March 1970
Alice

The girls had been at it for hours, screaming Paul's name and making it impossible for Louise to nap. It was almost as if they knew change was coming and they were here to bear witness as the Beatles limped toward whatever the future held. The four horsemen of the Apocalypse in flared trousers and mini skirts. But, really, did they need to shout so loudly?

I climbed the stairs and walked into the bedroom in search of Paul. He was finishing the final track of his album, and had been incommunicado ever since breakfast. I called his name a few times, which coincided with the girls' outside doing the same, making me wonder if he'd long ago tuned out people saying his name.

There was a makeshift mixing board in the middle of the bedroom with a long white cord plugged in. I followed the cord into the bathroom, where Paul was hunched over a snare drum that was perched precariously on the toilet. It shifted slightly every time he hit it with the drum sticks, each beat moving it left to right and right to left, miraculously not falling into the toilet bowl.

I stood in the door watching him for a moment until he noticed my feet at the door and looked up, taking the earphones off his head.

"You're drumming in the loo," I commented.

He tapped the snare a few times before offering a jaunty wink. "The acoustics are great in here... hear the slapback sound?"

"I'll take your word for it," I replied with a grin. "Should we take a photograph? It can be the album cover."

He looked mildly offended. "Jim Morrison recorded some of L.A. Woman in the bathroom."

My smile spread wider. "And we know how much you love Jim Morrison."

He smirked and pulled the headphones from around his neck, placing them on the floor. "I'd like him more if he wasn't always trying to pull you."

Rolling my eyes, I leaned over to kiss the top of his head. "You're the only one I'll let pull me, Paul McCartney."

There was a shriek from outside, making us both wince. Iloveyousomuch! Pleeeeeeeeasecomeout! Paaaaaaaaaul!!!!!!! He peered through the bathroom door as if he'd be able to see the offending girl, muttering, "Christ, that's loud."

I blinked. "They've been like this all morning. Have you not heard?"

He shook his head, pointing to the earphones on the floor. "Did they wake Lou?"

"No, mostly because she was never able to fall asleep in the first place. I finally got her to sleep in the larder."

A week prior, we'd discovered that it was the quietest place in the house, but it wasn't big enough to fit a crib, so Paul had arranged several blankets on the floor to create a makeshift bed. It wasn't something I was proud of, but it worked.

Another shriek, then another and another and another, the words shifting from Paaaaauuuul to Ringoooooo. Paul looked at me with a furrowed brow before we both walked to the bedroom window and peered down. A cream-colored Mercedes 280SE sat idling outside the gate, surrounded by girls.

Paul didn't move, just stared down at his bandmate, who had rolled down the window enough to chat with the girls.  I watched him, wondering what was going through his mind since I couldn't remember the last time one of the boys had visited.

"Did you know he was coming?" I asked, and he shook his head as he continued to stare down.

"Are you going to let him in?" I asked. Still no reply as he leaned his forehead to press against the window.

"The girls know you're home," I continued once it was clear he wasn't going to reply. "They're telling him right now that you're here and what you ate yesterday and what color coat you wore last week."

"Fucking gate birds," he muttered, still looking down at Ringo, who was now signing autographs. He handed an EP back to the girl and then opened the car door, walking to the intercom. We heard three shrill buzzes, prompting me to poke Paul's arm.

"Go let him in before he wakes the baby," I said, which was enough to prompt him into action. I stayed by the window, watching my husband cross the driveway as he smoothed out his red jumper. Just before he reached the gate door, he squared off his shoulders almost like he was heading into battle.

The two men exchanged a few words as Ringo entered the courtyard. Paul said something to the girls and latched the gate behind him. Ringo clapped Paul on the back as they walked toward the house and Paul chuckled at something he said, but it was obvious that there was unspoken tension.

The front door slammed shut, followed by buzzes on the intercom from the girls who had been emboldened by Paul's appearance.

"Liss!" Paul called from the bottom of the staircase. "Ritch is here."

I paused in front of the mirror, smoothing the front of my velvet trousers and running a hand through my hair. I could hear them making small talk below -- something about a Caribbean restaurant in Notting Hill -- as I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I didn't know why Ringo was there, but I wasn't confident that it was a friendly housecall. A surge of protectiveness threatened to overtake me, a need to throw myself between Paul and the rest of the world.

"Liss!" Paul called again. "Ringo's dropped by."

Ringo enveloped me in a hug when I reached the bottom of the stairs, saying that Maureen had wanted to come but Zach was feeling poorly. He was decked out in pinstriped trousers and a patterned shirt with a jaunty Zarby scarf tied around his neck. He'd recently cut his hair, which made him look more serious, a bit more square.

"What brings you here, then?" Paul asked casually with a slight edge to the words that made me suspect he also didn't think this was a friendly housecall.

Ringo fumbled around in his pockets until he retrieved a white envelope. He explained that it had been in the out-box at Apple and he figured he'd drop it off himself.

"It's from John and George," he said as he handed it over.

Paul's eyes narrowed slightly as he took the letter and unsealed the envelope. He cleared his throat as he unfolded the piece of paper and scanned the handwritten letter. Ringo stared down at the floor and I glanced between the two of them until Paul raised his head.

"Is it from them or from Klein?"

Ringo ran a hand through his hair, looking exhausted. "Well, it's John's handwriting, so--"

"Yeah, but who wrote the letter? I can see that John physically wrote it, but who wrote it?"

Ringo shifted uncomfortably, scratching at his collar. "It's from John and George," he said quietly. "It's nothing to do with Klein, it's--"

"It's everything to do with Klein," Paul interrupted. "Everything has to do with him because he's in everyone's business all the time, the fat fucker."

Then he turned to me. "They've written EMI to push back my release date. Just, y'know, taken it upon themselves to move shit around without consulting me. Because what do I matter, I'm just the junior partner at the firm."

"Macca--" Ringo tried to interrupt.

Paul wasn't listening. He squinted down at the letter in his hand, his eyes scanning the handwritten text. After a moment, he crumpled it up in his fist. Before he could say anything, Ringo put a hand up in the air as if to calm him.

"It's not personal, man, it's--"

"Oh, it's not personal?" Paul's voice rose. "Yeah, that's the thing, anytime someone says something isn't personal means that it's very fucking personal."

He grasped the crumpled piece of paper in his fist, then pulled it open so quickly it almost tore. Taking a deep breath, he began to read it aloud, pontificating as he went along.

"Dear Paul, We thought a lot about yours and the Beatles' LP... Yeah, I bet you thought a lot about it, sneaky little fuckers... And decided it's stupid for Apple to put out two big albums within 7 days of each other... go fuck yourselves... So we sent a letter to EMI telling them to hold your release date til June 4th... two fucking months, I think not... We thought you'd come round when you realized the Beatles album was coming out on April 26th... you thought wrong, I'm not fucking coming round... We're sorry it turned out like this... no, you're fucking not... it's nothing personal.... Yes, it fucking is... Love, John & George. Hare Krishna."

He paused and pointed to the paper. "And then George wrote 'a mantra a day keeps Maya away.'

I looked up to see both men watching me expectantly, Paul with an expression of fury and Ringo looking like perhaps I could save him.

"Who's Maya?" I asked.

"The illusion of material gain," Ringo replied tiredly. "It's from the Vedas."

I furrowed my brow. "So... it seems like the issue is that the two EPs would be released within two weeks of each other?"

Ringo nodded gratefully. "That's just it, yeah. We don't want to cannibalize the--"

Paul started to laugh, a horrible cackle that made it evident how far he felt he'd been pushed. "Oh, that's fucking rich, Rich. We released Two Virgins within a week of The Beatles... and Cold Turkey came out a day -- a fucking day -- before the Something single. So it seems that John is A-OK with back-to-back releases as long as they're his. He's happy to cannibalize our sales, but god forbid I release a record on the release date that has been planned for ages. Why're you going along with this, man?"

"The board feels--" Ringo started to say, but was quickly interrupted.

"The board?" Paul's voice rose again. "The board? There is no bloody board, Ringo! You three always go on about the board, Klein's board, the-oh-so-important board. There's no fucking board, man. It's him and his wife. And our board is us. So maybe you should just say 'John, George and I' think and not refer to the fucking board."

I'd never seen Ringo look so uncomfortable and wondered why he'd volunteered to deliver the letter. No doubt he'd wanted to soften the blow, but surely he regretted that choice. I almost felt badly for him, except that I was worried that my husband might once again fall apart at the seams.

"I'm not sure that's fair," Ringo said half-heartedly. 

"Not fair? I'll tell you what's not fair. My best friends and business partners signing a contract with a man who managed The Animals—"

"This isn't about Klein. It's nothing to do with him, it doesn't make sense to release two albums a week apart. C'mon, man, you have to admit--"

Paul was having none of it. "Mick fobbed him off on us and you three fell for it. And now you're just as bad as he is. You think you can dictate when I can release my own music? Fuck that. Fuck all of you. I'm fucking sick of all this."

"We're just trying to protect the group's interests—"

"The group?" Paul's face flushed dark red. "I've been exhausting myself for a year trying to hold the group together and everyone has been giving me endless shit for it. 'Oh, Paul's trying to make us do another take, oh, Paul's trying to enforce the most basic of work ethic.' And now you come here, to my house, telling me to push back my album for the good of the group?"

"I'm just the messenger. I didn't even sign the--"

"Yeah, sure, just the messenger." Paul's finger was inches from Ringo's nose now. For a moment, I truly thought it might come to blows and I wasn't sure what I was meant to do if it did.

"Paul--"

"They didn't even bother to pick up the telephone to discuss it with me. I'm fucking done with this."

Ringo stood frozen. "Paul, mate—"

"Get out," Paul said, his expression tight with fury. "Get your coat, get that bitchy letter, and get the fuck out of my house, mate."

Ringo turned toward me. "Alice, you--"

"Get the fuck out of my house!" Paul screamed. "Tell them they can all go fuck themselves."

"Paul, this isn't—"

"I will fucking end you for this. You'll all fucking pay!"

The last words echoed through the house, and I wondered if the girls outside had managed to hear all that. Would this end up in the papers? A second later Louise started to cry, but the three of us were frozen in place. I'd never seen Paul like this, and, from the looks of it, neither had Ringo. He blinked rapidly and seemed to finally realize how close to the edge Paul had been pushed.

The two men stared at each other for a long moment, something intangible between them shattering. Paul took the letter out of my hands, crumpled it again and threw it at Ringo. It fluttered in the air for a moment in front of the drummer's face as Paul stormed out of the room. The back door slammed behind him and I could see him through the window pacing back and forth, his hands shakily lighting a cigarette.

Ringo looked at me. "Alice, I'm not really involved in all this. I just thought... well, it seemed wrong to have one of the office boys deliver the letter, you know?"

I shook my head. "Surely you don't think you're not involved. It's been the three of you ganging up on him for months."

He shook his head. "It's not like that. You know Paul, he's--"

Behind us, Paul rapped on the window from the garden. "Get the fuck out, man. Stop talking to my wife."

Ringo picked up his coat off the bannister and shrugged it on. He turned to me again, perhaps thinking I was the more sensible of the McCartneys.

"The thing is, John is-- well, you know he's always saying things he doesn't mean. When George heard what John said at the meeting -- about the divorce -- he was annoyed because John is always saying shit and the rest of us have to clean it up. John is just... we're all just..."

Paul rapped on the window again, making a shooing gesture.

I looked at Ringo. "It's best that you go."

"Alice--"

"Honestly, I'm not sure why you're here right now," I said.

"Listen, just tell Macca that--"

"I'll see you out," I said with finality, the way that my grandmother used to announce decisions that left no room for discussion.

Ringo's shoulders slumped.

"Right then," he said quietly. "Right."

He turned and walked out, his footsteps heavy on the floor. The door closed behind him with a soft click that somehow felt louder than all the shouting. In the background, I heard Mrs Bennington cooing to Louise, who had finally stopped crying.

I watched Paul pace furiously for a moment before I walked to the front window and drew back the curtain to peer out. Ringo had paused next to his car, his hand resting on the door handle as he stared down at the pavement. The girls formed a circle around him and I could see their mouths opening and closing as they asked questions and shoved their autograph books toward him. He ignored them, just standing there in silence for a long moment. Then, he finally got in and drove away.

Behind me, Paul stormed back into the house and walked to the telephone by the kitchen. I watched as he jabbed his finger on each number until it connected, first demanding to Derek that he put George on the phone and then screaming into the receiver that he wouldn't fucking move his release date and they could fucking take him to court and if they tried to take him down then he'd take them down with him. I imagined George sitting on Savile Road holding the receiver away from his ear, all of Paul's anger dissipating into the air at Apple. Then, mid-sentence, Paul hung up the phone and stormed back outside.

After a few minutes of standing by the window, I put on a coat and walked outside where Paul was sitting on a wrought-iron bench. Sitting next to him, I leaned my shoulder against his.

"Are you cold?" I asked. "I can get your coat."

He shook his head and took a long drag from his cigarette.

"Why'd they have to send Ringo?" he asked. "Ringo, man. I just told Ringo to get the fuck out of my house. I've never told anyone to get the fuck out and now I've said it to him."

I didn't reply, just stared toward the geodesic dome on the lawn. His hands shook as he took another drag of the cigarette.

"Fucking Ringo, man," he repeated. " And you can't tell me that Klein isn't behind this. First he fucks with my song and now has them do this? No, fuck them. I'm releasing my fucking album when it's supposed to be fucking released."

I lay my head on his shoulder. The wind began to pick up and there was no way he wasn't freezing, but I wasn't sure he was even aware where we were.

After a long time, he finally spoke.

"They're trying to bury me," I said, his voice cracking on the last word. "They've all released solo material and I never said a word, but I try to do it and they fucking bury it."

"Does the release date matter so much?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Yes... no... I don't know. But they can't unilaterally write EMI and move my date... that's not how we operate. John's just doing it to fuck with me. And you know they thought when Ringo showed up, I'd just, y'know, acquiesce. Good old Paul, doing the best for the group. Well, I'm done with that. That's fucking over."

"I think that message was received," I noted drily.

We sat in silence for a bit longer until he ran out of cigarettes to chain-smoke. "Do you think Ritch drove straight to John's?" he asked.

I shook my head. "He looked... shaken-up. I think he'll go home and ring them later. And surely they didn't think you'd be alright with it?"

He shook his head. "They're always going on about how it's me who causes the problems, like I'm some sort of rabble-rouser trying to make everyone's life more difficult. But I'm just trying to protect the group, or what's left of it, I'm--"

"I know," I replied, laying a hand over his. "Look, we just have to get through this part of it--"

The album was his lifeboat, his escape pod, his proof that he could still make music without John. The album was his -- every note, every word, every choice. No compromises, no one complaining about his perfectionism. He hasn't even been trying to make a record initially, and yet here it was. He needed it out in the world and he needed the world to love it.

"--and we'll get through it all together," I finished. "You and me and Lou. Just like we always do. We'll focus on us and shut out everything else."

"Fuck 'em all," Paul said, his smile both hopeful and sad.

"Fuck 'em all," I repeated, laying my head on his shoulder as he pulled me close.