December 1968
Paul

I'd been the only one of the Beatles to show up the day Neil doled out the offices at the new Apple headquarters, so, naturally, I'd claimed the largest for myself. It faced the street and had lots of natural light. I'd tacked up an oversized 1957 Buddy Holly tour poster, next to which John had drawn a doodle directly on the wall of a man placing a daisy on a record player. At some point, someone had also pasted up a wrinkled advert for a gig in '62, where we received sixth billing as, erroneously, The Peatles.

Ever since the summer, I'd tried to come into the office for several hours each day. It was only a 20-minute bus ride from St. John's Wood, and I managed to stay under the radar most days. It all felt quite officious, sitting behind the enormous oak desk and reading various bits of correspondence and listening to demos. Alice delighted in making a fuss as I got dressed each morning, asking if she should pack me a boxed lunch and wishing me luck in the coal mines.

When I arrived that day in early December, a small white memo was sitting in the middle of my desk next to a large sack of fan mail. From:  George Harrison. To: Everyone at Apple. My first question was how George had made this memo happen: had he rung up Neil from America and dictated it? My second question was why he'd invited the Hells Angels to crash at Apple and why he thought it necessary to warn us that we "mustn't let them take control."

I was puzzling over all this when there was a knock on the partially open door, which swung open to reveal Ringo. He looked beyond groovy in a brown-and-white polka dot shirt with a loose bow tied near his neck. His trousers were the same shade of brown with thin red stripes that matched the laces in his leather shoes.

"What's up, cats and kittens?" he drawled as he leaned against the doorframe and offered a lopsided smirk. There was something very calming about Ringo, which I appreciated now more than ever. He had a way of slowing everything around him. Not laziness, mind you, just the aura of someone for whom this was just a day job, and he could happily give it up at any time.

In other words, the opposite of me, whose thoughts never stopped and who was having a minor meltdown over the possibility that all this may just fizzle out.

"Alright? Didn't know you were in today." I said as he walked over and clapped me on the shoulder. I hadn't seen him in what felt like ages since the four of us had gone our separate ways after finishing up The Beatles.

He leaned his thigh against the side of my desk and fiddled with the cuff of his shirt.

"Oh, just topped by to grab some things... can you believe this bloody memo about the motorcyclists? What is this, a hostel!? Oh, and Derek said to stop by so he can show us...."

There was another knock on the door, and we both looked over to see Debbie standing at the entrance. She was a real looker and a genius with hysterical girls, which was why Neil had hired her to man the reception desk at the entrance.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said sweetly. I had a hunch that she had a crush on Ringo, though I'd bet everything I had that she'd never let any of us take her out.

I waved the memo in the air and motioned for her to come in. "What's this about? George has really invited them here? Here here?"

She shrugged. "I know what you know."

"It's not a bloody hotel!" I frowned.

"Maybe American has gone to his head," Ringo pointed out. "It has a way of doing that."

"Has he lost his marbles, inviting a bunch of--" I was ready to go on a full-on rant when the chatter from the girls outside escalated slightly, and I looked toward the window.

It's not bloody fair! How can he go in if we can't? We're fans, too, aren't we? PAUL! I know you're in there!

"What's going on?" I asked, standing to peer out to see a dozen girls ages 15 - 25 standing at the entrance of the building. Ringo came to stand next to me, our shoulders nearly touching as we surveyed the crowd below.

"Is that....?" He leaned forward so that his forehead touched the glass. "Are they hitting someone with their purses?"

Debbie cleared her throat, sounding slightly embarrassed. "That's why I'm here; it seems that--"

From outside: "I bloody know him, you tossers!"

I stilled. Hayes. He bandied about the swear words more confidently than he had a few months before, but his voice wavered slightly like he'd been rapped on the knuckles by a posh schoolmaster for using them.

But why would he be...?

"Is that...?" I squinted toward the pavement, but the girls had formed a circle and were heckling the dark-haired teenager.

"There's a lad outside who says he knows you." Debbie trailed off for a moment. "I asked him to prove it, and he said to tell you to stop writing songs in A flat because the world doesn't need any more."

I swore under my breath and ran a hand through my hair, wondering how much trouble I'd be with Alice if Debbie went down and said I was out to lunch. Except it was only half-ten, and every girl down there had seen me arrive. Plus, she'd made me promise that I'd look after Hayes if he showed up in her absence.

"Yeah, great," I said lightly, tapping the heel of my palm against my forehead. "Bloody great. Bring him up, will you?"

Debbie nodded and turned toward the stairs as I turned to look out the window. I could see the edge of the door opening, followed by all the girls swiveling their heads in unison to see who emerged.

"I told you! I bloody told you!" Hayes thundered like a great wrong had been vindicated. There was a collective groan, and I heard the front door shut below.

"Who's your visitor?" Ringo asked as we resumed our original positions of me sitting behind the desk and him leaning against the corner.

I spun around in the chair, wondering if it was too late to do a runner. I was knackered and didn't have the energy to deal with Hayes' bollocks.

"He's... well-- you'll see soon enough."

He nodded as if this was just how he'd planned to spend the day, and I once again reflected on how much I bloody appreciated him.

As we waited, he leaned closer and lowered his voice. "Have you heard from John?"

I shook my head, and we shared a long look. John hadn't been quite right since Yoko had lost the baby two weeks before. It was fucking tragic, really, and my heart hurt for them both. The last time I'd seen him, he'd been druggier than usual and emanated a sort of hostile lethargy. Not for the first time, I wondered if he was on the precipice of something not great, and I knew that, for the first time in a decade, it couldn't be me who pulled him out of it.

Before I could reply, Hayes was at the doorway, and all the secretaries outside were craning their necks to see who he was. The boy gave me and Ringo a careful once-over and then walked in.

"Hayes," I said from my perch in the seat, trying my very best to sound jolly. "This is a surprise. How are ya, mate?"

He didn't respond, just nodding solemnly like he had every right to show up at my place of work. He wore a navy peacoat and perfectly creased trousers, looking like he'd just stepped off a country estate, which he probably had. This little bugger had a knack for showing up anytime it would make my life more difficult, and today was one of those days.

Ringo looked between me and Hayes before taking a step forward and offering a hand and a friendly smile.

"Howdy," he said. "I'm Ringo."

Hayes looked at the drummer with curiosity before shaking his hand perfunctorily. He then turned to me and grimaced slightly.

"What's on your face?"

I frowned and reached up to stroke my overgrown stubble, a look I was trying out while Alice wasn't there to argue. "It's a beard, Hayes. Have you never seen facial hair on a man?"

He nodded. "I have. Just nothing as tedious as this."

"Well-- it's still growing, isn't it?" I said, rolling my eyes. "There's always an awkward phase, y'know, between the stubble and then the full beard and, well, why am I even bothering to explain it to you? You'll just take the piss anyway."

"I'd never do that," he replied innocently. His blue eyes were guileless, and he looked bizarrely angelic. I prayed that Ringo had the good sense to look beyond the surface and see the overly critical, highly un-fun kid lurking beneath.

"You're thinking something incredibly offensive about both my beard and one of my records!" I said accusingly as Ringo watched us like one would watch a tennis match, his head moving back and forth between us.

"No one would ever dream of comparing your scrawny facial hair to your overblown, waterlogged, too-lazy-to-think-of-a-title album!"

Hayes sounded remarkably self-assured considering he was a teenage boy talking to a goddamn Beatle in front of yet another Beatle. Two Beatles, and this little fucker was taking the piss!

Ringo coughed in a way that sounded suspiciously like he was trying to mask a laugh. But he quickly straightened and looked at me.

"So, er, how do you two know each other? Meet at the clubs?"

"He's Alice's..." I scrubbed a hand over my face, suddenly wishing I hadn't come to the office. "They're related somehow. Or not... I'm not sure, really; it's never been properly explained. But yeah, it's all to do with Alice."

Alice wasn't here because she was in bloody New York City for six weeks. Six weeks. Alice who had announced that she was pregnant and then done a runner a week later, not even giving me time to process it. We'd tacitly agreed to sort of ignore the pregnancy for a while until things calmed down. It had made sense before she left, but being on my own was making me a bit crackers, especially since Apple was about to be overtaken by Hells Angels.

"How is Alice?" Ringo asked in a way that made it clear that he knew the big news even though we hadn't told anyone. But Yoko had somehow figured it out, which meant John knew. He'd let it slip to George, who had told Pattie, who had told Derek's wife, who had told Maureen, who had apparently told Ritch.

"Good, yeah, she's good," I said, even though I wasn't entirely sure since the telephone operator at her hotel couldn't properly place an international call. "She's in New York... opening the new shop, y'know."

"Alice has a bun in the oven," Hayes said matter-of-factly. It was startling not only because I'd momentarily forgotten he was there, but also because it was 1968, man, and people didn't casually talk about a woman's delicate condition.

"She's eating for two," Hayes said, louder this time, like we hadn't reacted appropriately.

"Yeah, well," Ringo said, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know how it goes, mate."

"She's up the duff," he said even more loudly this time, causing me to swivel my head toward the main room where all the girls were typing away and chattering amongst themselves.

"Hayes!" I half-shouted before turning to Ringo to flash an apologetic smile. "Sorry... he's... an old soul."

Turning back to Hayes, I lowered my voice. "Christ, man. Isn't your lot meant to have more decorum? I don't need the entire world knowing me business."

"What?" he asked, again managing to look deceptively innocent.

"You swear all the time. I've heard it."

"Aye, but he's a pop star," Ringo pointed out.

I nodded vigorously. "That's right. I'm a pop star. And an adult. You're a 15-year-old pipsqueak, and you don't need to go around--"

"And I heard Uncle Eddie talking about it over dinner a few weeks ago," Hates continued unabashedly. "He used all those words to describe Auntie Alice, so why can't I? You're telling me that I can't use the same vocabulary as the Prime Minister of England?"

This time, Ringo couldn't hide the laughter, so instead turned toward the window as if I couldn't hear him chuckling traitorously.

I ran a hand through my hair, knowing it was probably sticking up a million different ways. Staring up at the ceiling, I slowly counted to 10 and then slowly leveled my gaze at Hayes, feeling my lips curl up in the beginnings of a smirk.

"You really call him Uncle Eddie?"

Hayes nodded. "Of course I do. What else would I call him?"

I shrugged. Alice's mum had asked me several times to call him Edwin, but I just couldn't manage it. It would be Lord Edwards forever, even if we were on the best of terms one day.

Hayes narrowed his eyes. "It's only you that he dislikes, Paul. He thinks I'm a delight. Told me over dinner that he always wanted a son like me."

"He has a son already!" I exclaimed, hoping that Clive hadn't been at the aforementioned dinner table.

"Not like me, mate," Hayes said, and I slumped over in defeat. I didn't have time for this nonsense.

Behind me, Ringo's laugh was a little louder, and I swear I could see his shoulders heaving in my periphery.

"Okay," I said, standing and reaching to grab Hayes' arm. "Ritch, it was great to see you, man; let's do a thing soon; I'm just gonna take this little ray of sunshine back to wherever he came from and --"

Ringo turned around with a broad smile on his face. "Right, yeah, Derek wanted us to pop by for a mo before you go. Something about a cassette thing... a video? -- oh, and he has some new singles from America."

Next to me, Hayes' face brightened. "New singles from America?"

Ringo nodded. "You into music, then? Well, let's go get you sorted."

I watched as Ringo threw his arm around Hayes' shoulder, guiding him toward Derek's office. There was no doubt in my mind that if I dared to get that matey with him, he'd poison my tea. But there he was with Ringo looking like they were long-lost pals and chatting about Tom Jones.

"Griff!" I hissed as I hurried to catch up with them. He turned toward me and stopped as Ringo continued into Derek's office. When we were standing face to face, I gestured wildly in the air, and he looked at me questioningly.

"What?"

"What do you mean, what? What're you doing here, Griff?"

"I've asked you not to call me that."

"Fine," I said, once again rolling my eyes. "What're you doing here, Hayes?"

"I told you," he said like I was missing something obvious. "Auntie Alice said I could stop by if things got awful."

I ran a hand through my hair. "What does that mean when things get awful? You're a 15-year-old who goes to a posh school and rides ponies on the weekends, and you have what is a seemingly unlimited budget for new records since you know every bloody one of them. How awful could it possibly be?!"

Hayes' eyes dimmed, and I immediately felt a twinge of guilt. Alice never specified why Hayes was so miserable at home, but I got the feeling that he was a fish out of water when it came to his family. And if they were anything like Alice's family, I suppose I could be a bit more understanding.

"Yeah, well, you can stay for a bit," I said, feeling my expression soften. His face brightened for a moment, and then, as if he realized he emoted in my presence, the familiar stony look returned.

Behind us, I heard the strains of a song emanating from Derek's office. Why do you build me up, buttercup, just to let me down?

Hayes stilled for a moment before rushing into the office. "Is this The Foundations?"

"'Tis indeed," Derek replied as I appeared at the door. He looked particularly jolly and apparently unperturbed that a teenager was running loose in Apple. "Just got it from America."

I debated asking Derek to turn me on, then decided that Alice would chop off my knob if I got high in front of Hayes. Then I wondered if I could sneak into the loo and have a smoke while they listened to the record, but who could possibly enjoy being high whilst in the company of Hayes Griffith? One had to stay on one's guard at all times.

Instead, I walked over to the record player and peered down at the yellow label in the center of the disc spinning round and round, making it impossible to read the tiny text.

"Is this Colin Young singing?" I asked.

Hayes made a loud scoffing sound, causing all three adults to turn toward him. "This would've been better with Clem Curtis," he said, referring to the ex-lead vocalist of The Foundations, who had left the band several months before.

"It's a brilliant song!" I replied, humming along. "Bloody brilliant."

"I suppose," Hayes said.

I wagged a finger at him. "You know what your problem is? You only listen to music to tear it apart. Music is meant to be enjoyed, Hayes; it's not a puzzle to be solved. Not everything has to be so complicated."

He shrugged. "I just wish it were a brighter turquoise... with Clem Curtis singing, it wouldn't be this murky."

"Turquoise?" Derek asked, looking at me quizzically.

I ran a hand through my hair again, feeling weary. "He sees colors when he listens to music. Like floating in the air or whatever."

Ringo turned to Hayes. "You see colors floating in the air?"

Hayes nodded, looking totally nonplussed like it was an everyday thing.

"That's fucking brilliant," Derek murmured, looking slightly chagrined for using language like that in front of a child. Little did he know that he was in the presence of a burgeoning hooligan.

"Can you really?" Ringo asked, and Hayed nodded. "Go on, then... what color is 'Move it on Over'? ... Though I suppose Hank Williams is a bit before your time."

Hayes bristled. "Of course, I know Hank Williams. That song is lilac with traces of dark grey."

"How about 'I Wanna Be Your Man'?" Derek asked. "I presume if you know Hank Williams, then you know the Rolling Stones... though no offense, mate, but you look like the Staffordshire Chamber Choir would be more your thing."

"Orange with a hint of jaundiced yellow," Hayes replied through gritted teeth.

"I wrote that song, you know," I muttered to no one in particular, causing Hayes to turn toward me.

"Yes, Paul, hence the jaundiced yellow," he replied coolly, causing Derek and Ringo to blink and hold back guffaws. There was a long pause as we all avoided eye contact until, finally, Derek broke the silence.

"Who are you?!"

"I'm Hayes Griffith. Who're you?"

Derek started to laugh and clapped a hand on Hayes' back, causing him to jump slightly. "Derek Taylor, man... Purveyor of Good Vibes... Keeper-Up of the Mood... and Apple Press Officer... speaking of which, Paul, I wanted to show you this...."

He trailed off, walking across his office to a television in the corner with a large white metal contraption attached to the top. He fiddled with a few buttons on the top, and a fuzzy image appeared on the screen. Two men in matching burgundy suits were talking to the camera. The audio was shit, so we couldn't hear what they said, but a moment later, George appeared on stage next to them.

"What's this?" Ringo asked.

"What's that thing?" I asked, pointing to the contraption on the telly.

"A U-Matic," he replied to me and then turned to Ringo. "The Smothers Brothers... it's an American comedy show... I can't figure out the sound on this thing, though."

We watched George talk silently to the camera, looking groovy in a frilly shirt and a leather jacket. The last time I'd seen him was right before he left for America, at a meeting when we decided that we'd make a film once he returned. The idea was that we'd get a crew in the studio to film us rehearsing some songs and then, at the end, perform them at some sort of concert. No one was too keen on the idea, but I finally convinced everyone that it would be a groove. I wasn't entirely convinced myself, but I knew we needed something to keep up the momentum, or else we'd fall apart.

"How much did it cost?" I asked Derek, nodding at the U-Max. He groaned good-naturedly and said something about having to spend money to make money, even though I'd told him just last week to stop spending so much bloody money. Apple was like a goddamn money trap, and I wanted to be able to feed and clothe my unborn child.

Hayes stared at the image for a moment, then tilted his head. "George doesn't look comfortable up there by himself."

I shook my head slightly. "What're you on about? He looks perfectly comfortable. You think this is his first time in front of a camera?"

Hayes gave me a withering look, and I scrubbed a hand over my face before turning to Derek and Ringo. "Look, yeah, I've gotta... well, we've gotta split... can't have this adorable little fellow running all over Apple, can we!?"

Ringo and Derek were still watching George on the screen, even though it was impossible to know what was happening without the sound. After a moment, Derek blinked and looked at me.

"Right, okay," he said. "But-- hey, did you talk to Glyn?"

I nodded. "Yeah... took me 20 minutes to convince him it wasn't Mick phoning him to take the piss, but yeah, I talked to him."

Ringo looked over with interest. "Is he in?"

I nodded again. "Seemed like it... Neil's meant to be sorting out the details. And I rang Michael Lindsay-Hoggs, but then my phone was on the blink for a few days, so I dunno if he rang me back...."

I trailed off, aware that Hayes was staring at me like I'd announced the second coming of Christ.

"What?" I asked.

He blinked. "Are you talking about Glyn Johns?"

I nodded. "Yeah. So?"

"The Glyn Johns?"

It was not lost on me the irony of the situation, considering that Hayes treated me with barely-contained indifference while he was practically having a wank at the idea of the Rolling Stones' producer.

"Yeah, The Glyn Johns," I replied in a girly voice and a little wag of my head. "He's going to help us with a record."

Hayes thought about it for a moment and then nodded. "Oh... well, perhaps this one won't be a dud like all the rest."

It took another 20 minutes to get Hayes out of Derek's office and situated in front of a record player in John's empty office. The secretary outside the door was given strict instructions not to let him leave the room. I collapsed on a well-worn leather settee in Ringo's office and happily accepted his half-smoked spliff.

"What the fuck was all that," I groaned, and Ringo murmured something in agreement, though I secretly believed that he quite liked Hayes.

We passed the joint back and forth a few times in silence, listening to Hayes shouting in the background occasionally. It's called syncopation, you nitwits! Oh, well, that's bloody lovely, isn't it!

"You know, the first time I met him," I said, exhaling a plume of smoke. "I had my acoustic nearby, and he made a big show of pretending like he didn't know we played our own instruments. Like, 'Oh, do you know how to play that, Paul? Really play it?'"

Ringo chuckled as he leaned forward for the joint. "What, like we're the Monkees?"

"Yeah, I suppose... fucking hell, man. But Alice has a real soft spot for him... You know how she's just always so...."

"Cool," Ringo supplied, and I nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, like nothing can fluster her... well, you should see her with him. It's like some sort of maternal something comes out... like it's almost like she might bake a cake or something--"

"Alice can cook?"

I shook my head. "Not unless you count toast."

He chuckled and took a long drag. "Do you remember the hotel in... where was in... somewhere near the sea... must've been one of the tours in '63."

"The one with the girls who showed up and... well, y'know."

He smirked. "Yeah, that's the one. I ordered toast the next morning-- just toast, mind you, nothing fancy. And they ruined it. They bloody ruined it."

I lay back on the settee and stared up at the ceiling. "How do you ruin toast?"

"I've no bloody idea."

We sat in companionable silence for a long time listening to the click-clacking of the typewriters in the main room. Hayes was silent, which meant he must've gotten to the stack of Japanese import records.

"So... you and Alice, eh?" Ringo said. I lifted my head, raising an eyebrow because he rarely asked personal questions.

I let my head fall back onto the leather cushion. "Yeah, man.... Me, Alice, and Baby McCartney... it feels a bit weird, you know? I mean, I always pictured myself being a dad, but like... fuck, I'm gonna be a dad."

"Are you two going to tie the knot, then?"

I shrugged and lifted my legs onto the back of the couch, unconsciously mimicking the position I'd seen John in so many times. I knew he knew the news, but we hadn't spoken of it given the awful circumstances He and Yoko were in. It almost felt wrong to be happy about the pregnancy at a time like that. Every time I felt a twinge of joy, I quickly squashed it in case I was jinxing something.

"Dunno, really... We haven't talked about it. I mean, we have, obviously, but not really. Not in any certain terms. Though I think her dad might chop off me knob if we don't."

Alice and I had visited her parents for tea, and she'd made a big show of telling them the news. Her father already knew, of fucking course, so then he had to make a big show of reacting so that her mum wouldn't get suspicious. He'd called me a charlatan and proclaimed that perhaps the Edwards genes would outweigh the McCartney indecisiveness, whatever the fuck that meant. After a stern talking-to about the evils of Communism, we were sent on our way and hadn't discussed it since.

"Alice must be chuffed," Ring said, his intonation rising slightly at the end like it was a question but not one he would ask directly.

I shrugged. "I think she's in shock."

He nodded. "That's to be expected, I suppose. It's a big change, I suppose."

I watched as he ground out the last bit of the spliff into the ashtray. He leaned back in his chair as I fumbled for a cigarette and lit it.

"Alice says that cigarettes muck up our chakras," I said, staring at the plume of smoke rising to the ceiling. "But I don't know anyone who doesn't smoke, so... are we all walking around with disjointed chakras? Surely the Maharishi would have noticed and said something about it?"

Ringo shrugged and slumped further into his chair. "Right before he charged us 50 quid to fix 'em."

I snorted back a laugh. "Don't let George hear you say that, man. Liss apparently said something disparaging about him to Pattie, and things haven't been the same since."

Ringo opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by a burst of shouting from John's office.

"Christ," I said, sitting up and quickly mashing the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray. "Hayes must've gotten to the Swedish imports."

I managed to separate Hayes from the record player and frogmarched him through Apple, nodding cheerfully to all the secretaries as we passed. The 17-year-old tea girl spotted us coming and flattened herself against the wall like I was the Queen of England, and she offered Hayes a sympathetic look.

"Why does everyone look frightened of you?" Hayes muttered as we walked down the stairs towards the front door. "What, are you the despot of Apple?"

I flashed a smile at Debbie as we passed the reception desk, motioning for her to sort out a taxi. The doorman, Jimmie, opened the door as we walked into the afternoon light.

"No one's frightened of me," I said, raising my voice slightly to be heard over the girls. "I'm a breath of fresh air."

The Apple Scruffs started to chatter loudly as we walked out the door, and I put on my Beatle smile, really turning on the charm to prove Hayes wrong. A photograph? Of course, we can take a photograph! Take five if you'd like, love. I'm a delight!

Just as I was getting tired of putting on a show, the taxi pulled up, and the driver looked at us expectantly. I offered the girls one last enthusiastic thumbs up before throwing myself into the taxi and pulling Hayes with me. The driver asked us where we were off to, and I looked at the sullen boy next to me.

"Well? Where are you off to?"

He looked at me blankly as if he hadn't considered that it was time to part ways. Which I didn't get, really, because he seemed to find me profoundly boring and borderline square. If I was such a drag, then why was he hanging around? Didn't he have friends he could crash with? Well, I suppose not, since his one friend seemed to be a 25-year-old half-relative currently residing in New York City.

"Fucking hell," I muttered before leaning forward and giving the taxi driver the address for Hayes' family's London house. It wasn't far from Alice's parents' house in Kensington and every bit as grand.

We sat silently for a few minutes, with Hayes staring out the window and me staring at him.

"What?" he asked, not bothering to turn to face me. "Why're you looking at me?"

I shrugged. "I dunno... but like, Hayes, what's so awful? I'm genuinely asking."

"Feck off."

I chortled. "What, are you Irish now? Look... just... pretend I'm Alice, alright? Tell me whatever you'd tell her, and we'll sort it all out."

Another long pause. Finally, he turned to look at me.

"My father hates me."

He said the words softly and assuredly as if it was a fact that no one could contest. Suddenly, I regretted suggesting that he pretend I was Alice because she'd know what to say in this situation, and I had no fucking clue.

"Surely that's not true," I said as the taxi whizzed past Westminster Abbey. "Don't you think... well, it seems to me that parents love their children... but sometimes they don't understand them."

He gave a slight nod and turned back to the window as if fighting back tears. And, just like I couldn't handle seeing Alice cry, I learned I couldn't bear seeing this strange lad in tears either. Before I knew it, I leaned across the backseat and hugged him fiercely.

"You're a good lad," I said. "And you're going to be a fucking brilliant music critic one day."

"You're just saying that because you feel sorry for me," I said, his voice muffled against my tweed coat.

I shook my head vigorously. "No, no, honestly, I'm terrified at the prospect. You'll be brilliant, but you'll make everyone else aware that none of us really know what we're doing most of the time."

I pulled back and tried, but failed,  to catch his eye.

"Don't let those fuckers keep you down," I said. "Because that's what they do; they try to keep us down."

I wasn't sure who they were and how Hayes and I were suddenly an us, but, well, it was the best I could do. He looked down at the leather seat between us and then raised a hand to brush something off his face.

"Is Alice really going to have a baby?" he asked.

"Seems like it."

"And you're the father?"

"Sure hope so!"

He finally looked up, looking enthusiastic. "So I can be the baby's Uncle Hayes?"

I paused. "Well... the thing is, I think your family and Alice's family don't quite understand what 'aunt' and 'uncle' mean... you lot play it fast and loose with those terms, don't you?"

His face began to fall, so I hurriedly changed course. "Yeah, man, of course, you can be the baby's uncle... I guess. Maybe let's not tell my brother or Clive about it, though. It can be a sort of secret nickname."

Hayes gave me a smile that, I swear to God, was pure joy. Suddenly, I realized what Alice saw in him:  that core of earnestness that had been beaten down over the years, causing the wall of indifference to form. He really was a good lad underneath it all, despite trying his very best to hide it.

I was feeling pretty good about the whole interaction when we arrived at his destination, and he jumped out. "Oi!" I called, causing him to turn back toward the taxi. "If it gets awful again, you know where to find me."

He smirked. "Try not to write any more awful songs in the meantime."

I gave him a mock salute. "I'll do my best. Bye, Griff."

"Bye, Uncle Paul!" he called back, turning away and scampering up to the entrance of the white-washed mansion. After a moment, a uniformed butler answered the door, looking pleased to see him. I waited until they were inside, then directed the taxi driver to take me back home.

-
A/N Thank you again to Original-Mikaelson for creating the adorable-yet-acerbic character of Hayes Griffith. I highly recommend their book, Don't Talk, where you can find out what became of Hayes years later. ❤️