I whispered. "I'm swamped with work... the New York store and all."

He walked back over to the side of the bed and offered a small smile. "Maybe a long weekend, then."

I nodded, nausea once again threatening to overtake me. Was this how the patriarchy survived for so long? All it took to knock down a woman was to knock her up, then suddenly, she didn't have the energy to even think, much less do anything of importance. When I looked back, he was rubbing his collarbone like he was slightly agitated.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Oh--" he looked down like he forgot I was there. "It's just-- everything is bloody crackers, isn't it? And John wants some help recording a song at the studio... they booked time tonight, but it didn't occur to them that they don't have a drummer."

He trailed off and looked at me meaningfully. "But of course, I told them I can't join because you've just returned from your trip."

"You should go," I said, waving my hand in the air. "I just need to sleep, love."

He looked relieved. "So you won't mind, then?"

I shook my head, part of me happy that I was being left in silence and the other part annoyed that he didn't tell everyone to fuck off. He leaned over and pressed a kiss on my forehead.

"Get some sleep, Lissy... we'll sort this all out in the morning, yeah? When you're feeling better."

There was another loud shriek from outside the gate, prompting John to open the window and shout, "about fucking time!" Paul muttered a curse and ran a hand through his hair.

I heard Paul and his entourage leave, the girls at the gate losing their shit at the proximity of Paul, John, and Mick bloody Jagger. I wondered how Miles and Peter handled the situation. Were they relieved that this nonsense didn't follow them around, or did they feel like nobodies? It took a good fifteen minutes for the girls to collect themselves and chatter at a normal level, at which point I could finally have another bite of the toast and drift off to sleep.

Hours later, the girls again lost their minds when Paul arrived home. I was already half-awake when I heard him climbing the stairs and fully awake when he opened the bedroom door with such force that the door hit the wall, most likely denting the plaster.

"Are you alright?" I asked, sitting up and reflexively covering my torso with the duvet. "Is everything alright?"

Paul didn't say anything; he just walked to the other side of the room and began to disrobe. I watched his silhouette in the light of the streetlights outside as he angrily shoved his clothes into a crumpled pile on the floor, something he never did. When he was finally clad in pants and a ratty Small Faces t-shirt, he looked at me.

"I ran into a girl from your shop," he said.

I furrowed my brow in confusion. "At the studio?"

He shook his head like I was missing the point. "No, of course not; we went to The Flamingo for a drink afterward."

"Which girl?"

"The one with..." he put his hands above his head and motioned upwards to indicate a lot of hair. "The ginger one."

"Oh..." I said, wondering if he was high, or drunk, or both. "Priscilla?"

He snapped his fingers. "Yeah, that's the one. Priscilla. Turns out she quite fancies Mike d'Abo... who knew, right?"

I didn't reply as he began to pace around the room restlessly. He reminded me of a caged lion, like all his creative energy needed an outlet but had nowhere to go.

"How was the studio?" I asked.

"So, Priscilla--" he ignored my question and kept pacing. "She's a real blabbermouth, isn't she? She was all over Mike and couldn't stop talking about how excited she was to move to New York for a few months."

My heart sank, and I clutched the duvet tighter.

Paul stopped at the foot of the bed. "Yeah, she said that she and four other girls are being sent to staff the new store for the launch... and she also mentioned that my fucking girlfriend is also moving there for a few months. Which is bloody daft since surely, if that were the case, my girlfriend would have said something."

I sighed wearily, thankful that at least my stomach had settled while I slept.

"Paul--"

"Just fucking crackers, right, Liss? Because if you were moving 3,500 miles away for four fucking months, you would've fucking told me, right?"

I scrubbed a hand over my face. "I'm going to try to reduce it to two months," I said. "Suzie said she can--"

"Two months? Two goddamn months? When were you going to tell me-- the day you flew out? Jesus fucking Christ, Alice."

I lay back on the bed, my head hitting the pillow with an audible thump. "It's not like that, Paul. Everything is in flux, there are a million variables, nothing is set in...."

I trailed off as he sat on the edge of the bed facing away from me. From below, I could hear the chatter of a few girls, and I wondered if they would ever just go the fuck home. I mean, really. Why bother standing there all night? Where was the bloody dignity in that?

His shoulders were slumped like he'd been given one blow too many, and his jolly facade had been ripped away. Slowly, I untangled myself from the sheets and inched toward him, wrapping my arms around his neck. He stiffened and didn't lean into me the way he usually would.

"I should have told you," I said. "I'm sorry."

"How long have you known?" he asked. "You've been plotting this with your team for ages, haven't you"

I rested my forehead against his back. "Love, surely you knew I'd have to spend time there...."

"Not four fucking months," he interrupted. "Fucking hell, Liss."

Do not live in this man's shadow. My father's words echoed in my mind, and I slumped against Paul, too exhausted to properly row. I knew that the obvious course of action was to once again ask if he'd consult with me if the Beatles decided to tour again -- which I could just tell he was itching to do -- or if they'd make the decision behind closed doors and then casually inform the womenfolk.

But I just didn't have the energy.

"I'm pregnant."

I said the words against his back, and they were so muffled that he easily could have misunderstood me. There was a long silence before his shoulder slumped even further down.

"How long have you known?" he asked, his voice low.

"Just a few days," I whispered, tightening my arms around him and willing him not to push me away because I couldn't bear it.

"That's what the.... Was about? Earlier?"

I nodded, my forehead dragging against the fabric of his t-shirt. "I haven't been able to keep down food in a week."

There was a long silence during which neither of us moved. Then, softly, Paul muttered, "fuck."

"I know it's shit timing," I said. "It's really the worst--"

He twisted around to face me, and I was surprised to see the beginnings of a smile on his face. "You're serious? We're having a baby?"

I nodded, worried that I might be unable to hold off the tears much longer. "We'll figure it out, yeah? It'll--"

He tackled me with a boyish whoop, his face buried in the crook of my neck. After a moment, he pulled back to stare at me, and I could see all the emotions in his eyes: surprise, excitement, and a healthy dose of trepidation.

"You're serious?" he asked, and I nodded again.

"Oh, fucking hell, Liss," he said, sounding gleeful. "This'll be brilliant, love. You'll be brilliant."

I turned my head toward the window, unable to meet his eyes. "I'm not certain of that."

Carefully, he turned my face back to meet his eyes. "Well, I am. You'll be brilliant. We'll be brilliant."

I reached out to cup his cheek. "I know it'll be a ... change. A big change. Lots will have to change."

"Oh, Lissy," he said, staring down at me with a look I'd never seen before. "We'll sort it all out, love. Just like everyone else does."

Before I could reply, he'd jumped up and walked over to the window. He struggled with the sticky frame for a moment before it opened, and he stuck his head out.

"It's going to be fucking brilliant!" he called to the girls, eliciting a few exciting shrieks. The cold air rushed into the room, causing goosebumps to erupt on my arms as he grabbed the acoustic next to the bed and pulled up a chair to the open window.

"What're you doing?" I asked for a laugh as he picked up the guitar and placed his index finger on the 2nd fret of the A string and his middle fingers on the 3rd fret of the low E string. He began to play, leaning his head out the window.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

The girls below squealed -- Paul McCartney was serenading them! -- and began to sing along.

I watched him for a moment, marveling at the fact that he'd created this song out of nothing and wondering if he'd ever looked more beautiful than at this moment. After a few verses, I quickly shrugged on a dressing gown and went to stand next to him in the window.

Without missing a beat, he wrapped his free arm around my waist as I stood beside him. The girls below were swaying back and forth as they sang along, some with eyes closed. One of them spotted me and called my name.

"It's going to be brilliant," Paul said to me in a low voice before he began to play an extended bridge, improvising lyrics as he went along. I leaned against him, feeling myself caught up in the magic of him. Suddenly, none of it seemed as insane as it had a few hours prior. In fact, despite myself... and knowing that I'd feel very differently in the morning... this all had a certain dignity to it.

"It'll be brilliant," I whispered, staring out into the night.