July 1969
Alice

Suzie leaned toward me with a cigarette dangling from her fingers as she stared at the ledger on the desk.

"Sales are up 30 percent net," she said, her eyes gleaming. "When we take into account the exchange rate, which is quite favorable at the moment, we can assume a profit margin of--"

Her American accent had grown even more pronounced since she'd moved back to New York City. That plus her much lighter hair and trimmer waist made her seem like almost a different person.

"I saved the best for last," she said with a proud smile. "Zarby New York will have a spread in Vogue in October."

I blinked, the words taking longer to process than usual. It felt odd sitting behind my desk after four months of being home with Lou, like perhaps I was now an imposter.

"American or British Vogue?" I asked.

"American."

I nodded, wondering why I wasn't more over the moon. My emotions had felt muted ever since the baby was born. It was as if there were a semi-opaque wall between me and the rest of the world, which both protected me but also kept me slightly apart. Cynthia said it was the baby blues, but I reckoned it was just my aristocratic nature showing through.

"I can't tell you how grateful I am for taking it all over, Suz," I said, leaning forward. "You've done brilliantly."

She blushed. "When will you be back full-time? The girls there miss you."

I paused. It was one thing for me to take a taxi to Shoreditch a few times a week to cosplay sitting behind my desk. It was another--far more fantastical--idea to actually go to America for an extended length of time. It seemed terribly complicated to travel with a baby and, if I were being honest, I wasn't sure Paul could cope here on his own. Not with the way things were.

The door to my office creaked open before I could reply, and my assistant poked her head in.

"Mr. McCartney phoned..." she trailed off, looking between me and Suzie.

"Louise isn't taking her bottle," I guessed.

"He asked if you might consider popping home," she said apologetically as if this didn't happen every other time I tried to come in for a day of work. It was as if Louise sensed that I needed to do something for myself and staged a hunger strike until I reappeared.

I stared just past Suzie's shoulder, my eyes glued to the intricate pattern of scarlet holly leaves on the wallpaper.

"Shall I ring back and ask if the nanny has tried?" my assistant asked. "That worked last time."

I was quiet for another few seconds, lost in my own world. If Paul had rung the shop, then it meant he'd tried everything. It wasn't his fault that Lou only wanted me to feed her. But it also wasn't my fault that I needed to get out of the house for a few hours.

"Alice?" Suzie said gently, causing the world to come back into focus. I ran a hand through my hair and restlessly smoothed out my linen a-line dress as I shifted in my seat.

"It's alright," I said as I stood and began to push the various notebooks and ledgers on my desk into a haphazard pile. "We'll try again next time."

**

Most of the girls outside the gate were regulars and thus could recognize that I wasn't in the mood to chat. They gave me plenty of bandwidth as I got out of the taxi and rummaged through my purse for the gate key. Mal had proposed putting in a system that would allow us to open it more easily, but we hadn't gotten around to giving him the okay to install it.

A new girl sidled up next to me, much too close for my liking. She wore far too much perfume for such a hot day and, for a moment, it seemed like I might suffocate in the scent.

"Give her space," another girl said. "He said we mustn't crowd her."

A few weeks prior, Paul and I had come home from a family luncheon to find that someone had painted SLAG on the gate in bright red paint. He'd hustled me and Lou inside and then stormed outside to give the girls a piece of his mind. Mal had come right over to wash it off, but not before a photographer had snapped a picture that ended up in the next day's papers.

Alice McCartney. Slag.

The girl moved even closer and it took all my willpower not to instinctively curl inwards. Instead, I took a step to the left, which caused the key to bend slightly and then snap in half. Staring at the remaining bit of metal in my hand, I exhaled heavily as my eyes landed on the other half lodged into the lock.

"I told you to give her space!" the first girl said, getting into the second girl's face as I tried to turn the handle. It wouldn't budge.

"Now he won't sign for us," a third girl said accusingly as I jammed my finger on the buzzer. "He said he'd come out later, but now you've broken his gate."

The intercom screeched loudly and all I heard was static. "It's me," I said loudly, enunciating each word because the intercom speaker inside was wonky -- really, the entire system needed replacing.

After a moment, the latch clicked and I hurriedly slipped through the crack and pulled the gate closed with all my might, worried the crazy girl might try to get in. I was halfway to the entrance when the door opened and Paul's head popped out.

"Hi, love," he said cheerfully, then his face straightened as he looked past me. "What's wrong with the gate?"

"My key is jammed in the lock," I explained as I climbed the stairs. "Have Mrs. Bennington ring a locksmith right away or we'll be forced to scale the walls."

He pursed his lips and squinted toward the gate. "Oh, Mal can just sort it when he comes by later."

Once inside, I kicked off my heels and padded to the small table in the entryway where a postcard from Toronto sat propped up. Flipping it over, I read the loopy handwriting aloud.

"Love + Peace = Bagism. Love Johnandyoko."

I felt Paul's hand around my waist, then his chin appeared on my shoulder.

"What's bagism?" I asked, turning the postcard to look at the grainy image of the Toronto skyline.

"Who fucking knows," he muttered, straightening and running a hand through his hair. "When I asked John, he said 'We're all in a bag, baby!' One of their mad ideas, I guess. Neil said they were handing out acorns to the audience last week."

Louise's cry became more insistent, which made us both wince.

"My God, will she ever stop fussing?" Paul lifted a hand to rub his temple. "I'm meant to be coming up with songs for the record, but I can't fucking think in this house."

"She's hungry," I said, feeling defeated. "She's always hungry."

"Well, maybe she should eat when food is offered. Lydia tried for a half hour, then I tried for at least 15 minutes. She only wants you."

Louise's cries seemed to echo through the house as I followed the sound up to her nursery. Our nanny, Lydia, was pacing around the pink-and-yellow room whilst patting Louise gently on the back. The baby had put us all through the wringer for the past few months, and Paul and I were constantly worried that the nanny would quit. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I realized it was also her night off so we'd be on our own for 12 hours.

"You're back," she said, sounding relieved. I made a note to ask Paul to invite some famous friends over or pen a song about her in the hopes that she wouldn't abandon us in our time of need.

Louise calmed the moment she was in my arms and I felt a rush of dueling emotions: appreciation for the fact that my daughter seemed to love me and annoyance that she refused to let me live any semblance of an adult life.

"I'm sorry we had to ring," Paul said from the doorway. I looked over my shoulder to see him leaning against the frame with his hands in his pockets. His lips were curved downward in a weary frown and his eyes looked tired. He was already burning the candle at both ends, so I couldn't imagine what would happen when the boys went back to the studio in a few weeks.

"Don't worry," I replied. "I'm keeping track of every time this happens so that I can force you home from the studio."

Based on Paul's expression, my words had come out more barbed than intended. His eyes flickered over to Lydia, who was staring at both of us. She noticed his glance and made a big show of picking up a pile of burp cloths and hurrying out of the room.

"You alright, baby?" he asked, moving closer to put an arm on my waist. He peered into my eyes as if hoping they held the answer to everything. I glanced down to see that Louise had passed out on my shoulder.

"Poor thing," I said softly as I stared at the fine dark hairs on the top of her head, which were just beginning to curl. "She must have exhausted herself... should we wake her to eat, do you think?"

Not for the first time, I very much wished that she'd come with an instruction manual because I was at my wit's end never knowing what to do. Cynthia had told me it would all make sense once my mother instincts kicked in, but I wasn't sure they had.

"Let her sleep... she won't sleep too long if she's hungry," Paul countered with certainty that I wished I had. There was no question that his father instincts had kicked in the day Lou was born. I'd never seen anyone who loved being a dad more than him.

He watched me with uncertainty as I walked a few feet to the rocking chair painted in psychedelic colors, which had been a gift from Keith and Anita. We'd both spent countless hours there since it was the only place Louise liked to sleep.

"You alright, love?" he asked again as I shifted in the chair to get as comfortable as possible without waking the baby. I indicated with my chin for him to shut off the light, which he did.

"Liss," he said in a low voice as he pulled a stool up next to the chair. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I whispered. "I'm always fine."

He pulled a face and snorted. "Sure, yeah."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, feeling prickly despite myself.

His face softened. "Lissy, no one's fine all the time. It's impossible. Even for you."

"I'm just tired."

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my knee then rested his forehead on my thigh as he stared down at the floor. The hair on his head shifted rhythmically as I moved the rocking chair back and forth at just the right pace.

"Ringo said that it gets better after four months," he said, his words slightly muffled. "Apparently this is a sleep regression, whatever the bloody hell that is."

"You lot were in the studio for a month when Zak was four months old," I said dryly. "I doubt Ringo was home for much of it."

His shoulders lifted to nearly touch his ears in an exaggerated shrug. "Point it, it's supposed to get better. Everyone says it gets better."

We were quiet for a long moment and I wondered if he'd fallen asleep. Even though the Beatles were on a break between recording, he spent half his days on the phone with Neil or his attorneys and the other half silently stewing about Allen Klein and John's increasingly erratic behavior.

There was another long silence.

"I didn't know it would be this hard," I admitted. "I always thought new mothers were-- I dunno, slightly hysterical and being dramatic about it all, do you know what I mean?"

He nodded, his forehead bobbing up and down against the top of my thigh. "Drama queens."

"Yeah, exactly. I always thought-- get on with it, just-- I dunno, carry on with your life."

He barked out a wry chuckle. "Christ, I wish we could carry on with our lives."

I didn't point out that he seemed to be carrying on with his life. He was more tired, yes, and I knew he worried about me. But it didn't stop him from popping into the studio almost every other day under the pretense that he needed to get something on tape or help a band produce a track. Clearly, music was where he threw his energy to keep him balanced when life got turbulent.

I envied him having that outlet.

The buzzer downstairs rang three times in succession, causing Louise to startle in my arms. There was a two-second pause before she raised her head and began to bawl. The buzzer rang again, causing her to cry even harder.

"Fuck's sake," Paul muttered as he sat up, running a hand through his hair as we listened to the girls chattering gain in intensity. "It's like a fucking zoo here."

"Go open the gate," I said resignedly. "And ask Lydia to bring me the bottle."

Turns out that it was David Gilmore of Pink Floyd and Donovan, whom Paul had invited over to jam and smoke grass and then forgotten about. As I fed Louise the bottle, I could hear him laughing downstairs and doing his Jolly Beatle thing. A few minutes later, the buzzer rang again and the girls went bonkers, which meant it could only be another Beatle.

"Liss," Paul called. "I forgot to tell you-- Pattie and George said they'd pop by. Judging how the birds have their knickers in a twist, that's them now."

With a sigh, I kissed Louise on the top of her head and passed her off to Lydia. I heard a shriek from below and saw a girl elbow her way through the gate just before it closed, causing Paul to stomp over and grab her forearm. I could hear her berating her -- this is my home, we deserve privacy, I'm half-tempted to hire a bloody security guard -- as he guided her toward the gate door.

Pulling the drapes closed, I wandered over to the floor-length mirror in the corner of the room and stared critically at my reflection. I'd felt passably chic when I left for Zarby that morning, but sitting in the rocking chair had caused my linen shift to become horribly wrinkled.

"Liss!" Paul called. "The Harrisons are here."

I quickly unzipped the dress and stepped out of it, leaving it in a crumpled pile on the floor. I grabbed a Missoni mini dress with a brightly colored zig-zags pattern and pulled it on. It didn't fit the same as before I'd had Louise, which made me want to die a little inside. I then ran a brush through my hair and pinched my cheeks to give them a bit of color before bounding down the stairs.

Pattie and George were already installed in the living room, both of them looking tanned and well-rested. She was perched on the arm of the sofa wearing a sleeveless Indian-inspired tunic with heaps of gold bangles dangling from her wrist. George was sprawled next to Donovan with a Gibson Les Paul guitar in his hands, his long dark hair spilling past his shoulders. Something about his full beard and mustache made his face appear more angular and thus more serious.

I looked at Paul, who was watching his bandmate, and I wondered if he also felt dowdy standing next to them. He looked up and caught my glance, giving me a sympathetic wink that indicated no, he didn't feel any different, but he could tell I did.

"Aliiiiice," Pattie cooed, jumping up to kiss one cheek and then the other. She held me at arm's length. "Don't you look marvelous? I adore that dress."

David got to work rolling another joint, which George and Paul happily shared as they got into a minor disagreement about a chord progression for a song George had been struggling with for ages. The buzzer rang again, causing more distant cries from Louise. A moment later, Mal appeared at the front door in what appeared to be a new coat and a magazine tucked under his arm.

"The gate lock's broken," he announced.

"Was hoping you would sort it," Paul said in a tone that I thought was a bit dismissive, but perhaps Mal would chalk it up to an exhausted new father.

"It's my fault," I said apologetically. "One of the girls sort of lunged at me and when I moved out of the way, the key bent."

Pattie shook her head in disbelief. "These girls, I swear, it's getting worse. I thought the awful bits were behind us, but I don't know."

"A girl once tried to handcuff herself to me," Paul mused.

"What?" I asked, swiveling my head to stare at him.

"At a concert," he added. "Well, outside of the theatre."

"Mal saved him," George interjected. "The bird was running toward Macca-- one end of the handcuffs was already fastened around her wrist and she was trying to get to him to attach herself for life."

I looked at Mal for confirmation, and he shrugged. "It was in America."

"Ah," I replied as if that explained it all. He shrugged again and mumbled something about needing to ring the locksmith. Then, as an afterthought, he looked at the magazine in his hand and tossed it Paul's way. My husband looked at it questioningly and then his expression brightened.

"Can't believe Mick really did it," he said, lobbing it toward George who put down the guitar and caught it just before it was about to hit Donovan in the face.

"Did what?" Pattie asked, tilting her head to one side.

Paul rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "He's been cross that Rolling Stone magazine used the band name... threatened them with a lawsuit and everything. Anyway, I'd heard he agreed to not sue them if he could start a British version. Didn't think he'd do it, though."

"Oh, bloody hell," George said with a grin as he began to thumb through the magazine. He started to laugh and then held up the cover for us all to see.

"Bob... Dillon?" Paul said. "D-I-L-L-O-N? Christ, I'd heard they put a bunch of hippies in charge, but I didn't realize--"

George fanned open the magazine dramatically and stopped at a high-contrast black-and-white photograph of Stevie Wonder. I remembered the night long ago when we'd all gone to see him at the Scotch, way back in the dark ages when Paul and I were just friends.

George's eyes widened. "I suppose they're syndicating some of the American content because this here is a Theo Dormer review."

Pattie gave him a coy smile. "He's dreamy."

"He's a twat, more like it," Donovan scoffed.

George jabbed his finger at the print on the page, reading the review aloud. "'Stevie Wonder woefully misses the mark with this mushy tune full of tortuous rhymes. The bassline blunders about aimlessly amid the torrent of schlock, made even worse by the cloying harmonica.'"

"Bloody hell, torrent of schlock?!" Paul's eyebrows shot up. "What's the song?"

George glanced at the top of the page. "My Cherie Amour."

Donovan leaned over George's shoulder, continuing to read aloud. "I can only surmise that Stevie recently discovered that rhyming dictionaries exist and this song is the sad, clunky result."

I furrowed my brow at the last bit because it sounded familiar. Hayes had recently used the exact same phrase, which made me wonder if he was feeding lines to Theo since they were transatlantic pen pals.

David looked horrified as he brushed a long lock of hair behind his ear. "Who is this guy?"

"Theo Dormer," George replied. "He's a Brit who works for Rolling Stone in America. How have you not heard of him, man? His review of The Beatles nearly tanked our sales in America. He said that the album proved that we -- the Beales, that is -- were basking in sonic complacency... whatever that is."

"Liss used to go out with him," Paul said, reaching for the half-smoked spliff and taking a drag. "He was her rebound."

"He wasn't a rebound," I protested. "And he's not so bad in person... he's nice when he wants to be."

George looked up in horror, so much so that it was almost comical. "You slept with the enemy??!"

Donovan started to laugh and Paul snorted as I pulled back as if my honor had been besmirched.

"I didn't-- we never--"

"'Stevie's sugar-sweet 'song' offers listeners little but lyrical lunacy and ennui'," David continued to read from the magazine that he'd grabbed from George. "Jesus Christ, man."

"It wasn't-- we never--" I was stammering by that point, which caused Paul to laugh even harder.

"Sure, baby," he said, walking over to press a kiss on my lips. "You were pure as snow the day we got married."

I folded my arms across my chest. "How dare you, sir."

He grinned and looped an arm around my neck. "To be honest, I'd bloody sleep with Theo if he'd give us a decent review."

"Write a decent song then," I said, sticking out my tongue. All the boys guffawed as Paul stuck his tongue out at me and then leaned in to kiss the tip of my nose.

"Tart," he whispered.

"Trollop," I replied before turning to Pattie and motioning toward the kitchen. Her shoulders sagged in relief as if she couldn't bear to sit with the lads any longer and she followed me into the kitchen.

"How're you coping?" she asked sympathetically as I put the kettle on the hob. "I've been thinking about you -- it was such a struggle when I stopped working."

"Oh, I just took a pause," I said as I took two mugs from the cabinet. "I'm slowly going back to work. I went in today, actually."

"Oh, really?" she asked, sounding surprised, and I wondered -- not for the first time -- if everyone had assumed I'd just sell off Zarby and stay home to pop out babies and bake cakes.

"Well, Louise is adorable," she said. "Like a little doll."

"My father says she looks too much like Paul," I said with a grimace. "Ever since his term ended... well, I suppose he doesn't know what to do with his time, so he's here most mornings. Turns up at half-six before the girls are at the gate."

"So early," Pattie said sympathetically like she was the one who was getting woken up every morning when she'd only just fallen asleep. "But the good news is-- I was talking to a numerologist and, apparently, 1969 is a good year to be born."

"Is it?"

She nodded eagerly. "Oh, yes. It's an angel number."

"...angel number?"

"Well, yes. Apparently, there is a powerful combination of energies in the numbers... the vibrations of number 1 and number 9... and then the influences of 6 and 9, of course. It's a manifestation thing, apparently -- you know, trusting that positive thoughts will bring abundance and blessing in your life."

"Oh," I said, as I poured tea into both of our mugs and slid one over to her. "Well, I suppose that's a good thing."

Paul walked in briefly to grab the Hermes teapot from the cupboard, which he still insisted on using to store loose grass. When he left, Pattie leaned in conspiratorially.

"He's put on a bit of weight, hasn't he?"

I used all my willpower to stop myself from chortling. "Has he?"

"A bit around the face, I'd say."

And a bit around the waist, but I didn't say it aloud. Paul had been stress eating for months and it was finally showing. He was self-conscious about it and that very morning had been threatening to start a crash diet involving grapefruits and champagne.

"Perhaps a bit," I agreed. "Whatever is happening with the fellows seems terribly... complicated."

Pattie leaned even further in and glanced behind her to ensure no one was nearby.

"George can't stop talking about it. I never want to hear Allen Klein's name again."

I shook my head. "Paul too. He's upset about Northern Star as well. It's been... tense around here.

"Have you seen Yoko since the wedding?" she asked.

I shook my head. "No, but she rang me last week to see if I could help them get a permit for a lake they want to construct at their new house."

"A lake?"

I shrugged again. "Yes, I think they want to... well, I don't know how you make a lake. I suppose you dig a hole and fill it with water. But wouldn't the water seep back into the ground and you're left with a muddy puddle?"

In the background, George let out a boisterous laugh at something that Donovan said, followed by Paul shouting "Too fucking right, man!"

Pattie glanced down at her watch and sat straighter. "I didn't realize it was so late. I'm due to meet Nigel and Sheila. Do you want to join us?"

"I can't," I replied ruefully. "Louise will want to eat again in an hour."

"The nanny can't do it?"

I shook my head. "Not reliably. Half the time, Lou won't even take the bottle from Paul. I think she just really likes me to be around."

A look of naked sympathy flashed across Pattie's face, quickly replaced by a warm smile. "Another time then."

"Liss," Paul called from the living room. "We're going to Lush to listen to jazz. Wanna come?"

I sighed and put my mug on the counter, refusing to meet Pattie's eyes. There was no way she could understand how this felt, to be trapped in this world that had once been so familiar and now wasn't at all.

There was just no way.

*

It was past two when Paul returned home and crawled into bed next to me. He faffed around with the pillows for a moment before shifting closer to me and pressing a kiss on my shoulder.

"What a fucking day," he mumbled as if he'd been really put out by having to drag his wife away from work and then spend the next six hours getting high with his mates. To be fair, it was the most friendly I'd seen George and Paul for months, so perhaps the stress of putting on a good face had made it such a fucking day.

"But the good news," he continued with a yawn, "is that we worked out the middle eight to that song-- you know, the one I played for you last week."

He began to hum a melody that sounded vaguely familiar, but, honestly, he was constantly coming up with new tunes and it was tough to keep track of them.

"We should take a holiday," he said, pulling me closer. "Ringo is in the Bahamas, John is in Canada and the Harrisons leave for Sardinia on Tuesday... maybe a break would do us good?"

I turned toward him. "Where do you want to go?"

He shrugged and I watched his hand brush over my arm in the half-light.

"Dunno," he said, bending his head to kiss the skin just beside one of the thin straps of my negligee. His other hand gripped my waist and pulled me closer.

"The Maldives?" he asked, running a hand over the silky fabric next to my breasts.

"It's a bit far," I said, my breath hitching softly. "For a short holiday."

"Mmm," he hummed against my skin. "Corsica?"

"Too hot," I said with a laugh.

"Antarctica, then," he suggested, his hand running up my thigh. "Perfect spot for a family of three."

"Antarctica it is," I whispered as his head moved lower until his lips were on my hip.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," he said, moving his head lower. "I just want to bury myself in you."

As if on cue, Louise began to cry in the distance. Paul and I froze, neither of us making a peep as if that would somehow do the trick. He looked up at me with eyes full of both lust and abject disappointment.

"I joined the band to pull birds and have wild sex, you know," he whispered with the beginnings of a cheeky smirk.

"Yes, and then you knocked me up and married me," I whispered back, extending an arm so I could pull him up toward me. "The joke's on you, Beatle Paul."

He leaned in until our lips were nearly touching. "Worth it."

I laughed and raised my head so our lips connected, which Lou must have sensed because she began to cry more loudly.

"I'm a bloody pop star and you're an heiress -- why can't we have a nanny who doesn't need Saturdays off?" he complained.

"Says the man who didn't want a nanny in the first place," I reminded him.

"Yes, well, now I'm agreeing that it's a brilliant idea except we need one who's here every second of every day."

"We need one who won't quit," I said lightly. "We're a handful."

With a groan, he pushed himself off the bed and reluctantly pulled on his trousers.

"I'll get her," he muttered."Have a tune in my head that I've gotta work out anyway-- or I'll never sleep."

I pulled the sheets over me and waited, fully expecting him to admit defeat and tell me that she was refusing her bottle. Five minutes turned into ten and at some point I fell asleep, only to be woken again by babbling and cooing beside me.

Sunlight streamed into the room and I realized it was the longest stretch of sleep I'd gotten in weeks. I turned to see Paul nestled against a pile of pillows, staring at our daughter. The shadows under his eyes were evidence that that he probably hadn't slept much, but his expression was one of contentment as he softly sang a song to her and she babbled back happily.

When he noticed that I was awake, his eyes lit up. "We have a surprise for you."

"We? Who is we?"

"Me and Lou," he said as if it were obvious. Lifting her into the crook of one arm, he reached the other toward me to pull me toward the end of the bed.

"Where are we going?"

"Chop, chop, make haste," he said. "We were up all night working on it."

"Working on what?" I said, laughing, as I pulled on a teal silk dressing gown that I'd bought in Tokyo.

"Boy, you're gonna carry that weight," he sang as he led me down the corridor. "Carry that weight a long time."

"You've finally lost it," I said, reaching out to grab Louise as he tugged me up the small staircase leading to his music room.

"Carry that weight a long time!"

He stopped as soon as we walked through the door, causing me to nearly run into him. I took in the room, which looked as if a hurricane had been through it overnight. Papers were everywhere, and I worried momentarily that all of our future income was scattered all over the room.

"What happened here?" I asked. Paul shook his head like I was missing the point. I continued to scan the room until I noticed that there was a small table from the living room shoved under the small window. Beneath it was the piano bench and on top was an ancient typewriter that John had purchased at a market stall and left here several years prior.

I took a few steps toward the table and noticed that a few of my notebooks were piled on top, alongside a pile of correspondence that I'd been avoiding.

"Did you..." I turned to look at Paul, who looked somewhere between embarrassed and proud. "Did you make me an office here?"

He nodded as Louise babbled loudly and swiped her fist near my nose, nearly making contact.

"I thought..." he paused for a moment and ran a hand through his hair. "I dunno, I know you keep having to come home to feed Lou... so I thought maybe you could work from here instead."

I turned to look at the makeshift desk, which wouldn't actually work at all because no doubt Paul would be up here pounding out a song on the piano. But the thought-- the thought he'd put into it felt like a breath of fresh air.

"It's perfect," I said, turning to him. "I love it."

"Yeah?"

I nodded and walked over to slip an arm around his waist.

"Yeah," I replied, laying a head on his shoulder. "I really do."

Lou squawked loudly, causing us to jump apart as if we'd been caught doing something naughty.

"She's hungry," we both said at the same time. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he laughed, and, for the first time since Louise had been born, it felt like I was where I was supposed to be.

The buzzer rang, startling us both and Paul looked over at the clock on the wall

"Six thirty on the dot," he said. "Must be your dad."

"You must admit it's cute," I replied with a grin. "I don't remember seeing him nearly as often when I was little, so perhaps there's hope for Louise McCartney."

"Probably just wants to be sure I'm not influencing her too much," he grumbled as we made our way to the staircase. "Anyway, I'm going to sleep... tell him I said hi."

He kissed my cheek and turned toward the bedroom as the buzzer chimed again. I was halfway down the staircase when I turned back.

"Paul," I called and, a moment later, he appeared at the top of the staircase looking down at me with sleepy eyes.

"Antarctica seems a bit overdone," I said seriously. "Everyone's been there, done that, you know?"

He tilted his head, waiting to see where this was going.

"How about we go to Scotland?" I asked as the buzzer rang for a third time. "Just the three of us."

His brow furrowed. "But you hate Scotland."

"But you love it," I countered. "And I can tolerate it for a few days. Plus, I'm not sure Lou has ever seen trees and grass and all that. Surely that'll come back to bite us in the arse one day."

A smile slowly spread over his face. "Might be the best idea you've ever had, baby."

He blew me a kiss and turned to head toward the bedroom.

"It'll be a groove," I called back as I began to walk down the stairs with Louise in my arms.

I heard him laugh -- a carefree laugh for the first time in ages -- and I smiled.

"Now kick out your old man so we can pack and get the fuck out of here," he said, his voice drifting downstairs as I opened the door and headed out into the cool morning air.