Paul

My tea had gone cold. I watched the surface, which reflected the shitty fluorescent lights above. They really did need a cozier ambiance in Studio 2.  I took a sip, and winced. Not hot enough to drink, not cold enough to chuck away. A sad fucking metaphor for the album we were trying to record. 

John sat across from me doing a crossword puzzle. His hair had grown back surprisingly quickly after he chopped it off as a publicity stunt. It tumbled across his shoulders in a slightly frizzy, slightly unwashed sort of way, only to be outdone by the enormous beard that threatened to overtake his face. He wore a white shirt, white jeans and white Chuck Taylors. He was always wearing white in those days, something about the absence of color or maybe it was all the colors  combined? Hayes had tried explaining it once, but it had gone in one ear and out the other. 

Every few moments, he looked up to catch my eye, then looked down again. For those few seconds, it felt a bit like we were teenagers on our first date, except we were almost 30 and had known each other for half our lives. The silence between us was dense and uncomfortable, as I struggled not to make small talk to fill the silence. Anyone else see Dr Who last night? And what's up with the girl outside Apple who was arrested for not wearing a top? Did anyone see her knockers?

Yoko sat next to him, also in all white. Her hair had also grown back quickly, making me wonder if there was something in the water at Tittenhurst. She hadn't spoken to anyone since arriving, but somehow managed to make her presence known. She watched the glances between me and John and also seemed to feel the density of the silence. We made eye contact for the briefest moment and it felt like she could see into my soul in a way that made me feel deeply uncomfortable.

Not for the first time that day, I wished that Alice were also there. But she hated the sessions -- said they were insufferable and she couldn't bear listening to the same bits over and over again. Still, it would have been nice to have someone by my side.

"Seven across," John said suddenly. "Six letters. 'Yesterday's hero.'"

I almost said Trying to tell me something? in a silly accent to try to elicit a laugh from him, but it seemed like Yoko wouldn't find it funny, so instead I just stared down at the blank page in my notebook.

"Yester," Ringo called out from the other side of the room where he was staring intently at a chessboard. A roadie sat across from him looking mildly petrified that he had the winning move but didn't want to take Beatle Ringo's queen. He was new and untested, but seemed like a nice guy even if he was a bit terrified of us.

"That's not a word," John said. "That's yesterday without the day."

A melody floated through my brain, almost like a tickle. Not quite the old song, but something similar stripped down to its bones. I hummed the tune, then sang under my breath Time without its day, a day without its time. 

I looked up to catch John watching me, his head tilted to one side like he was trying to figure something out.

"Bit on the nose, isn't it?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Everything's a bit on the nose these days."

"Not your best," he pointed out.

I shook my head. "It's rubbish."

George stood by the staircase leading to the door, jingling his car keys. His leather jacket was already on like he was hoping to sneak out. He'd been talking about India again, practically lecturing us about spirituality and how we all needed a great escape. I got it. Sometimes I fantasized about disappearing with Alice and Louise to Scotland, but look how fucking far that had gotten us the last time we'd tried. I'd been two episodes of The Adamms Family and one playback of Mrs. Robinson away from completely losing it. Fucking mental. 

"Anyone seen my other drumstick?" Ringo asked, standing up from the chessboard. His eyes scanned me, then John, then George like he was assessing the vibe. I scrawled in my notebook: Trying to keep the beat even when the song's falling apart.

"Check behind the mixing desk," I said, not looking up. "Think I saw it there during the last take."

"The last take," John muttered. "Which last take? The last last take or the last last last take?"

"The last last last last last last last take," Yoko said with a little giggle that sounded both girlish and slightly mean-spirited.

I glanced up at John. "Had to get it right, didn't we? Since when do we get it right on the first try?"

"Did we though?" John's eyes met mine again. "Did we have to get it right, or did it have to be right?"

I wasn't sure what he meant, but his tone of voice suggested that I should have. George's keys jingled louder. Ringo's search for his drumstick became suspiciously thorough.

I put the notebook down and stretched my arms up. "Let's call it, then. Give it another go tomorrow. Try a different arrangement or whatever."

"Tomorrow," George echoed from the doorway, dragging out the last syllable much longer than necessary. 

John folded his paper, the crossword half-finished. "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day."

"Macbeth," I said automatically. Our eyes met again, suddenly two teenagers who'd suffered through Shakespeare together. God, we'd fucking hated the sonnets.

"To the last syllable of recorded time," John continued reciting as he stood up, stretching his arms up in the air just as I had. Yoko watched him for a moment before she, too, stood up.

"And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death," I finished.

"Think Willie meant to say all our yesters?" Ringo asked from beneath his drum kit, where he'd finally found the missing stick. He looked at it like a long lost friend and walked over to peer over my shoulder at my notebook.

"Too fucking right that I always keep the beat," he said, giving my arm a friendly shove in a way that I knew was meant to lighten the moment.

George was already at the top of the stairs, halfway out the door. I watched John hand his guitar to the new roadie as Yoko collected the newspapers she'd been reading. He turned back to me.

"Coming, Macca?"

I looked at my cold tea again. The others were halfway out the door there was me, still sitting, always sitting, always trying to be the one to hold it all together.

"Yeah, sure," I said finally. "Tea sounds good."

**

The following day, the control room was too bloody hot. I pressed my forehead against the glass, watching George fidget with his guitar strap through the window. Take seventeen, or was it eighteen? The same bleeding riff, which he still couldn't get right. We would probably die sitting here in Studio 2 before George could get the riff right.

"Let's go again," I said into the mic, trying to keep my voice light. Alice had suggested meditation that morning. Deep breaths. Maybe take a jaunt in the geodesic dome. Don't let them see you sweat.

"Just..." I trailed off, closing my eyes briefly. "Just try to keep it cleaner on the descending part, yeah? Like—" I hummed the line, the notes perfect in my head. John always said he wished there were a machine that could translate everything in his head. At that moment, I wished for the same thing.

Below in the studio, George's response was a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. God, I was fucking tired of that look. Like I was a schoolmarm making everyone learn their multiplication tables. When had that happened? Part of me wondered if that look had developed as far back as Hamburg, or perhaps when Mr Epstein died. Regardless, I was sick of being on the receiving end of it, like I didn't have anything better to do than corral the four of us into a semi-workable plan.  

"Maybe if you showed me exactly how you want it played, Paul?" he said flatly as he rolled up the sleeves of his brightly-colored shirt. "Since you seem to know precisely how it should go."

At that moment, I deeply regretted the night I'd spent alone at the studio working on the bass part for Something. Maybe if George didn't want precision, he could write his own fucking basslines. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught John smirking from the corner from where he and Yoko had set up their permanent nest of cushions. It was a massive pile, like they'd designed it to take up as much space and attention as possible. I rolled my eyes and turned to Mr. Martin, who was studiously reading a newspaper so he didn't have to get involved. I could tell that he also thought I was being a bit insufferable -- was there anyone in the fucking world who didn't think I was insufferable? -- so I stood to leave out of the control room and walked down the stairs to the studio.

"Right," I said, grabbing my guitar from where it lay on the studio floor. "It's just this bit here--"

I demonstrated the riff as George watched, his face unreadable. Behind us, Ringo tapped a cymbal softly, either keeping time or taking the piss. It was tough to tell.

"See what I mean? The riff should be a ghost of itself. Simple, like." I meant for the words to sound encouraging, but suspected they came out condescendingly.

"Yeah, sure," George said. "Simple enough if you want it to sound like a McCartney song."

My brow furrowed, because I'd written the song. It was a McCartney song. Also, why was he saying McCartney song like it was a bad thing? My fucking songs paid for his life and this studio time and all of Pattie's clothes. 

"Some of us may have our own ideas about riffs," George continued and I just knew that he was thinking that Delaney and Bonnie weren't so insufferable. And Clapton could be a real prick, but surely George never felt lectured to by him. 

I felt a familiar tightness in my chest, the same one that appeared everytime I walked into the studio lately. Breathe, I heard Alice say in my mind. Don't let them see you sweat. Once upon a time, I would have had the patience to get it right and coddle George's feelings. But I was too worn down and it seemed easier to just do it myself, only I couldn't do that.

"Look, the song has a certain... it needs..."

I trailed off because I knew what it needed, but didn't know how to explain to George what he was doing wrong. And fucking Christ, this whole thing made me feel like I was the captain of the Titanic telling everyone that everything would be okay if only they would follow instructions.

"Certain what, Paul?" George asked, with an edge to his voice that further exhausted me. Schoolmarm. Multiplication tables.

Behind us, Ringo tapped a little beat on the snare. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said in a deep voice. "Mrs. Alice McCartney!"

I looked up to see Alice standing by the door, her eyes scanning the room like she was trying to read the vibe. She has a pleasant smile on her face -- her default, public-facing smile that meant nothing special -- which widened to an actual smile when our eyes met.

"The Viscountess is gracing us with her hallowed presence," John said as she descended the stairs, her legs going on for miles in a purple mini skirt. "Even such lowly peasants such as we are."

Alice didn't react or even acknowledge John as she leaned toward me, brushing her lips over mine. Breathe, she seemed to say with her eyes. Don't let them see you sweat. Then she looked over where Yoko was perched on the cushions and waved. 

"Sorry to interrupt," she said as she walked over to Ringo, giving him an air kiss on each cheek. "I'm sure you're busy."

In a moment of solidarity, George and I glanced at each other to silently point out that John's wife was a walking interruption who had been in the studio for the past fucking year. And she'd never once apologized for it, although perhaps it was considered anti-feminist to expect women to apologize for anything. Still, an acknowledgement would have been nice. 

"Just need to steal Paul away for a mo," Alice said brightly as she took my elbow. I placed the guitar down and we walked up the stairs. Behind me, I heard the other three burst into a rendition of I Saw Her Standing There. When Alice interveeeeenes, you know it's a sceeeeene, John sang as the door closed behind us.

I glanced down the corridor, which was blessedly empty, and then at Alice.

"What is it? Is everything alright?"

Her brow furrowed. "Yes, why wouldn't it be?"

I laughed softly. "Because you bloody hate it here, is why."

She smirked. "Yes, you're all terrible, I don't know what the Scruffs are on about. You've fooled the world, McCartney."

Then she leaned in, her hands on my chest, and something about the look in her eyes and the weight of her palms against me made me profoundly grateful that she was my wife and was willing to put up with my shit.

"I just wanted to say hello," she said softly. 

"Hello," I replied as her lips met mine, but only briefly since we were standing in the corridor of EMI which may as well have been in Piccadilly Square.

"Are they being awful?" she murmured, her eyes on mine.

I shrugged. "Maybe I'm the one being awful. I can't tell anymore."

Her head tilted to one side. "You can be awful, it's true."

"Hey!" I exclaimed. "You're meant to be on my side."

She smirked again, but her eyes said something different, something full of love and support and all the bollocks that should have been too corny but was everything that I needed.

The door next to us opened and Mr. Martin's head popped out. I could hear George playing the riff, first one way and then another, trying to get it right. 

"They want to know if they should take a tea break or if you're coming back," he said. "Hello, Alice."

"George," she said, leaning in for an air kiss.

I ran a hand through my hair. "Yeah, I'm coming back."

"So sorry to interrupt the session," Alice said to Mr Martin, sounding both apologetic but also like she had the right to do whatever she liked. "Don't worry, I won't sit in the corner on a mountain of cushions for the rest of the day."

Mr. Martin looked like he was about to laugh, but then he thought better of it, as if John perhaps had eyes and ears up here.

I gave Alice a final kiss. "They're the awful ones," she whispered into my ear before turning toward the front door.

I stood there for a moment watching her walk away, my mind blessedly blank. Then I opened the door to the studio and all the swirling thoughts returned, threatening to overwhelm me. George was still playing the riff, this time actually managing to get it mostly right.

"Yeah, that's it!" I said excitedly -- perhaps a little too excitedly, like he'd just mamnaged to do his job properly. "Just like that!"

George turned to me and shrugged. "Whatever you say. It's your song."

"Our song," I countered. "They're all our songs, aren't they? It's not my name on the album cover."

Yoko said something to John with a giggle, probably nothing to do with me but it irritated me nonetheless. I wished that Alice had stayed, that she had created her own mountain of cushions in a corner, claimed her stake, putting her annoyance with all of us aside so that she could be there for me.

"Are you still thinking of trying to get to the Himalayas for the album cover?" Neil asked from the corner. He must've somehow arrived while I was in the corridor with Alice. 

"I dunno if I want to leave Liss and Lou for that long," I said. 

"So why'd you want to call the record Everest?" George asked, even though there was a high probability that he didn't want to travel to bloody Kathmandu with the three of us. 

"It's meant to be about Geoff's cigarettes, not the mountain."

John looked up, appearing interested for the first time that day. "I read that the Japanese team set up a base camp yesterday... they're going to start the expedition next week."

"They're trying to reach the summit?" Ringo asked lazily, like he really didn't care about the answer but he was happy to talk about something normal. 

John and Yoko both shook their heads. "No," John said. "It's exploratory."

"They're trying to figure out if the southwest face can be climbed," Yoko continued, and it annoyed me that she'd also been reading about the expedition. 

"They're going to attempt the Icefall starting the 16th," I replied, wanting to prove that I knew more than them. "You know, the Khumbu Glacier.... that's the trickiest part, apparently."

Neil looked between us for a moment as if trying to understand something unspoken, which was certainly there but I couldn't have told him what it was.

"So that's a no to the Himalayas, then?" 

George shrugged. "Why decide today? We'll probably change the album title three times between now and whenever we need to finalize it."

"Who knows it we'll fucking finish it at the rate we're going," I muttered. 

I looked up at the control room window, catching my own reflection. Twenty-seven years old and sometimes I felt ancient. Perhaps Beatles aged like dogs, each year counting as seven. Ringo looked at me both in pity in frustration, like he understood why I was being a schoolmarm but I was still being a fucking schoolmarm.

The Titanic was sinking, and there I was trying to arrange the deck chairs in just the right way.

"Tea break, lads?" Ringo called out brightly from behind the kit. "I could use a pick-me-up."

Everyone began to move toward the staircase as I sat in a folding chair and rummaged through my bag, looking for nothing but wanting to appear like I was looking for everything. Everyone filed out of the room, John muttering that the fucking canteen better not be closed again.

Once the studio was empty, I picked up my guitar. Glancing up at the control room, I called up to the engineer.

"Roll the tapes, will you?"

He nodded and, a moment later, the familiar red light blinked on. I paused for a moment, listening to the descending riff in my head. Then I placed my hands on the strings and began to play, a riff that seemed both perfect and impossible. Still, I managed to make the impossible possible and wished that the lads were there to hear -- this is what I'm fucking trying to say -- even if it would only serve to annoy them further.

***

Later that night, Alice and I were laying in bed, neither of us asleep but both of us too burdened by our own thoughts to be more productive. There were only a few girls by the gate that night, but one of them had a voice that carried in a way we could hear everything she said. I managed to get the same scarf Alice wore last month. Do you remember? The teal one with the gold print. Another girl hushed her, perhaps afraid that one of us would come out and try to shoo them away.

"Do they never sleep?" Alice wondered. "God, all I want to do is sleep and they actively choose not to."

I sat up and ran a hand through my hair. For years I'd tolerated the girls outside because who was I to cast away the very people who had made The Beatles something real? The other three had been less tolerant, especially John ever since Yoko came onto the scene and people said awful shit about her. Although I'd heard that George had been getting friendly with some of Apple Scruffs, almost like he was using them as a temporary replacement of his real friends.

The girl's shrill voice echoed from below. Do you think Paul prefers brunettes?

"Yeah, I'll go talk to them," I said, swinging my legs off the side of the bed. I stood there for a moment, gathering my Beatle Paullness, and then threw up a rumpled jumper and creased trousers.

"You'll just encourage them," Alice replied. "It's like when Louise wants something and starts to whinge and we give in... the next time she whinges even louder... although I don't think that girl's voice could get louder."

"No, no," I replied, pulling on discarded trousers. "I have a special way with them... they mostly listen to me... for a few hours at least."

The girl's voice rose again. I heard he prefers cats.

"Fuck's sake," I muttered. "Yeah, I'll be right back. Don't go to sleep, alright?"

Alice hummed non-committedly as I left the room, taking the stairs two at a time. I opened the front door and the girls outside immediately stopped speaking, almost like they were holding their collective breath. During the few seconds it took me to cross the courtyard, I realized that Alice was right, me showing up would just reinforce them being here, and when would I ever learn?

"Girls," I said, opening the gate just enough to poke my head out. The three of them stood in a semi-circle, frozen in place. Two had been standing around my pad for years, but one I'd never seen before. "Girls, you've gotta--"

It was like a spell broke and they all rushed over to me, one of them trying to open the gate wider. I shoved my foot behind the door so it wouldn't budge.

"We're trying to sleep," I said. "We've got a baby also trying to sleep. Could you come back in the morn? I'll sign for you then."

An autograph book was shoved in my face. "Oh, Paul," the girl said, her voice louder than all the others, thus the reason I was even there.

"We told her not to be so loud," another said. I squinted at her, wondering why she looked so familiar.

"Are you the one who gave me the mince pie last Christmas?"

She nodded, looking excited. "That was me."

I smiled. "That was really good, ta for that. Reminded me of my aunt's."

"Paul!" the loud girl repeated, shoving the book further toward me. "Will you please sign for me?"

My smile disappeared and my eyes narrowed. "What's your name?"

Her name was Hattie and she'd come all the way from a state I'd never heard of in America just to see me. Her favorite record was The Beatles and she loved John almost as much as she loved me, but Tittenhurst was far and John almost never signed for any of them anymore.

"We told her to be more quiet," the third girl said. "We're sorry, Paul, we tried, but she--"

Hattie shoved the book further toward me, practically to the point of touching my face. I rolled my eyes and grabbed it, pulling it inside the gate.

"Hey!" She shouted. "That's mine!"

"Maybe don't fucking shove it at me," I retorted even as I opened it to a random blank page and scrawled my name on it. To Hattie. You're too bloody loud. xo Paul McCartney.

I handed it back to her and gave the other two an apologetic smile. "I'm going back to bed, girls. Don't make me come back out here again 'cause I'll call the cops."

Back upstairs, I undressed and collapsed on the bed next to Alice. "They're fucking exhausting, those girls."

She offered a wry smile. "Did you give them your stern teacher look? That always seems to work."

"Told them I'd call the coppers," I muttered as she laughed, saying that was usually her line.

I rolled onto my side, mirroring her and we stared at each other for a few minutes. God, she was so bloody lovely.

"Sometimes I don't know why you put up with all this shit," I said morosely as I made a vague gesture to signify this house and these girls and this whole life. 

She grinned. "You're mostly worth it."

"Mostly?"

"At least 83% worth it."

I smiled and reached for her hand, putting mine atop hers on the bed.

"I'm sorry today was awful," she said.

"Every day at the studio is awful," I said. "It's wearing me down, Liss."

She didn't reply, letting me stew in my own thoughts. The girls kept chattering below but then, blessedly, their voices trailed off like they were walking away. A car drove by, the headlights illuminating the ceiling briefly and then it was dark again.

"The worst part of it," I said quietly, trailing off for a moment before I pushed on. "The worst part about all of this is... it's not that the four of us are falling apart... and we are, I can feel it. But the worst part for me is that I can still hear how brilliant we could be, if only we could just... if they would only..."

I trailed off again, and Alice reached over to put a hand on my cheek. She sighed heavily before scooting closer to me. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders, bringing her closer and I wanted to stay like that for the rest of my life. Everything else could fall apart if only we could stay like this.

She was quiet for a long time before she finally spoke, almost like she was debating with herself whether to share something.

"Yoko said something to me recently--"

"Yoko?" I pulled back to look at her.

She nodded. "She said that the four of you love each other so much, but there's too much between you to stay together forever."

I pondered this, part of me wondering when Alice and Yoko had had this conversation, the other part of me wondering how Yoko had managed to put everything in my head into words.

"So what are you going to do?" Alice asked after a few minutes, her head once again securely against my chest.

I shrugged in the dark. "I'll try again tomorrow."

After a long pause, I added. "What else is there to do?"

Because there was nothing left to do but go to the studio and try again. It was all that was left. The music was still there, even if everything else was fading away.

Alice looked up at me, her long eyelashes framing her eyes. "I'll come with you."

I shook my head. "You don't have to."

She tightened her arm that was encircling my torso. "I already cleared my diary."

I sighed, pulling her even more tightly against me for a moment and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. I knew that John would take Alice being there to mean that we were somehow challenging him and Yoko -- and George would be annoyed because everything I did annoyed him. Ringo wouldn't mind because he'd once said that Alice was one of his favorite people in the world.

"I'd like that," I said finally. "Actually it would be really fucking great if you could be there."