December 1968
Alice

Bleeker Street was crowded despite the late hour. A smattering of people milled around outside The Bitter End, trying to hear the end of Crosby, Still, & Nash's set. Across the street, moviegoers filed out of a second-run film house, which advertised an old Bette Davis film on its marquee. Next to that, laughter spilled out from a comedy club infamous for the arrest of comedian Lenny Bruce in the early '60s.

As I stepped out of the taxi, the flickering light of a seedy hotel cast a glow on the pavement. The pastel swirls on my Pucci coat were momentarily illuminated with each flicker. Something about the light pattern made me slightly dizzy and intensified the mild nausea that had plagued me for the past month.

Behind me, Ali McGraw and her boyfriend, Robert, tumbled out of the taxi. I'd met Ali years before when she worked for Diana Vreeland at Harper's Bazaar. Teagan had introduced us one wild night when we had a layover in the city, and we'd kept in touch. She'd since branched out into modeling and acting, and I'd scored a coup by having her agree to be the face of Zarby America for the first year.

Robert peered at the neon signs surrounding us to get his bearings. His thin tie was slightly askew, and his hair curled quite fetchingly over one side of his forehead.

"Which way is it?" he asked.

Ali tucked a long strand of dark hair behind her ear and put a hand on her hip as she looked toward Thompson Street. The pink light from the hotel sign looked almost mauve against her olive skin.

"I get so confused in the Village," she replied. "Everything seems topsy-turvy."

We'd started the evening with dinner at Elaine's with John Cage and his partner, the choreographer Merce Cunningham. We then migrated to The King Cole bar at the St. Regis, where we ran into Ali's former flatmate, Gloria Steinem. She'd recently written a scathing op-ed about men and power and looked slightly displeased that she was being forced to share drinks with a Beatle's concubine. (Her words, not mine).

I'd wanted to call it a night then, feeling slightly lightheaded from not being able to stomach more the cream crackers and American root beer, both of which were done furtively so as not to arouse suspicions about my condition. My brain felt ready to explode from all the logistics involved in opening a store in a foreign country, and I'd nodded off three times in the taxi as we headed downtown.

Still, I'd understood Zarby's press officer's brief: be seen all over town wearing fabulous clothes, better yet if my picture ended up in the papers. That night I wore an empire waist floral lame dress -- what the Americans called a hostess gown -- with a pleated skirt and flared cuffs. I'd already received several compliments on it, demurring on the exact opening of the shop since we were having problems securing a permit needed for the gas lines.

Ali, Robert, and I walked a few blocks east to the striking facade of the Cafe Au Go Go nightclub, which had its name emblazoned in enormous cursive letters. A sign on the ticket booth announced that the night's performance with Jimi Hendrix and James Cotton was sold out, which we ignored as we gave our names to the bloke at the door.

"Have you ever seen him perform?" Ali asked as we walked into the crowded main room and joined a group of their friends sitting at a large round table. I nodded to Joe Butler from The Lovin' Spoonfuls, who was seated two tables away. I prayed he wouldn't come over and mention that he'd seen me nearly starkers a few months earlier when he dropped by Cavendish unexpectedly.

"A long time ago," I said. "And then I met him briefly in London the first time he visited... I think Jimi and Paul get on well."

"God, your life is amazing," Ali said dreamily as she lightly pushed against Robert's forearm. He was talking to an author who had just published a bestselling novel and a pretty young woman who was too young and too pretty to be his wife.

"You should be a Beatle," Ali said to Robert. "My life would be fabulous if you were a Beatle, babe. Perhaps I made the wrong choice."

Robert grinned and waggled his eyebrows. "Maybe you two could trade. You up for it, Alice?"'

"Who's with a Beatle?" the novelist asked. "I have it on good authority that they're splitting up... time for them to be put out for pasture if you ask me."

"Didn't they just release a record?" the too-pretty, too-young woman asked. "The really long one."

Across the table, a blonde woman delicately placed her elbow on the table and leaned forward conspiratorially. She wore a fantastic gold lame dress, and her hair flipped out at her shoulders in a 1950s way.

"That's Alice Edwards," she hissed to the novelist, nodding in my direction like I couldn't hear her. "Paul McCartney's girl. God, you never recognize anyone, Norman."

The novelist looked at me with calculated interest, like he was wondering if I could somehow help him on his quest for the top. I offered a weak smile and nodded when the blonde woman introduced herself. She was a dancer at the Copa, and the tall, reedy man who was her date didn't look impressed with any of us. He was just there for the music, she explained.

"Paul McCartney's girl, huh?" the novelist said.

Ali glanced my way before flipping her long hair over one shoulder. "Alice is in town to open a clothing boutique... her shop in London is out of sight. Surely you've heard of Zarby?"

"I love the name," the too-pretty, too-young woman purred. "Will Paul visit the store, do you think? Golly, I'd love to meet him."

Ali shot me a sympathetic look as I took a sip of water, causing my nausea to return in full force. I offered a half-hearted smile as the enormous speakers overhead came to life. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Cafe Au Go Go. The deep, pleasant voice of the emcee saved me from replying as I slunk further into my seat and wished I could go home.

Hours later, I stumbled into the hotel lobby feeling so tired that I wasn't sure I could make it to my room. The woman at the desk looked at me sympathetically and handed me a stack of messages indicating that Paul had called twice.

I debated asking her to try to get an international line but decided it was too early to ring London. Instead, I walked tiredly to my hotel room, changed into a silk nightgown, and carefully applied cold cream to my face. My reflection stared back as I massaged it into my skin and carefully wiped it off. Without the help of makeup, I looked just as knackered as I felt. My skin was paler than usual, which did nothing to help the dark circles under my eyes.

As I opened the box of large curlers, I thought of what I would tell Paul if I could talk to him. How much I missed hearing his voice and how worried I was about the future. How terrified I was that the success of the London Zarby would prove to be a fluke and that the new one would flop miserably. How bloody tired I was and how curious it felt to be constantly famished yet nauseous.

As I securely pinned the last curler, I paused and squinted at my reflection. There were also some things I wouldn't tell Paul: I wasn't sure I'd make an adequate mum. I worried that the baby would force us to rush things between us, like a loaf of bread that hadn't risen adequately before it was baked. I worried that the boys would decide to go back to touring, and I'd be left alone with the baby, like what had happened to Cynthia and Mo.

When it felt like my brain might implode from all the worrying, I reached for a silk scarf to tie around my head. Then, without further ado, I plopped inelegantly into bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.

**

Several hours later, the phone jangled loudly next to my ear, startling me. I thought I was at home for a moment and wondered when a telephone had been installed next to the bed. It must've rung six or seven times before I was lucid enough to reach for the receiver and mumble hello

"Hi, love. How are ya?"

Paul's voice was chipper, like he had all the energy in the world plus some to spare. I looked at my wristwatch and saw that it was half-seven.

"Oh, bloody hell," I moaned, sitting up and staring blearily around the room.

"Not quite the hello I was expecting," he said jokingly.

"No, no," I said. "I'm-- bloody hell, they must've forgotten my wake-up call. I'm meant to be meeting Suzie downstairs in 10 minutes."

I stood and moved the heavy turquoise telephone to the vanity, stretching the cord as far as it would go as I opened the closet to survey the options.

"Should I let you go then?" he asked, something about his voice making me miss him terribly.

I paused and stared at the row of beautiful clothes before me. I needed something suitably chic to meet Malcolm Starr, the celebrated designer of Fifth Avenue.

"Tell me everything that's happening in your life," I said, smiling into the receiver as I jammed it between my shoulder and ear to reach for a burgundy plaid pleated skirt. "You have exactly two minutes."

Paul chuckled softly. "Two minutes?"

I threw the skirt onto the bed and reached up to untie the scarf on my head, quickly unpinning each curler. My hair fell in loose waves, which I mussed with my fingers so it looked more natural.

As Paul talked, I paused and sat on the edge of the bed, closing my eyes to really take in what he was saying. Apple was still hemorrhaging money, and George had invited Hells Angels to stay at Savile Road. Mary Hopkins' record was almost finished, and they'd decided to call it 'Postcards.' Hayes had stopped by and made a spectacle of himself, but Paul assured me that he'd sorted everything out and gotten him home safely.

"And that's two minutes on the dot," he finished. There was a pause, and I half-hoped he'd entreat me to come home. But I knew he'd never once let being tired get in the way of his obligations. Nor had I, for that matter.

Instead, he asked, "How's Suzie?"

I laughed. "She's grand. She met a fellow here... a real bohemian. So she spends all her off-time smoking endless cigs at Cafe Wha listening to people read poetry and going to happenings."

"Happenings still happen?"

As I returned to the closet, I hummed in affirmation and pulled out a long, fitted navy blazer with bright gold buttons. Then I looked down at my watch and winced. "I'm afraid I have to dash."

There was a short pause, and his voice was softer when he spoke. "You alright, Liss? Sounds like it's all a bit mental there."

Sighing, I sat on the edge of the bed again. "It's just a lot, you know? I'm meant to be out and about, but really I want to curl up in bed and watch Mod Squad."

"Mod Squad? What's that?"

I smiled, remembering Paul's affinity for American television programmes. "It's about undercover detectives... it's all the rage here. Peggy Lipton's in it. Didn't you go out with her?"

"...I don't know if go out is the right word... we mostly stayed in, if you get my drift."

"Yes, well, the girl you shagged is on the programme. She's quite fit; congratulations on that, by the way."

"Cheeky tart."

I smiled into the receiver. "I have to go... I'll ring you when I can."

Ten minutes later, Suzie met me at the hotel entrance, and we took a taxi up to Malcolm Starr's showroom. She handed me a new tin of licorice drops, which was the only thing that kept the nausea somewhat at bay. We hadn't discussed my pregnancy, but there was no way she could have missed it.

"I don't think I can take another night out," I said, leaning my cheek against the cold window. "If this was a year ago, I would've loved it. Am I too old for this, do you think?"

"What's tonight's plan?" Suzie asked, shuffling through a thick stack of papers in the leather binder she carried everywhere.

I thought for a moment. "Is today Tuesday?"

"Wednesday."

"Then tonight is meant to be the opening party for The Studio Museum in Harlem... then meeting Andy and his whole entourage for dinner... and then dancing at Cheetah... but I might actually die if I do all that."

She looked over with interest. "Is that the discotheque with all the lights?"

I nodded. Cheetah had opened a year prior, and the ceiling housed 3,000 colored light bulbs and shiny aluminum sheets. Apparently, it was meant to feel like you were inside a film. It was the place to be seen, and my photograph was practically guaranteed to land in the papers.

Suzie was silent for a moment, and I looked over to see her pursing her lips in my direction.

"All this activity isn't good for..." she trailed off, making me worry how she would end the sentence. "Your chakras."

"My chakras?" I asked with a relief chuckle. This was the closest we'd come to discussing the pregnancy, which surely she must've figured out. I wondered if my entire team had suspicions but hadn't let on. God, how embarrassing.

"Perhaps you should take a night off," she suggested, and I groaned.

"I can't stand up Andy Warhol, can I? Especially since he agreed to let us have exclusive rights for his scarves."

A few days after we arrived in America, we'd gone with Andy down to Washington Market to a six-floor building that used to be a cheese warehouse. On the top floor, Andy's silkscreener had a slightly rickety set-up that served as his workshop. The scarves were gorgeous and just what we needed, but it had taken a solid half-hour of me pleading and Andy hemming-and-hawing before he finally agreed to allow them to be sold.

"Just two more weeks," I said. "And then we can go home."

A look of doubt flashed across Suzie's face for an instant. She turned toward the window, watching Gramercy Park fly by.

"Right?" I pressed. "Paul will bloody murder me if I'm not home for Christmas with his family."

She nodded. "I'm sure all the permits will be sorted by then."

The licorice candies almost spilled out of the tin as the taxi hit a pothole. My stomach lurched, and I scrubbed a hand over my face, wishing I was home in my own bed. Even though I wasn't sure where home was meant to be. Was it my actual home in Mayfair, or was it Cavendish? Paul and I had had a half-hearted conversation about how to proceed but hadn't come up with any solutions. I didn't fancy living in the fishbowl that was Cavendish, but he pointed out that wherever he lived in London would end up like that.

"What did you get up to last night?" I asked Suzie tiredly.

She ran a hand through her blonde fringe. "Oh-- Joel took me to an expressionist theatre downtown... it was an actor who wore this paint-splattered coverall... he was pretending to be dead, and two other chaps examined his teeth and hair."

"Examined his teeth and hair?" I asked, pushing myself more upright so I could look at her. She nodded and once again fussed with her fringe.

The taxi slowed and then came to a half outside a nondescript building in Midtown. Suzie leaned forward to pay the driver, and we carefully climbed out of the car, which then sped away before the door was even properly closed.

Malcolm's showroom was on the fifth floor, and the lift was broken, so we were forced to take the stairs. My breath came out in uneven patches, and I wondered if the baby was somehow already affecting my lung capacity. Teagan had told me that she couldn't breathe well early in her pregnancy and nearly fainted several times. I prayed I'd make it through this trip without losing consciousness, though I wasn't hopeful about my chances.

The designer was mostly known for elaborately beaded and embroidered gowns for the Park Avenue set. He'd recently hired a new designer, Elinor Simmons, who was making clothes more suitable for the downtown vibe. She greeted us and immediately led us into the showroom, where we ooh-ed and ahh-ed appropriately at the dresses, only several of which would be suited for my vision of Zarby New York.

We visited two other ateliers before legging it back to Zarby for a walk-through with the interior designer. The ground floor was just as I imagined: colorful yet subdued, slightly psychedelic but still chic. It was still freezing inside because the gas permits hadn't been sorted, but the contractor promised to take care of it.

By 8pm, I was in yet another taxi wearing a silk chiffon dress by Marc Bohan for Christian Dior. The pink and burgundy print was fun without being too much, and the high neckline gave it a minimalist and elegant feel. I paired it with gold platform heels that were absurdly uncomfortable and which I already regretted.

The taxi dropped me at Park Avenue South in front of Max's Kansas City, which was Andy Warhol's unofficial headquarters. A few teenagers stood around the entrance hoping to glimpse someone who wasn't me, and I spotted a few photographers having a smoke halfway down the block. The hostess smiled brightly when I entered and pointed me toward the back, where a thick black curtain covered the wall.

The back room was just as crowded as the main space, and I could barely make out Andy's white hair and enormous black sunglasses. He was sitting at a massive round table flanked by Lou Reed, Paul Morrissey, Patti Smith, and her boyfriend, the artist Robert Mapplethorpe. He caught my eye and smiled, motioning me over.

"As I live and breathe," I heard from next to me in the most awful attempt at an American Southern accent. "If it isn't Alice Edwards. I'd heard you were in town."

I turned to see Michael Caine looking dapper in a black button-down shirt and black trousers. His blonde hair gleamed in the soft overhead lighting, and he held a martini with more olives than vodka.

My eyes widened in surprise as I leaned forward to offer an air kiss in the general direction of his cheek. "What're you doing here?"

He nodded toward Andy's entourage, where a woman with long dark hair was seated. She wore a fabulous white jumpsuit and a fur coat covered her shoulders. "My girlfriend's mates with Andy... we're in town, so I can do press for Deadfall."

He motioned for her to join and made quick work of introductions. Her name was Bianca, and she was from Nicaragua. They'd met in Paris through his tailor, and she appeared much younger than him. We talked about a variety show they'd seen at The Latin Quarter the previous night, and Bianca told me how much she loved Zarby London. After a few minutes, she was pulled away, and Michael leaned closer conspiratorially.

"You alright, Alice? You look knackered."

"Just busy," I replied. "I'm looking forward to going back to London for Christmas."

His eyebrows shot up. "You're here that long?"

I nodded, and he shot me a look like he thought there was more to the story. Before we could say more, a photographer appeared. Apparently, Andy had hired him to take photographs of all the guests, so Michael and I leaned closer and smiled our best smiles. We then went to Andy's table, where we all chatted and posed for a few more photographs. I made excuses when it was time to leave for Cheetah and instead returned to my hotel. Cold cream. Curlers. Doubts and insecurities. And then it was time to sleep.

**

Three days later, Suzie and I joined her American boyfriend to see a psychedelic light show at The Fillmore East. Located on the Lower East Side, the venue had previously been known for Yiddish performances until music promoter Bill Graham got his hands on it. The backdrop of the stage featured a liquid light show -- great swaths of neon colors projected against the wall -- in front of which The Jeff Beck Group played a set.

"This is far out," Joel said appreciatively. I debated commenting that this sort of thing had started at the Roundhouse years ago but decided it made me sound like an old fogey who went on about how things were before the war.

"It's a groove," Suzie agreed as she once again glanced around the room like she was waiting for someone.

Halfway through the set, I heard a familiar ripple of conversation that had me glancing backward. I could have sworn I saw the bulky form of Mal Evans in the crowd, and before I even had time to process it, I felt Paul's hand around my waist.

"Surprise."

I looked up at him, too stunned to speak. He wore a slightly wrinkled paisley shirt and Zarby trousers, and his face was covered by a beard that hadn't been there when I'd left London.

"Did you plan this?" I asked Suzie, fighting to contain an enormous grin.

She shook her head, looking like she was holding back a giggle. Her boyfriend stared at Paul agog as if he'd been told a Beatle would be joining but hadn't actually believed it.

"He rang me demanding to know your whereabouts," she admitted.

I glanced around to see if everyone was staring at us -- which they were -- before wrapping my arms around Paul's waist from the side and burrowing my face into his shoulder. He tightened the arm around my waist, and we stood like that for a moment. Finally, I leaned back to look at him.

"Are you just here because I was photographed at a party with Michael?"

He shook his head. "Nah. I thought I'd pop by and see if Peggy Lipton is free for a shag."

The corner of his eyes crinkled when he laughed, and I pushed my shoulder into his good-naturedly.

"And I'll have you know I came here straight from the airport," he continued. "Bloody flight was delayed, so I told Mal to sort out the luggage at your hotel."

I tilted my head. "He needs a raise."

"So you've said before," he replied as he put a hand on my waist to move me in front of him so he could pull me back against his chest. His arms wrapped around me, and I felt his chin on my shoulder as we watched the band play.

"I fucking missed you," he whispered into my ear. Closing my eyes, I leaned into him and wondered why I hadn't told Suzie to clear my schedule for a weekend so I could pop by London or even just asked Paul to come for a visit.

"I've missed you so much," I whispered, turning my head toward him to see his eyes watching raptly as the guitarist played a riff and a keyboard player filled in.

"The keyboardist is a good addition," he commented. "His name's Nicky Hopkins. Plays with the Stones sometimes."

As soon as the set was over, we made our excuses to Suzie and Joel and weaved our way through the crowded room. A few people tried to stop Paul for an autograph, but he politely waved them away. A dozen people were hanging around outside the front of the venue, and they immediately recognized him.

"You always cause a commotion," I complained as he stepped into the street and raised his hand for a taxi, one arm wrapped firmly around my waist.

"I cause a commotion?" he asked, looking down at me with a grin. "You've been in the papers every day since you arrived... and that's the London papers. Seems like you're the one causing a fuss this time."

As the taxi pulled up, Paul disengaged from me to stand beside a girl and smile for the camera. The flash lit up the night, and he was blinking rapidly as we climbed in and directed the cabbie to take us back to the hotel.

We didn't talk in the taxi, just held each other's hand and stared at the nightlife passing us by. When we got to the hotel, Mal had indeed sorted out the luggage, and I asked the hotel to upgrade him to a suite just like mine.

"You're going to spoil him," Paul grumbled as we walked into the lift. "Maybe you can afford fancy suites for your employees, but I can't."

Finally, when we were back in my room, he sat on the bed and pulled me toward him so that I was standing between his legs. He stared up at me with a quizzical expression.

"Why're you really here?" I asked. "Other than to shag your ex-girlfriend."

I ran a hand through his hair, which was tousled from the flight and curled around his ears. He closed his eyes and leaned into my touch as I cupped his chin to angle his face toward me. Unlike the mustache the previous year, I decided the beard suited him.

He opened his eyes, which immediately softened. "I was worried about you."

I furrowed my brow. "Worried about me?"

He nodded and pulled me closer, somehow maneuvering us so we lay facing each other on the bed with our legs tangled together. His eyes looked tired from the flight, and the beard made him look a few years older.

"I'm fine," I said, causing him to scoff.

"I am!" I insisted, trying my best to look indignant even though I was not fine.

"Yeah, sure, okay," he said softly before he exhaled heavily and pulled me closer so that my cheek was against his chest and my arm was draped across his waist. I closed my eyes and, for the first time in weeks, felt slightly less wretched. He began to hum a tune I'd never heard before and then began to sing softly, You and me chasing paper, getting nowhere before the words dissolved into dummy lyrics and scatting.

"Do you ever worry that one day you'll wake up and your brain will just be silent?" I mumbled against his chest.

"Like there were a finite number of songs inside my brain, and I've used them all up?"

I hummed in response, feeling a heaviness overcome me that signaled the onset of sleep.

He thought about it for a moment. "Yeah, I worry about it all the time. Sometimes I'll start on a new song, and it's like fuck, what if I can't anymore?"

His voice sounded sleepy, and I wondered how long he'd been awake. He could never sleep properly on airplanes, so it was possible he'd been up nearly 24 hours.

"Thank you for coming," I said, reaching up to kiss his jaw. "How long can you stay?"

"A few days... You could've asked me to fly over, you know," he said, sounding half-asleep yet still serious. "Instead, it was bad enough that Suzie rang me to tell me how poorly you were feeling."

I wanted to tell him I didn't want to depend on anyone, but I knew he'd be cross about it. We'd had more than one conversation about how being in a relationship inherently meant that two people depended on each other, or at least it did to Paul. I wanted to be angry with Suzie for overstepping, but instead, I felt only gratitude that Paul was there.

"You've too much going on right now to be flying across the ocean for me," I replied lightly.

He made another scoffing sound. "How many times did you fly to me when I was on the '66 tour?"

"Once or twice."

"Well, consider this repaying the favor, then. Jesus, you're stubborn sometimes."

"I know," I replied softly. "It's the Edwards way, I'm afraid."

"Sometimes you just have to tell me what you need," he said. My heart melted, and something inside of me cracked. I hated to feel or appear to be vulnerable, and both were true at the moment.

I felt so overwhelmed with emotion that I couldn't form words, which he seemed to understand. He kissed my forehead as we shifted slightly to find a more comfortable position, and, without saying anything more, we drifted off to sleep.

The bed next to me was empty the following day when I awoke, causing me to momentarily wonder if it had all been a dream. I sat up, realizing I was still in the same clothes I'd worn to the concert, and looked around the room.

"Morning," Paul greeted me from his perch on a leather settee across the room, where he was jotting something in a notebook. He wore a dressing gown, and his hair was still wet from a shower. Besides him were two metal carts from room service, covered with every breakfast food imaginable.

He put down the notebook and tilted his head toward the carts. "Suzie said you haven't been able to eat much, so I ordered everything on the menu. Surely something will strike your fancy."

The odor from all the food wafted toward me, causing me to cover my mouth and leap clumsily out of bed. I nearly didn't make it to the toilet as I retched. Behind me, Paul swore softly, and I heard him pick up the telephone and ask for room service to get rid of all the food. Then he crouched next to me and gathered my hair as I dry-heaved. This wasn't the morning I'd envisioned with him. It was pretty much the opposite, though the likelihood of him ever wanting to have sex with me again was close to zero.

"Bloody hell, Liss," he muttered, rubbing small circles on my back. "Has it been like this every day?"

I nodded miserably and looked at him with what could only be pitiful eyes.

"Fucking hell," he repeated. "You should've told me. No wonder you look like shite."

"Oi!" I protested, and he rolled his eyes.

"You're still devastating, baby. Maybe not at this precise moment, but, y'know, in general. Don't worry; I'll be angling for a shag before you know it."

I glanced behind him and squinted at the bright light shining through the heavy drapery, which we'd neglected to close. The sun had a distinct glare that only came in the middle of the day. Startled, I turned toward Paul.

"What time is it?"

He sat back on his haunches and took a breath like he knew he was in for a bollocking.

"Nearly 1."

"Paul!"

He held up his hands in self-defense. "It wasn't me! Suzie rearranged everything. Blame her if you can tear her away from her fellow. He's insufferable, isn't he? Reminds me of those beatniks who wore berets everywhere in the late '50s."

There was a knock on the door, and Paul stood to open it. I leaned my forehead on the wall as I listened to him ask the porter to clear out all the food and make sure the staff enjoyed it -- it wasn't to be wasted. Then he opened the window, allowing a refreshingly cold draft into the room. I could hear the horns honking from Sixth Avenue and a familiar chitter-chatter from below.

"The girls know you're here, don't they?" I asked, not having the strength to move. His footsteps echoed in the small room as he walked back toward me.

"They know I'm here," he agreed. "Don't know how, but they do. Mal already told them to clear out so the hotel doesn't kick us out."

He bent down to help me up. "Right, so you have the day off and--"

"I don't," I argued. "Today I'm supposed to have a late lunch with Ossie Clark and then decide on the final wall color for the second floor of Zarby--"

"All of which you can do tomorrow," Paul interrupted. "Suzie arranged for a doctor to come see you--"

"I don't need a doctor!" I protested.

"Because, correct me if I'm wrong, but you're meant to be carrying that baby for seven more months, and I think you may waste away before then.... And then, we can sit in bed and watch my ex-lover on the telly."

"But--"

His tone grew mildly irritated. "Will you just let me take care of you for once? Christ, Liss, you're always taking care of everyone else. Let us do the same for you, will you?"

I sighed heavily and leaned against him in resignation. He kissed my temple and wrapped his arms around me. We stood like that for a long time, and it very much felt like it was us two -- well, three -- against the world.

"I'm going to plan a holiday for us in February," he said. "Do you fancy something more tropical like Greece, or skiing in Switzerland?"

"Thought you were going back to the studio," I said.

"Yeah, well, Ritch needs to wrap end of January so he can do his film, so we have to be done by then. Since he and George took a fucking holiday while John and I toiled away to mix The Beatles, those two can sort out post-production on this record."

I looked up at him skeptically. "You'd never give up control of that."

He chuckled. "Maybe I'm turning over a new leaf."

"I don't believe you for a second," I replied, grinning at him.

"Yeah, you're right," he said with a laugh. "They'd fuck it all up."

I leaned back and took him in, noting the fatigue and worry in his eyes.

"I'll be alright," I said. "Cynthia said she felt poorly most of her pregnancy... apparently, it subsides after the first few months."

He nodded, but didn't look convinced.

"I really am glad you're here," I said lightly, reaching up to cup his face. I wanted to kiss him, but hadn't forgotten the fact that I'd just vomited everywhere. "I just express it in a strange way."

He chuckled, his expression lightening. "That you do, Liss. That you do."