April 1968

A fast and erratic beat had been pounding in Paul's head since he'd awakened. It was like an irregular heartbeat or a butterfly flapping its wings to escape a jar. It wasn't melodic, it wasn't groovy, it was a fucking earworm that was slowly driving him mad.

Thump thump thumpety thump. Thumpety thump thump thump.

He lay in bed for an hour, pretending he didn't know why his brain felt like it was about to explode. It wasn't anticipatory anxiety; that would be foolish. What a load of psychobabble, that.

Finally, he hoisted himself up and walked to peek out of the window to see the gate birds milling about below. Then he opened the curtains halfway and sat in a pool of morning light, his legs crossed and his hands resting atop his knees. His palms were facing upward, which was supposed to heal the chakras and ground the soul. And if anyone needed some grounding energy, it was Paul McCartney.

He repeated his mantra in a low voice and tried to empty his mind:  let it out, let it in. He'd gotten slightly better in India at stopping the internal chatter, but he was still pretty shit at it. The thumping in his head was bloody distracting, and his fingers couldn't help but tap along, which probably meant that his chakras wouldn't heal and his soul would continue to float around totally adrift.

Finally, he gave up and wandered downstairs, where Clementine was eating a late breakfast in her dressing gown. Her dark hair was piled atop her head and secured with a turquoise scarf. He knew everyone took the piss about how she looked like Alice, but they were totally different. Clem's lips were a bit thinner, her hips a bit fuller. She had a very studied posh accent, whereas Alice had spent ages actively trying to shed hers. Most importantly, she really tried for everything in life, whereas Alice never seemed to have to.

He absent-mindedly kissed the top of her head as he walked into the dining room and sat down. He didn't say anything, just watched her eat her avocado with sprouted grain bread while his fingers tapped a nervy beat on the table. She finally broke the silence, looking pointedly at his hands.

"It's distracting? You should try your mantra?"

Clementine had a way of ending every sentence with an upwards intonation, constantly making Paul wonder if she was making a statement or asking a question. When they'd first met, it had seemed slightly beguiling, like he never knew where he stood. After a while, though, he just wanted to hear a declarative sentence every so often.

"I tried my mantra," he replied irritably before remembering what the Maharishi always said. Love arises from a full heart. So, with a sigh, he softened his tone.

"I'm just tired, is all."

He wandered into the living room and headed straight to the cabinet that Donovan had given him. He pulled out at least 6 or 7 drawers until he found the one that contained the grass and the rolling papers. Staring at them for a moment, he debated if he should ask Clem to roll him a joint. But even that seemed too much effort, so he finally did it himself. It was sloppily done and would fall apart mid-way, but it was better than nothing.

"Do you want me to come with you today?" Clementine asked. Paul didn't reply at first, mainly because it was difficult to sort out her words through the truly insane thumping in his head.

"No, no," he replied. John couldn't be trusted around her. He relentlessly tried to provoke her, and most of it went straight over her head, which, Paul presumed, was why John bothered with it in the first place.

Clementine shrugged and went back to her breakfast. He wondered what she saw in him. He was a miserable sod most of the time, and she'd have to be a blind fool not to know that he was seeing several other girls on the side. So, maybe she was just in it for the sex or the cachet of being with Beatle Paul or the fact that her career had skyrocketed ever since they got together. Whatever the reason, Paul was okay with it because she was uncomplicated and her blowjobs were exquisite.

The spring air was cooler than he expected when he stepped outside and walked to his meditation hut. Or the "geodesic dome," as he was always quick to call it to reporters, lest they sort out what really went on in there. It was a work of art. It was avant-garde. It was architecture. Not some hippie circle jerk shit.

Settling back on one of the oversized aubergine-colored pillows, he lit the joint and flipped the switch to raise the platform. But instead of being whisked closer to God, there was a low-pitched squeal reminiscent of the constantly broken curtains in his bedroom. Then an alarming acrid smell had him rushing to flip the switch back, lest the whole fucking thing break.

If this isn't a metaphor for my life, I'm not sure what is, he thought. Geometric and groovy on the outside, but a bit broken and sad on the inside.

Too tired to move, he lay on the cushion, staring at the clouds moving across the gray sky. As anticipated, the joint started to fall apart after the fourth drag, and he ran a hand through his hair. The thumping was less noticeable than before, but it was still halfway to driving him crackers.

Abandoning his pot den, he ambled back into the house. Martha nearly knocked him over as soon as he stepped inside, then she followed him up to the music room. He sat at the piano and decided to jam, his hands hitting dissonant chords that would've made Mr. Martin wince. That didn't do the trick, so he grabbed an acoustic from the '40s that Alice had given him. She'd gotten it at auction and it was twangy as hell, which he very much enjoyed. It was one of the only Alice-related items he hadn't chucked after realizing that she wasn't coming back.

After an hour of jamming to the horrendous beat, Paul admitted defeat. This would just be his life now, he reasoned. He'd have to get used to the thumping in his head and find a way to work around it so he could make a living. The noise wasn't the problem; Paul was the problem.

Or perhaps it was the visit to Weybridge that was the problem.

He threw on a brown overcoat that he'd gotten at a charity shop and picked up a long black scarf that a gate bird had knitted for him. It was enormous and made him feel slightly suffocated every time he wore it. Nevertheless, he wrapped it around his neck and climbed into the car. Seven girls were standing outside the gate when he drove through. He rolled down the window a third of the way and gave them a well-practiced smirk as he passed by.

He'd driven to John's more times than he could count, but this trip seemed to take eight times as long as it should. The pounding in his head intensified the further he got from London, quickly becoming a full-fledged headache. Was it a panic attack? Perhaps. Would it be more sensible to head back home until he knew what he wanted to say? Almost definitely.

Cynthia answered the door, her hair looking even blonder against the tan she'd developed in India. She rolled her eyes as she pointed towards the back study, saying that John had been sulky all day. Ever since they'd gotten back, really. She looked dejected, like it was her fault that her husband was a grumpy bugger. It's not your doing, Paul wanted to tell her. It's most likely mine.

He paused next to the door to the study, giving his brain one final, extra stern order to stop the fucking noise. Thumpty-thump thump thump, it replied.

"Quit lurking," John called out, making it clear that he was well aware that Paul was standing there, stalling. 

"Hey, man," Paul chirped as he walked through the door. He felt like he was sitting down to an on-the-record interview.

Per usual, John was lying on the sofa in a position that looked supremely uncomfortable. His legs were propped against the top, and the skinny scarf looped around his neck looked out of place in the cluttered room. He, too, was more bronzed than usual and possibly a bit gaunt from vegetarianism.

"Took yer time," he said with a nonchalant tone and a closed expression.

"Something came up with Clem," Paul replied breezily, parking himself in the floral-patterned chair. He avoided eye contact, instead staring at the SAFE AS MILK stickers on the cabinets behind John.

"How is our favorite walking question mark?" John asked as he lazily stretched an arm over his head.

"She's great," Paul replied, not taking the bait. He finally worked up the courage to look at John directly, and they regarded each other warily for a long moment. This seemed like a moment of reckoning, like one of those Westerns where the two cowboys meet at high noon with their pistols at the ready.

"How're things?" John asked. Paul mumbled something incoherent and flashed a Beatle smile that made him wince internally. What was next? Was he going to shake his head and do his fucking Little Richard scream? Fucking hell.

There's no way that John could have possibly been privy to Paul's internal monologue, but the bemused expression indicated that he didn't not know. There had been an article a few months back where John said that the Beatles were so attuned to each other that they didn't even need to speak anymore. Like they could just communicate through telepathy. But that wasn't true because if he and John were telepathic, then they wouldn't be in this bloody situation in the first place.

"Have this crazy beat in my head," Paul explained, running a hand across my face as he crossed one leg over the other. "Not sure how useful I'll be until it goes away. It's like me brain is being pounded by a hammer."

John nodded like he was perfectly content to pretend that their sudden unfamiliarity was because of a headache. He leaned towards the coffee table, picking up what looked to be a mimeographed magazine.

"Have you seen this?" he asked, tossing it Paul's way.

"What is it?"

John shrugged. "Some bloke's jazz review thingie. Surprised you haven't seen it -- they're going to start selling it at Indica. Well, giving it away, I suppose; I'm not sure the fellow actually charges for it. Though I'd pay good money to listen to him slag off my enemies."

Paul flipped to a random page, which appeared to be a review of a record by a group called The Petunia Blues.

"'Run, don't walk, to the closest record shop,'" he read aloud. "'Not to buy the record because it's self-aggrandizing tripe. But do hurry over to warn the shopkeeper not to waste his money stocking it.'"

He looked up. "Who is he?"

John shrugged. "Dunno. Theodore something. Dunbar says he's a big deal in certain circles."

Paul considered this for a moment. "Well, maybe let's not make a foray into jazz anytime soon, just in case."

Throwing the magazine back on the table, Paul leaned back in the chair. He and John once again regarded each other, which wasn't a big deal because they spent half their lives making eyes at each other. What was a big deal, however, was the stiffness that lay between them. It wasn't tension but rather a lack of earnestness.

"Why'd you come back early?" Paul asked off-handedly as if he and Ritchie didn't have a bet going about it.

John waved a hand in their air in an almost regal manner. "Drama, you know."

Paul raised an eyebrow. "Drama? What, did someone meditate too long?"

John sat up, running a hand through his hair. "A crisis of confidence."

Paul pondered this. "What, confidence in yourselves?"

"No," John said, his face contorting into a vexed expression. "The Maharishi. He's just not who we thought."

"The Maharishi?"

"Yeah, the Maharishi."

"Who is he then?"

"Now that's a great fucking question, isn't it.

There was a long pause as Paul tried to determine if John actually wanted to tell him what had happened or if verbal sparring would be required to get the answer. The thumping in his head was still persistent and made him less eager to go through the usual back-and-forth they usually excelled at. John looked slightly disappointed, and Paul wondered if he wanted to address the elephant in the room or if John was as content as he was to ignore it completely.

"Written anything since you got back?" John asked, breaking eye contact and shifting his body to stare at the ceiling. It sounded like an ice-breaker which, Paul supposed, it was.

Paul paused, thinking about the last time they'd written a song together. They'd been in Rishikesh, stoned off their arses on insane grass that someone had smuggled in from Isfahan. That, plus a few hours of intense meditating, and they were slightly off their rockers, but in a blissed-out way. Everything had felt good and pure, and music was practically pouring out of them.

Paul shook his his head. "No, not really."

It had been unbearably hot that afternoon. They'd kicked everyone out of John's hut and grabbed their acoustics, plus a little tambourine that Ringo had left behind. They must've been there for hours, the notes floating around them to the point that they almost seemed tangible.

"Oh, c'mon, you can't wipe your arse without thinking of a melody. I don't believe you haven't written anything."

John had been the first to lie on the wooden floor, claiming that Truman Capote said that one could only think properly when one was horizontal. But playing the guitar horizontally was bloody hard, so Paul remained vertical for a while. More pot was smoked, and more music was composed. Paul had felt ebullient, wondering if a more perfect moment existed.

"Well, I started something after Dr. King was assassinated--"

At some point, Paul had laid on the floor, and they'd abandoned their guitars in favor of staring up at the ceiling fan above. It turned round and round almost lazily, creating a hypnotic effect.

"Bloody terrible, that was. We heard about it on the radio, y'know. The one time I needed a television, there wasn't one for miles. Fucking India, man."

Paul wasn't even aware that the top of his head rested against the curve of John's waist, and John hadn't realized that his hands had ended up tangled in Paul's hair. They just stared at the blades whirring above, both feeling a deep, hard-won peace.

"Yeah, so I tried to write-- I dunno, a protest song? A ballady sort of thing, but in the end, I binned it. You know it goes."

It had been just the tiniest of moments, a flash of something in John's eyes. Paul very well could have imagined it. But it also very well could've been there. It wasn't sexual, but there was so much goddamn feeling there that Paul had panicked in a oh-god-look-at-the-time-we're-meant-to-be-at-the-canteen sort of way.

"Yeah," John said, his tone dry as a desert. "I do know."

Then John had panicked, and Paul had panicked some more, and they'd stumbled into the harsh sunlight looking anywhere but at each other. And for the rest of the time there, they pretended it hadn't happened. Which perhaps it hadn't; who fucking knew anymore.

"God, this fucking headache," Paul said. The pounding had become more staccato and erratic like his psyche was reacting to the growing tension in the room. He closed his eyes and bowed his head to massage his temple. When he finally opened his eyes, John was studying him.

"Cyn," he called, not taking his eyes off Paul. "Bring some paracetamol, will you?"

Paul shook his head. "Nah, it's fine, I'm great-- I'm grand-- it's just--"

He trailed off, his eyes again fixating on the MILK IS SAFE stickers behind John's shoulder. He couldn't say everything felt strange, and he didn't know where they stood. That he'd spent weeks trying to sort out if any of it was real, and he didn't know if he wanted it to be. He could hardly proclaim his deepest fear was that this would be a stumbling block they'd never target over, and he'd slowly but surely lose his partner.

"It's just that I heard Alice is back in London," Paul interrupted. "Ran into a mutual friend who let it slip. Which made me wonder, does everyone know she's back, and no one has told me? Like it's some big fucking secret?"

John looked surprised. "Thought she was off seeing the world."

Paul shrugged. "I suppose she's seen it already."

The click-clack of Cynthia's patent leather flats echoed through the corridor as she approached with a bottle of painkillers. Behind her was Ringo, whose hair was shaggier than when Paul had last seen him. He wore a tunic from India, which likely was the only thing he'd actually liked about the trip.

"Howdy, Rings," Paul said, getting up to clasp his shoulder affectionately before he fell back into the chair.

"Cyn, did you know that Alice is back?" John asked as she handed the medicine bottle to him, which he tossed to Paul.

"Back where?" Cynthia asked as Ringo threw himself into a chair, pulling out a cigarette.

"Well-- London."

She shrugged. "No. Though she was off seeing the world."

"See?" John said to Paul as his wife swept out of the room to fetch another ashtray. "It's not a bleedin' conspiracy, is it?"

Paul nodded and pretended to look like he hadn't been serious in the first place, but the way Cynthia had reacted made him think she was lying.

"Alright?" Ringo asked jovially. He turned towards John. "Why're you back so early, anyway? Please say it's because you shagged Pattie 'cause I have a tenner on it."

John rolled his eyes like it was old news, not a pronounced change in plans. "Drama."

Ringo's eyebrows shot up. "Transcendental medidrama?"

Paul laughed, and even John cracked a smile. As had been the case many times before and would be many times after, Ringo acted as a buffer between them, and they could relax a bit.

"Well, if you're ready to be back in the world of the living," Ringo continued, "There's a happening party tonight. That's why I stopped by-- to see if you wanted to go. Just left a message with your housekeeper, Macca."

"What party?" Paul asked, brightening up a bit. Even without the paracetamol, the banging in his head was starting to subside. It was becoming more rhythmic, and he was confident that by the end of the evening, he'd get a song out of it.

Ringo took a drag of his cigarette. "It's for that new shop-- Zarby."

Paul raised an eyebrow because everyone knew about Zarby. When he'd arrived back from India, all of London was aflutter about it. The owners had done quite a clever guerilla marketing campaign, handing out flyers all over that said ZARBY IS COMING with no explanation of who or when or how. Then a few weeks ago, there had been a full-page ad in The Sunday Times with just the opening date, which was in a week's time.

"Zarby?" John asked. "What's a Zarby?"

"Why didn't I receive an invite?" Paul asked simultaneously as he rummaged through his pockets for a packet of cigarettes.

"A clothing shop," Ringo explained to John. "It's all anyone's been talking about for ages. It's in Shoreditch, if you can imagine, and apparently, it's going to be the new place to be."

"And tonight's the opening?" Paul asked, wondering again why he hadn't heard about it.

Ringo nodded. "Jimi's playing a set at midnight, and they've hired the barmen from Middle Earth to do the drinks."

Paul replied that he was in, and John made a big show of considering it. He finally decided he couldn't be arsed to go to East London. He said it like he might as well go to Mars, and Paul wondered how many days in a row he'd been lying on the sofa.

They chatted for a few more minutes, just shooting the shit. John ranted about the Maharishi and what a bleedin' hypocrite he was and what a fucking disaster it all was, which Paul decided to take with a grain of salt. The beat in his head was now tolerable, and he debated seeing if Clem wanted to go to Zarby with him. In the end, though, he decided to ring Christele and have her meet him there. She was even more uncomplicated than Clem and could read his aura, which apparently was turquoise.

**

It was almost midnight when Paul, Ringo, and Maureen stepped out of a taxi in Shoreditch. He'd changed into striped trousers and a cream tunic and had spent more time than necessary trying to tame the back of his hair. The trio paused on the pavement, wondering if they were in the right place.

The street was filled with warehouses and what looked to be a lorry rental shop. It wasn't the sort of place Paul fancied being caught alone at night. In front of them was a warehouse that looked to have been gutted and lovingly restored. A small sign at the door said ZARBY in a far-out shade of yellow. It was understated and somehow perfect and made Paul wonder if the Apple boutique was too overstated, like they were trying too hard.

A girl standing just inside the door made a point of asking their names, even though of course, she fucking knew. She managed not to look impressed and even intimated that they hadn't technically been invited. But, in the end, they were admitted, and Paul tried to remember the last time he was hassled for going somewhere.

Stepping through the eggplant-colored fringed curtain was a bit like pstepping into Wonderland. Paul was surprised to see that the Beautiful People of London and the Switched-On Set happily mingled in the grand, oversized space. The room was awash with women wearing kaftans and vintage brocade headbands, whereas the men were mostly dressed in Eastern-inspired garb. The walls were covered in brightly-colored brocade, the old wooden floors gleaming beneath the mood lighting. Racks of far-out but functional clothing were stationed around the room, and Paul wanted to take it all home.

He felt the ripple of recognition as he walked further into the room, multiplied because Ringo was by his side. They glanced at each other for a moment before Mo pulled him away toward a makeshift bar in the corner. Paul stood by himself for a moment as he fished out a cigarette and lit it. But he wasn't alone for long because Mick Jagger came up behind him, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

"Alright?" Mick asked, slapping him on the back in a way that made Paul cough slightly from too much smoke inhaled at once. "This is a groove. I mean, fucking hell, right?"

Paul looked around the room, a sensuous blend of colors, textures, the old, and the new. Yes, it was absolutely a fucking groove, and he couldn't put his finger on why it seemed deeply familiar.

"How was India?" Mick asked, moving slightly to the left to block a girl heading Paul's way, probably to ask him to sign something.

"Ta," Paul said as he took a drag of his cigarette. "Yeah, it was good, you know?"

"Did you get to write much, or was it all meditating and levitating and all that?"

Paul chuckled. "Oh yeah, albums worth of songs. You lot may as well quit now."

Mick was about to reply when Ray from Procol Harum walked over, followed by Jean Shrimpton, who had just been featured on the cover of American Vogue. She wore a long saffron-colored dress and oversized blue-tinted glasses. Her fringe nearly covered her eyes, much like Alice's used to. The four of them air kissed and did the half-hugs and stood in a loose circle that prevented anyone else from approaching.

"This is marvelous," Jean said, looking around the room. "I'm dying to know who's behind it all."

Ray produced a spliff and lit it, offering it to Paul. A moment later, he took a drag and felt the mellow, pleasantly hazy feeling kick in. Not for the first time, he silently thanked the universe for sending Bob Dylan his way all those years ago.

"No one knows?" he asked.

"Marianne's convinced it's Cathy McGowan," Mick said, reaching for the joint.

Jean shook her head. "I heard she's an investor, but this isn't her scene. This is--" she looked around happily. "This is everything, isn't it."

Paul looked around the room more closely, unable to get over the feeling that he'd been here before. Something about it reminded him of something or someone. The antique chairs upholstered in outrageous colors looked familiar, as did the overall vibe of the clothing for sale. It was almost like a groovier, more ostentatious version of Alice's old flat in Soho. He wondered who lived there now.

Jean tossed back the rest of her champagne and was about to say more when she spotted Jeanne Moreau huddled in a dark corner with Tony Richardson. Her face brightened, and she apologized to the group before she walked over determinedly, starting yet another round of air kisses and half-hugs.

Ray wandered off, leaving just Paul, Mick, and the last bit of the joint. Behind them, a speaker played music loud enough that no one could overhear them.

"Jimi's playing at midnight?" Paul asked, taking a final drag.

Mick nodded. "So they say. A fucking groove, man."

He took a drag before stubbing the end of the joint out in a nearby ashtray.

"Why'd John and George come back so early?"

Paul shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. He'd been asked a version of this at least a dozen times in the past two days, and he didn't have an answer, either public or private.

"Dunno."

Mick raised an eyebrow and fished out another cigarette, offering Paul one. There was a slight pause as they each inhaled deeply, the smoke burning their lungs. A waiter passed with a tray of glasses of ruby red wine, which they helped themselves to.

"Have you seen Dutch lately?" Mick asked out of nowhere.

Paul hadn't heard that nickname in over a year, and he nearly choked on his wine.

"Nope," he replied, wishing he had another joint in a pocket. Across from him, Mick took a sip and pursed his oversized lips.

"She stopped by the other day."

Paul stilled. He tried not to react at all, but he could feel the stoniness of his face and the inflexibility of his limbs. He stood there like a fucking statue for a long moment before he managed to choke out a benign, "oh?"

Mick nodded. "She came by to see Mari."

"How's she doing?"

Mick shrugged. "Didn't talk to her, just said hello. Her hair's different now."

Paul wanted to ask if it was good different, or a bad different. But he didn't because it was Alice, so of course it was a good different. And what did it matter? That was old news. He's fucked up; she'd run off. Old fucking news.

A few of Mick's friends, who Paul didn't know, came up, slapping the Stones frontman on the back and everyone laughing jubilantly. But the mood had been ruined for Paul because everywhere he looked, he just saw an absence of Alice. She would have adored this scene. He would have loved watching her fall in love with this place, and they would have gotten stoned and gone back to have silly, playful sex that would have ended on a surprisingly tender note.

Old fucking news.

"You coming, Paul?" Mick asked, his tone suggesting that he'd asked the same question several times.

"Coming where?"

"Upstairs," Mick pointed. "There's a second floor, too."

Paul shook his head. "I'm waiting for someone."

The group departed, and Paul was once again on his own. But there was only so long that a Beatle could stand alone in a crowded room. He felt a hand on his shirt sleeve and reflexively took a step back until he realized it was Christele.

"Hi, love," he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek. "Find the place okay?"

She nodded. "The auras here are out of this world. What a groove."

Paul sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, it is, absolutely. Except--"

He leaned closer to whisper something in her ear, leaning back to watch her expression. She arched an eyebrow playfully and nodded. He shot her a mischievous smile as he wrapped an arm around her waist and guided her past the stroppy shop girl at the entrance and out into the cool night air.

Bianca Jagger was stepping out of a taxi dressed in the requisite flowy kaftan, and Paul kissed her cheek as he simultaneously directed Christele into the vehicle. He gave the driver directions to her flat in Pimlico, where he went down on her and then took her from behind. It was just enough to forget all the stuff with John, all the self-doubt he'd been feeling for weeks, and, most of all, the overwhelming absence of Alice.