May 1968

Alice

The taxi dropped me off on Redchurch Street, and I walked down the tiny side street toward Zarby. One of the reasons that I'd chosen this location was that it was so unexpected. The former warehouse had been constructed in the shape of a trapezoid, its brick walls jutting out from the small entrance. I'd left the original brickwork in place, painting the bottom half of the building a stormy blue. The discreet sign above the door said Zarby in canary yellow with a lavender evil eye just under it to ward off the bad juju.

It was a groove if I did say so myself.

The newspapers seemed to agree with me. The gossip rags had been brimming with tidbits from the launch party, and the Sunday fashion columns had dedicated space to what was being called the Zarby Look. The biggest news was that Beatle Paul and Beatle Ringo had made an appearance, and they hadn't even shown up to the launch of their own boutique. Zarby was well on its way to becoming the hippest place in all of London, and it was my job to ensure that we didn't become a flash in the pan.

I'd had every intention of attending the launch party. I'd commissioned an off-the-shoulder cream midi dress from a Moroccan designer, which I'd paired with a sleek bun and oversized antiqued bronze earrings. I'd arrived before it started, telling myself I'd attend to paperwork until the Jimi Hendrix set at midnight. But even then, I couldn't make myself walk downstairs. Instead, I pored over inventory lists as the strains of Foxy Lady seeped under my door.

Maybe I wasn't yet ready to deal with the weight of being Alice Edwards in public. Or perhaps I knew that the pre-launch of a shop in the middle of nowhere to which he hadn't been invited would be irresistible to Paul McCartney, he of the many antennae. And I certainly wasn't ready to see him yet, even across a crowded room.

The aubergine curtain separating Zarby from the rest of the world rustled as I walked into the cavernous ground floor. A few girls were in the corner fussing with a mannequin, attempting to properly pin a fuschia washed-silk kaftan with a turquoise embroidered collar. I said hello and climbed the stairs to the second floor, where my head menswear salesman, Tony, was frowning at the till that I'd found in a Paris antique shop. It mostly worked, except it would add a few shillings to the bill every now and then. But it was so distinctive that everyone agreed it was worth the accounting nightmare.

I continued walking to the back of the menswear floor to the thin cut-through that led to a rickety spiral staircase. It was steep, narrow, and creaked so aggressively that more than one vendor had refused to visit my office.

I met with our accountant and then the press officer, who once again implored me to let it slip that I was the face of Zarby. I politely demurred and buried myself in paperwork as soon as they were gone. For the next hour, I tuned out the world and was in my happy place. It was interrupted by the sound of someone running full speed up the deathtrap staircase.

I looked up, alarmed, and was about to stand when Suzie burst through the door, totally out of breath. You remember Suzie:  American, petite, and formerly a gate bird standing outside Paul McCartney's house. Yes, that one. I'd run into her several months before and hired her as my personal assistant.

"It's your father," she wheezed, shoving a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. "He's here."

My eyebrows shot up. "My father? Here?"

Suzie nodded, a light sheen of perspiration beginning to form on her forehead. "The Prime Minister, yes. He's here. His car just pulled up outside."

I froze for a moment, debating my options. Perhaps Suzie could tell him I was at lunch, except it was only half-ten. Perhaps I could hide under my desk until he fucked off. I was in the midst of going through my options when I realized that she was staring at me.

"It's just...." Suzie trailed off before lowering her voice. "It's just that everyone is sort of freaking out right now."

I sighed and ran a hand over my hair to smooth it down. Of course, I'd been too rushed this morning to be bothered wearing tights. Quel scandale, Lady Alice seen in public without the proper hoisery. But why should I care what my father thought about how I dressed? It was 1968, man.

"Alice," Suzie said imploringly. The look on her face jolted me into action, and we both walked hurriedly towards the stairs. When we reached the second floor, I leaned over the railing to see what was happening.

"Oh, no," I breathed, horrified and amused to see the shop girls lined up like the von Trapp children. My father strode through the curtain at the entrance, looking dapper in a crisp pinstriped suit. Deep lines were permanently etched into his forehead, making him seem statesman-like, as if he stayed up all night worrying about the threat of Communism. His private secretary followed behind him, holding a leather attache case as if this were a state visit.

Prime Minister Edwards stopped short, taking in first the store and then the line of girls in front of him. They were dressed in various stages of psychedelia, each one's skirt shorter than the next. I was about to intervene when Tracey, the hippest and most loud-mouthed of the lot, stepped forward and curtsied. She bloody curtsied. Well, it was more of an awkward bob than a curtsy, but the meaning was clear.

"Oh, no," I murmured as I hurried down the remaining stairs. My dad stared at Tracey, obviously trying to determine if she was taking the piss.

"Father," I said loudly as my feet hit the ground floor, drawing his attention away from the girls for a moment. "How good of you to visit."

I winced internally at how posh and formal I sounded. The tiniest of smiles appeared on his face, the first time I'd seen one in years, probably since around the time I started calling him "dad" instead of "father."

"Alice," he said, the tenor of his voice deep and naturally a bit booming, as if he'd been genetically created to be a politician. He'd probably popped out of the womb with the ability to make the people at the back of the room hear him.

We exchanged the stiffest of kisses on the cheek and then moved apart hurriedly. Behind me, I could hear the murmurs of the girls and the pitter-patter of their shoes as they scurried toward the back of the store.

"This is a surprise," I said once we were alone, with only his secretary hovering nearby. "I didn't know you frequented this part of town."

"Yes, well," he said, clearing his throat. "Mamma asked me to look in on you."

Despite myself, I smiled. My granny was the real reason Zarby had taken form when it did. I'd moped around her house for a month after I left Cavendish, crying and depressed and really bringing down the overall vibe. After she cut me off from the scones ("you cannot ruin your figure over a boy from Liverpool, Lissy"), she sat me down and said I had to get my act together. I had to find my passion. I had to find myself again. Sod the rest of 'em--her words, not mine.

"That's kind of Granny," I replied to my dad with a smile. "How is she feeling?"

He grimaced. "It was a nasty fall, but Doctor Jenkins says she's on the mend. Nothing that the bracing Welsh air can't heal."

"Wales?" I asked. "Did she go to her house there?"

House. It was a small castle gifted to my great-grandfather in 1893 by King Edward VII.

My father's secretary interrupted with an apologetic smile, murmuring that they must be getting to their next engagement. I wondered if they'd decided in advance on a code word:  mention Wales, and we'll rush out of there, sir! My father made a show of walking around the ground floor, looking perplexed at the dresses, kaftans, and a bespoke skirt made entirely of tiny oval mirrors. Twiggy had purchased it at the launch party, but we'd requested that it remain on display for a few weeks.

"Well, Alice, it all looks--"

"Groovy?" I suggested.

He grimaced slightly. "I was going to say well-organized."

"Ah," I replied. "That too. Well, thank you for stopping by--"

"I'll tell Mamma that--"

"Yes, yes, tell Granny I've sent her photographs of the shop. She was quite keen to see it after the wall upholstery was finished. Have one of the staff in the country send them to her in Wales."

There were several more minutes of stilted conversation and he was gone, his aide scurrying after him. I stood at the door for a moment, wondering what had just happened. When I turned around, my staff was staring at me.

"Sorry, sorry," I said, fluttering my hand in the air like I was brushing away bad Tory vibes. "Everyone back to work... Tracey, love, you need to work on your curtsey."

Suzie met me by the stairs and we walked up together. Gone were the days when she was the cautious gate bird, afraid to speak her mind. She'd become a proper friend and was one of a handful of people who truly understood why I'd left Paul, though we'd never discussed it.

"Is everyone still staring at me?" I asked in a low voice.

"I think they forgot," she whispered apologetically.

"Forgot?"

"That you're Lady Edwards. You don't act like it most of the time. And, anyway, they mostly think of you as...."

She trailed off because what was she going to say, that my staff forgot that I was the PM's daughter because they were too busy thinking of me as Paul McCartney's jilted lover?

We continued to walk up the stairs and paused at the top.

"Do you still talk to any of the girls who hang around his place?" I asked.

She shook her head. "No, not really. A lot of them have gotten engaged or gotten proper jobs or whatever."

"Is it still pure madness outside the gate?"

She nodded. "I think so."

"Do you suppose it'll ever end?"

She shook her head again. "I don't see how it would. He's just so...."

She trailed off again. Because, once again, what was she going to say? That Paul was so dreamy, talented, and hip that how could one help but stand outside his house for weeks at a time?

"Sorry," she murmured, looking like she was hoping the floor might open up and swallow her whole

"It's alright," I said with a small smile, putting a hand on her arm. "He is, I suppose."

Back in my office, I rustled through the pile of papers that my press officer had left. Anything to do with Zarby had been circled in red, and there were many red circles. I finally found the one I was looking for and smoothed it out on my desk. A grainy, black-and-white photograph of Paul and Mick Jagger stared up at me. They were both dressed in their finest East-meets-West attire. Mick looked at the camera wolfishly, while Paul looked slightly perplexed.

Crumpling the paper into a ball, I threw it into the bin next to the desk and sat in the leather work chair. I leaned my forehead against the edge of my desk and stared at my black and silver embossed leather flats. First, my dad showed up, and now I'm talking casually about Paul? Could this day get any stranger?

I had my answer a few hours later. Fatigue was winning its battle with my body, and the words on the shipping manifests were beginning to blur. I rubbed the heel of my hand against my eyes, wondering if the last shipment of dresses would make it from Amsterdam in time for the opening. I was about to admit defeat when I heard a voice at my doorway.

"I fucking knew it."

The words were uttered in part triumph and part disbelief, the Scouser fooking sounding more exaggerated than it needed to be. It took every ounce of willpower that I possessed not to jolt upright. Instead, I paused a beat and looked up slowly as if I'd been expecting a Beatle to appear in my office.

John Lennon stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame like he owned the place. He wore pinstriped trousers that toed the line between groovy and pyjamas, and his sideburns were taking over the lower half of his face. He peered at me over the rim of his glasses with a bemused expression.

I hadn't seen him since the night at the club when he'd told me about Maggie. But that hadn't stopped me from spending far too much time psychoanalyzing him. Why had he told me? Was I grateful or resentful, or both? Was he unaware that his wife was a delight of a woman or did he simply not care? And did he think that those spectacles really suited him?

"I fucking knew it," John repeated, still leaning against the doorframe.

"Knew what?" I kept my tone even and carefully schooled my face to betray nothing. John liked to get a reaction from people, so I was determined not to give him one.

"Zarby. I knew it was you."

I raised an eyebrow, still managing to appear unflustered. "Did you?"

He nodded, looking impressed with himself. "As soon as Ritchie told me about it-- I had an inkling. And then Paul was going on and on about what a groove it was and how it was all so bloody familiar, and I thought, I wonder if this is what the elusive Lady Alice has been up to all this time."

I tilted my head. "How'd you really find out?"

John shrugged. "Cathy. Back in '64, we--" He waggled his eyebrows to make it clear what they'd gotten up to in 1964 "--And, well, anyway, I still had her number."

I arched an eyebrow. "You rung up Cathy McGowan out of the blue to ask if I'm involved with Zarby?"

He shrugged again. "I'm sure I phrased it much more eloquently."

He pushed his shoulders off the door frame and began to prowl around the office like a caged animal. The girls downstairs had put on the stereo, and bits of a Lulu song drifted in as I watched him pace around.

"So you solved this big mystery and decided to come all this way," I said. "Don't you have anything better to do, John?"

He paused and turned towards me. "Why hide the fact that you're behind it all?"

I shrugged. Apparently, this interaction would involve lots of shrugs.

"Keep 'em wondering and all that," I replied blithely.

He tilted his head. "But that's not really why."

"No," I said, and he nodded like I'd confirmed something for him.

More pacing, and he fished a cigarette out of his pocket. He inhaled greedily and exhaled a plume of smoke in my direction, which I waved away.

"Is there something I can help you with?" I finally asked. He took a few steps closer and paused an arm's length from me.

"Where have you been for the past seven months?"

I puffed my cheeks out slightly as I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. "I dunno, John. California. The English countryside. My flat. Some other places, too, none of which are any of your affair. Thanks for the inquiry... now, kindly fuck off."

John must've been used to being told to fuck off because he was entirely undeterred.

"Macca went out of his mind looking for you, you know."

I froze for a moment, then shrugged as if I didn't care. As if the reason I'd been hiding for so long was that I couldn't be trusted to be around Paul. A part of me still loved him, and I hated that part.

"How is he?" I asked, bracing myself for the reply. I'd wondered how he was doing every day since I'd last seen him, even though I knew I shouldn't care.

John shrugged. Again. "He's alright, I suppose. We're about to go back to the studio."

"That's nice," I replied. "Good luck with it all."

"He's alright now," John clarified as if I hadn't spoken. "But he was done in... really done in... first time I've seen him like that. Wasn't sure he had it in him, if we're being honest."

"God forbid we not be honest," I muttered, staring at the cream-and-white wallpaper behind his shoulder.

John gave me a look. "You never told him it was me," he said. "You could have done, but you didn't."

"I could have, yes," I replied, trying my very best to sound bored. Then a moment later, curiosity got the better of me. "How does Paul think I found out?"

"A gate bird."

I considered this, wondering if he'd interrogated them all in the aftermath. When I looked up, John was still gazing at me with shrewd eyes.

"Why?" he asked.

"Why what?"

"Why didn't you tell him? I would have if I were you. You don't owe me fucking anything."

I didn't reply for a long moment, mostly because I didn't have an answer that would make sense. Sure, I could have thrown it in Paul's face that his mate spilled all his secrets, but to what end?

"Paul didn't need to lose both of us," I finally replied.

John froze and, for once in his bloody life, was without words for a long moment. It wasn't a comfortable silence, and I was grateful for the car horn honking from the high street. John looked toward the window, and when he looked back towards me, his expression had cleared.

"It's a fucking trip, this place. I'm bowled over by it, really."

I blinked at the sudden change in mood. "That's kind of you to say," I managed, once again reverting back to my boarding school self.

He rolled his eyes. "Alright, then, milady, are you going to take me downstairs to show me the clothes? I've brought me chequebook."

My eyebrows shot up, but I decided that taking John's money and having Zarby clothes in the papers was perfectly acceptable. So, after a moment, I rose from the desk and pointed him toward the door.

"These steps could kill you," he muttered as the stairs squeaked ominously.

"I like to think of them as the moat around my castle," I replied as we emerged into the menswear area. I introduced him to Tony, politely said goodbye, and promptly fled the scene.

Hours later, I'd had a bath and changed into black trousers and a sleek kelly green blouse. Half my hair was tied back with a velvet ribbon, the rest of it floating around my shoulders as I walked into the tiny Italian restaurant in Chelsea. Theo looked up, his expression brightening as I approached.

"Hullo," I said, leaning forward to kiss his cheek as he stood. He shoved a hand through his dark blonde hair as he sat back down, his eyes looking slightly wearier than when I'd met him. We'd played phone tag for weeks and had finally managed to make something work.

"I mentioned you to my cousin," I told him as the waiter poured us glasses of a ruby-red Montepulciano d'Abruzzo. "Your jazz magazine, I mean. Turns out he's quite the fan."

Theo looked slightly alarmed. "You didn't tell him my real name, did you?"

I grinned. "No. If I had, he'd be standing outside your door right now, waiting for your autograph."

He fiddled with his black spectacles and grinned. "Honestly, I'm flattered he's even heard of me. Is he in university?"

I took a sip of wine, smothering a laugh. "Oh, God, no. Hayes is 12."

"Twelve? And he's reading jazz fan magazines?"

"He's an old soul."

I frowned for a moment, remembering that I'd said the same thing to Paul when he'd first met Hayes. And then I remembered the earnest look on my cousin's face when I'd told him that I'd ended things with Paul. "Is it because he thought it acceptable to record and release 'Good Day Sunshine'? Because, honestly, it made me question his judgment."

Theo and I chatted easily for an hour over plates of pasta and a shared tiramisu. I filled him in on the gossip from the Zarby opening that hadn't made it into the papers, and he walked me through rather complicated points of a case he'd just won in court. It was all very pleasant, and I could tell that he was a good person. He certainly wouldn't fuck his ex-girlfriend if he was left alone for a day.

I told him that I was flying to New York City the next morning to meet with several designers. We made plans to go to a jazz club once he returned, and he walked me toward the taxi stand. He looked slightly disappointed when I kissed his cheek goodnight, but I wasn't ready for anything more. I'd yet to decide if I was still so emotionally damaged that I might do something to hurt him.

We said goodnight, and I caught a cab to Hyde Park Estate, where a dozen mews houses were situated in a cul-de-sac protected by a gate. I pushed the buzzer and was promptly let through, my heels clicking on the cobblestones. Before I reached the lacquered black door, I glanced around to ensure no one was watching.

""Ello, love." Michael Caine's head popped out the door, a blonde curl tumbling over his forehead. "Was wondering if you'd stop by before you left for America. I rang you earlier but got your answering service."

Michael and I usually saw each other a few times a week when we were both in town, which, lately, was rare. He was working on a film that had him ping-ponging between Mallorca, Buckinghamshire, and London.

I smirked. "I've been busy."

He sobered for a moment. "How was the party? Heard that McCartney showed up. You alright?"

Michael and I had been in the same orbit for over a year and had bumped into each other at a party in Lisbon about six weeks after I left Paul. He was going through a rocky relationship, which ended soon thereafter, and we became real friends. He was a silent investor in Zarby and was one of my biggest advocates, practically forcing me onto planes and into sales pitches with designers at the beginning.

We were also having sex. Lots of it, and whenever we could with our schedules. But we'd kept it strictly platonic because nothing serious would ever work out between us. No emotions, no mushiness. Just a friends-with-benefits sort of thing that allowed us to hold it together the rest of the time. Emotional support sex, he called it.

I nodded. "Yeah, I'm alright. I ended up skipping the party anyway."

He straightened and opened the door wider for me to slip through. I walked into the living room with its enormous square-shaped sofa. He offered me a drink, which I declined.

"John Lennon came to Zarby today," I said as I threw myself on the sofa.

His eyebrows shot up as he poured vodka into a shaker. "Whatever for?"

I shrugged. "Dunno, really. It was bizarre. But I think he spent about a thousand quid on clothes, so I suppose it was all worth it."

He placed his tumbler on the coffee table and sat beside me, his body angling towards mine.

"I worry about you," he said, a slight frown on his face.

"You don't need--"

"Oh, yeah, sure, you're going great, yeah. Still, despite how fabulously marvelously you're doing..."

"I'm fine," I insisted.

"Alright, alright," he said, leaning back against the sofa. "You're perfectly fine."

We chatted for a while, catching each other up on what we had missed. I stole sips from his cocktail and we shared a joint. It was all very familiar and comfortable, which is really all I wanted. No one knew about our frienship--or our slightly-more-than-friendship--and that's the way I wanted to keep it. It was something just for me, and I cherished it.

"What's happening with the fellow you told me about?" He asked, exhaling a puff of smoke. "The jazz writer-lawyer bloke?"

I sighed. "I had dinner with him tonight."

"He sounded nice," Michael mused.

"He is."

"Are you into nice blokes?"

"I don't know," I admitted.

"I'm nice too, you know," he said, waggling his eyebrows playfully. Every so often, one of us would say something to suggest that we should make this real. But not to actually make it real, but rather to re-affirm that we weren't. That what we had was enough for us both.

"No, you're not," I replied, rolling my eyes. "You're a cad."

We rolled another joint and put on a film that his agent had sent over. It was boring, and one thing led to another, so we ended up tangled up in each other. Like our conversation, it was familiar and comforting and not the sort of thing I'd get hooked on, but it was a lifesaver in what felt like an otherwise turbulent world.

As always, he offered for me to stay the night, but I declined and took a taxi home. I washed my face and threw myself in bed, once again wondering how the day had ended up full of so many plot twists. Before I could answer my own question, I was asleep. The alarm next to my bed dutifully rang three hours later, so I got out of bed, packed my suitcase, and flew to America.