May 1968

Alice

When I arrived back in London, I went straight from the airport to my flat and crashed. My heart felt heavy, and the sense of inertia was almost more than I could bear. I wondered again if Paul had been right so long ago; if one slows down for too long, then there's a good possibility that one may just give up altogether.

When I awoke the next morning, I refused to get up. Tangled in brushed linen sheets, I stared at the telephone sitting by the bed. It was manufactured in Morocco in the 1940s, the ecru receiver inlaid with tiny circles of mother-of-pearl. I'd picked it up for 50p at Portobello Market and then paid a fortune to restore it to working order.

The telephone rang at least every half-hour while I lay there. Each time, I was startled but made no move to reach for the receiver. Mrs. Bennington made trip after trip to my door to announce the caller: Suzie, my mum, my grandmother, Suzie again, Theo Dormer, and Suzie yet again. Each time, I told her to take a message. Jet lag is a bitch, I told myself to explain away my behavior.

But my biggest fear was that if I got out of bed... or even moved closer to the telephone, there was a good chance I'd ring Paul. I'd pick up the receiver, dial his stupid number, and probably his stupid girlfriend would answer. Although, perhaps that would be preferable since I'd at least come to my senses and indulge in an unjustified strop.

But if Paul answered... well, then I couldn't be trusted. So knows what I would say or what I would do.

So, instead, I stayed in bed all day. The shadows stretched across the room as day turned to night, and I tossed and turned. Jet lag may be a bitch, but insomnia is even worse. My stomach had been tied in knots since I'd run into Paul on the streets, and everything felt off-kilter. I replayed every moment of our interaction, analyzing what he'd said and trying to determine if I'd successfully held onto my poker face. It had been a monumental struggle, but perhaps I'd managed to mask the panic I felt that, despite everything, there was still an intense pull between us.

I miss you, Liss.

Those words had nearly broken me. I'd wanted to throw something sharp at his head, but also throw myself into his arms. I hated these warring emotions inside of me, and most of all, I hated the fact that being in such close proximity to him had made it so apparent that there was still a spark there. There would probably always be a spark.

Bloody hell.

The next day, I finally felt sufficiently in control to go to Zarby. We were opening to the public a few days later, so I put my head down and worked. For 72 hours, I buried every emotion I'd felt seeing Paul under a pile of paperwork and mannequin pins.

Opening Day was a raging success to the point that we had to close early because we simply had nothing left to sell. Eric Burdon stopped by, cameras documenting every embroidered shirt that he admired. Marianne Faithfull waltzed in midday looking fabulous in a short fur coat--no matter the spring weather--and created such a buzz that I wasn't sure if Shoreditch would ever recover. Finally, in a show of solidarity, Beatle George Harrison slipped in through a back entrance and purchased two jackets, one of which he was photographed wearing several weeks later.

Zarby was on the map.

A few days after the opening, Suzie shooed me out of the office and ordered me to take a long weekend. It started off with a lie-in and then a long bath. But then the nervous energy set in, causing me to roam aimlessly around the flat. I turned on the telly and flipped through the channels, finding nothing that could calm the buzzy energy in my brain.

I was about to ask Mrs. Bennington how to operate the hoover or how to dust the shelves, but was saved from domestic insanity by a call from Michael, who was in town for a few days between filming.

We met in Eaton Square Garden in the late afternoon. He wore a hat pulled down low and wayfarer shades covering his eyes, all the better to stay inconspicuous. I wore a white skirt set paired with oversized white-framed sunglasses. We were careful to maintain a healthy bit of distance between us, lest a photographer be lurking around while I told him my tale from New York.

"Fucking Christ," he said as I finished, his voice low and rumbling. We'd walked the length of the park at least four times and smoked about a dozen cigarettes apiece.

"I felt a bit blindsided," I admitted in a heroic display of English understatement.

"What are the odds you'd both be in the same place at the same time. I mean, really-- it's a city of 7 million people."

I didn't reply, so he moved closer and nudged her shoulder with his.

"You alright, love?" he asked.

I shrugged and tried to smile nonchalantly. "I'm grand."

"English grand or Irish grand?"

"A bit of both, I suppose," I replied with a grin.

He frowned. "Have you been out with anyone since?"

"Since I got back from my trip? No, I've a business to run, thank you very much."

He rolled his eyes. "Since you ended things with McCartney. You play things so close to the vest, you could be engaged, and no one would know unless you wanted them to."

I gave him a look to indicate that I'd certainly been seeing him from time to time, and he rolled his eyes again. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

Sighing, I ran a hand through my hair. "No, not really. I've been out with Theo-- the solicitor I told you about."

"He seems nice."

I nodded.

"That's not enough?"

I shrugged and tried to change the subject. "One of the investors I met pitched the idea of opening a Zarby in New York or Los Angeles."

Michael looked surprised. "Would you want to do that?"

I shrugged again. "I dunno. Part of me just wants to get out of London. Cut all ties, that sort of thing. Trek to Nepal and back. Did you know that a Japanese climbing team will try to summit Mount Everest next year? Maybe I should be a part of that."

"What?"

Fat raindrops hit our heads, and we both paused to look at the grey sky. It was only sprinkling, but it was springtime in London, so the next five minutes could either bring sunshine or a deluge.

"You want to come back to mine?" I asked, shielding my eyes with my hand to look up at him. Unlike most actors, he was taller in person.

He turned his head and raised an eyebrow. "You're asking me," he said, his trademark Cockney exaggerated in a jokey sort of way, "to come home with you?"

I rolled my eyes. "Or you could stand here in the rain. Suit yourself, man."

He crossed his arms over his chest and raised a hand to his rub chin thoughtfully. "I've never seen your flat. Not sure I've even seen you in the light of day before, now that I think of it. You always come to my place in the dead of night like I'm some sort of dirty little secret. I should be offended."

"You're still a dirty secret," I replied, putting a hand on the crook of his elbow to propel us both forward. "But my place happens to be nearby, and it happens to be raining."

We exited the park and turned onto Lyall Street. I could feel my skirt swishing against my thighs and wondered why I hadn't worn trousers. I turned to look at Michael's face in profile, the dip just below his eyebrows and the curve of his chin. He was beautiful. It was a shame that it'd never work out between us because it would make things much more straightforward.

"What?" he asked, turning towards me.

"Nothing," I replied innocently.

He laughed and pulled me close, his arm around my shoulders for a brief moment.

"McCartney's a fucking idiot," he said just before releasing me.

We passed the Italian Cultural Institute and turned onto Aldridge Lane, pausing at the entrance of my building.

"Which flat is yours?" Michael asked, looking up at the three-storey white Georgian facade. The front door was hunter green, the surface so glossy it looked freshly painted. A brick wall stood next to the house, surrounding a small garden in the back.

"It's all one unit," I replied absently as I rummaged around for keys.

"You always refer to your 'flat,'" he said as I continued to search in my purse.

"Well, it wouldn't be groovy at all to say 'my massive house across from the Spanish Embassy,' now would it?"

He didn't reply, and I finally produced my keys with a triumphant a-ha! It had started to rain steadily by the time we went inside, so I kicked off my heels and put my purse on a velvet settee near the door.

"Fancy a drink?" I asked, busying herself with the post that was piled up on the table. "I'm sure it's five o'clock somewhere."

When he didn't reply, I turned to look at him. He was stationed by the door, taking in the spacious entryway. I was well aware that living alone in this enormous house was absurd, but I'd fallen in love with it and considered it a financial rebound from Paul McCartney.

"Nice place," he said drily. "Bit small, though. Are there stables in the back? A mare or two?"

I was about to reply that he owned a lovely house in Hyde fucking Park, but before I could, there was a knock on the door. We looked at each other for a moment, and I shrugged. I still had some residual trauma from living at Cavendish surrounded by gate birds and was still leery of anyone near my private space.

"I'm not expecting anyone."

"Even so," he replied. It's pissing rain. Better open it."

Standing in the rain was my cousin, Hayes. His hair was cut shorter than usual, almost like he'd been on the losing end of a bet. A few curls escaped, and he'd lost most of the baby pudge that had plagued him for years. It was as if he'd transformed from a little kid to a teenager who was ready to break girls' hearts... or boys' hearts, as I half-suspected.

His navy school uniform was drenched, and he held a leather satchel over his head to buffer it from the rain. A navy duffle bag sat by his feet, and it was alarmingly full, as if he'd packed enough clothes for a week.

He grinned happily. "Hullo, Auntie Alice!"

"Hayes! What're you doing here?"

"School holidays start today."

The way he said it made me think I was supposed to have known that, which was surprising since I was neither his parent nor his childminder.

"I thought I could stay with you," he said, brushing past me into the foyer. Mrs. Bennington was going to have a fit when she saw the muddy footprints on the floor.

He stopped short when he saw Michael leaning rakishly against the wall with a bemused expression. But Hayes being Hayes, he didn't stay perplexed for long.

"Hello, Michael," he said in his posh schoolboy voice. He leaned forward and offered his hand like they were old chums from Eaton, not complete strangers.

"Er... hello," Michael replied, grasping his hand and giving what looked like a firm handshake.

"This is my cousin, Hayes," I said, closing the door. "Hayes, this is--"

"I quite liked 'Alfie,'" my cousin said to Michael. "Though the film score was a bit lackluster, don't you think?"

"Er... yes?" Michael looked at me for confirmation, and I shrugged.

"I read a review saying that Sonny Rollins' score stole the leading role... no offense, I suppose, Michael... but in my estimation, all he stole was 90 minutes of my life."

Michael again looked at me, increasingly bewildered.

"But I suppose," Hayes continued undeterred, "that when you agreed to participate in the film, it was more based on the script and not the proposed score."

I coughed loudly so that both of them looked my way.

"He's an old soul," I said apologetically to Michael, realizing for the first time that I'd been using that term for years as a euphemism for 'lovable wanker.'

Then I crossed my arms and looked sternly at my cousin. "You can't stay here for your school holidays. I have to work... I can't look after you properly."

"That's fine. I'm 12."

"Exactly-- you can't be on your own for a week."

But he wasn't listening. He'd divested himself of his anorak and marched cheerfully toward the living room. Michael watched him leave and then looked back at me.

"I should go."

I nodded. "Yes, it's probably best that--"

There was another knock on the door, which caused us once again to look at each other. I heard Hayes playing the piano in the other room, a rollicking tune reminiscent of a pub singalong.

"Are you going to open it, or shall I?" Michael asked with a sly grin.

"I'm a bit afraid to," I admitted. "Suppose another unexpected visitor wants to critique a film score."

I approached the door cautiously, then yanked the handle. I don't know who I expected to be there, but certainly, it wasn't Cynthia Lennon. She was soaked and hadn't even bothered with an umbrella. Her blue pantsuit was plastered to her body, and her wet fringe was nearly hiding her eyes. I'd never seen her looking anything but put together, so I paused as we each took each other in.

"Cynthia?" I poked my head out the door, looking both ways. "What's happened?"

"I'm terribly sorry for showing up unannounced," she said, her voice breaking on the last word.

"What? No-- no, come in."

She moved past me into the foyer and looked around as if trying to get her bearings. She finally noticed Michael, who was hunched over against the wall like he was trying to disappear. I couldn't remember if they knew each other socially, but I knew there was no good excuse for him to be in my flat. My house. My-- whatever.

"Oh," she said, surprised. "Hullo, Mike."

Then her head whipped around to me. "Are you two--"

"No," I hissed. At that exact moment, he straightened up and mumbled, "A bit, yeah."

I glared at him. "Michael was just leaving."

"Right," he said. "Yeah, I just stopped by to... borrow an umbrella. Yeah, I was in the neighborhood and it starting pissing rain and I didn't have a brolly, so--"

"Lovely to see you, Michael," I said, standing on my tip-toes to press a friendly kiss on his cheek. Stop by later, he whispered in my ear before taking a step back and giving me a wolfish grin.

When he was gone, Cynthia and I stood in the entryway and stared at each other for a moment.

"Are you shagging Michael Caine?" she asked. "Paul will lose his mind."

"No, no, not really," I said quickly, and she arched an eyebrow.

"Yes," I then admitted. "In a very non-romantic way.... Much like Paul is shagging most of London, from what I hear, so I'm not sure he has a leg to stand on."

Then it hit me: Cynthia's face wasn't wet because she'd been in the rain. She'd been crying, and quite a lot. Her mascara had held up to that point, but dark rivulets threatened to erupt down her cheeks.

"What's happened?" I asked, moving forward to touch her forearm. "Is everything alright? Did something happen to Julian?"

"It's John-- He's..." she trailed off and stared at the marble floor for a few moments. Finally, she looked up, her blue eyes full of tears. "I got back from holiday this afternoon and found them together at the house."

"Found who?"

"John and Yoko."

"Yoko?"

"The Japanese artist."

"I thought she lived in New York," I replied, processing everything much too slowly.

"She was in my house, Alice-- in my and John's house." She lowered her voice. "It was clear that they'd--"

Hayes' voice rang through the foyer, interrupting her. "You're Cynthia Lennon."

She whirled around in surprise, taking in the 12-year-old schoolboy. "Yes."

He peered at her, examining her face as if he struggled to identify the emotion. "You're upset."

She paused. "Yes."

"I hope it's nothing to do with your husband."

Cynthia frowned. "You've met him?"

He grimaced as if she'd suggested that he'd had tea with Mussolini. "God, no."

Cynthia looked at me, perplexed.

"This is my cousin, Hayes," I replied. "He's an old soul. He's staying with me--"

"--for a while," he finished for me.

"For the next few days," I clarified. "Then he's going back to school and to his real family."

Hayes looked offended. "You're my real family. You're like my second mum."

Now it was my turn to be offended. "Hayes, I'm only 12 years older than you. I can't be your mum! You have a mum--she's..." I trailed off, trying to think of something diplomatic to say. "She's lovely."

Cynthia looked confused to the point that she might have considered making an excuse to leave. I moved toward Hayes, putting a hand on the small of his back as I guided him toward the living room.

"I just got the new EP from The Incredible String Band," I said. "Go have a listen."

Once he was gone, I turned back to Cynthia. "Right... let's get you some new clothes and a glass of something strong."

We walked upstairs as she apologized profusely for showing up, and I shushed her. A few minutes later, she was wearing my favorite La Lalique trousers and a flowy top that I'd nicked from Zarby before it could be sold. Over a glass of port and then a bottle of '52 Chateauneuf-du-Pape, she told me everything: the slippers by the door, the way John couldn't even look her in the eye, how fucking normal it all seemed.

"Alice, the way they... the way they looked at each other...."

She stifled a sob, and I poured more wine into her glass.

"I had this mad thought..." she trailed off as she collected herself. "This mad thought that I had no right to intrude on such an intimate moment. In my own house, I thought that. It was like-- they were looking at each other like they were bloody meant for each other. What am I supposed to do with that?"

I took a sip of wine as I decided how to respond. I wasn't for a moment surprised that John had slept with someone else because I assumed all four of the Beatles were women of the night when it suited them. But to do so in their house when surely he knew which day she'd be arriving home... I just couldn't fathom it.

"What're you going to do?" I asked.

She ran a hand through her hair and shuddered. "I don't know. Would you think less of me if I went back to him?"

I furrowed my brow. "Why would you think that?"

"Oh... well... the way you left Paul and never looked back."

I shrugged. "That's different."

"Is it?"

"And I did look back... frequently."

She looked at me like I had all the secrets to life, and, at that moment, I was so worried about her realizing that I had no idea what I was doing. And I had no idea what she should do because I'd never been married. It didn't seem as easy to cut and run, which was my go-to in situations like this.

"Where's Julian?" I asked, switching the subject.

"At my mum's."

I reached out to touch her forearm. "Stay here for a few days to sort out what you want to do."

"Oh, I couldn't...." She trailed off, probably thinking through her options of places to go. Sure, she could crash with the Starkeys or the Harrisons, but that could get awkward quickly. I knew she had a few other friends, but there was always the possibility the marital dispute would end up in the press.

"Please, Cynthia. Julian can stay too. Apparently, my cousin is here for the week, so we can be one dysfunctional family."

She looked at me sadly. "It's quite possible I could use a dysfunctional family at the moment."

"It's settled, then," I said, pouring the last of the wine into her glass. "Because I could use a dysfunctional family too."