July 1968
Alice

I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection as the new Lulu single played on the radio. It was a poppy, upbeat tune that directly contradicted my mood, and there was a burst of faint static every few seconds because I hadn't tuned it properly.

The song faded out as the BBC announcer came on. He went through the weather--hot and unseasonably humid; the results from the semi-final cricket tournament--Newcastle had won; and, finally, the most pressing news of the day.

Today marks the funeral for Lady Cordelia Edwards, Dowager Viscountess of Staffordshire. She died last week at the age of 83.

The mirror was absurdly oversized, an antique from the South of France that I hadn't managed to have properly hung. I squinted at my reflection, adjusting the neckline of the sedate black Yves Saint Laurent dress my mum had sent over. I'd gone to the hairdresser early that morning to get my hair pulled back in a stiff chignon held together by too much hairspray. I felt like I was wearing a costume: Portrait of a Wayward Aristo.

The Dowager Viscountess was a fixture of the social circuit in the 1940s and 1950s and will be remembered for her great wit and beauty.

I reached for a pair of diamond solitaire earrings, a gift from my grandmother. She'd given them to me in honor of being accepted to the Pan Am training school. She'd given me heirloom diamonds; my father had threatened to disown me.

She was the godmother of Princess Margaret, who is expected to attend the funeral.

I picked up a pair of long black gloves and stared at them. I remembered Paul telling me that during the Beatles' touring days, he marveled at the transformation in the dressing room from Everyday Paul to Beatle Paul just by putting on a suit and boots. Did he ever worry that he was losing a piece of himself each time? Because that's how I felt at that moment. 

In a written statement, Prime Minister Edwards expressed sadness for his mother's passing and announced that, out of respect, all campaign-related events would be canceled for the next two weeks.

Then, rather abruptly, 'Mony Mony' by Tommy James & The Shondells came on. I winced at the emotional non sequitur and walked over to switch off the radio. Reaching for an acetate sitting on the table, I placed it on the turntable and carefully lifted the needle. There was a hiss, and 'Porpoise Song' by The Monkees started to play.

My, my, the clock in the sky is pounding away and there's so much to say

A friend had lent me the pre-release a few days ago, and I was over the moon about it. I must've spent hours listening to it, losing myself in its dreaminess.

Wanting to be, to hear and to see, crying to the sky

I sat on the edge of the unmade bed, not bothering to arrange my skirt so it wouldn't wrinkle. My mother would murder me, but I couldn't bring myself to care.

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye

My father had made it very clear that there was no room for grief or sadness at the funeral. The family's role was to be the pillar of strength for those around them, not wallowing in their misery. Quelle horreur! Quelle bourgeoisie!

But that was all fine because I hadn't cried since I'd left Cavendish. I'd wanted to, but tears refused to come. It was like I'd expended all my external grief in front of Paul, and now it was locked away somewhere deep inside me.

I fell back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. Raising my right hand into the air, I looked at it curiously, like perhaps it held all the secrets to the universe. For days, I'd felt a strange, slight pressure in the center of my palm. For days, I'd harbored a suspicion that Paul's hand had left an invisible imprint there.

I blamed the acid.

There was another hiss as the needle jumped off the record. I reached over and replaced it on the outer groove. The song played again, and I stared at the shadows moving slowly on the ceiling. I'd always liked The Monkees and had found it delightful that their records had outsold The Beatles the year before. Paul must've lost his mind.

There was a soft knock at the door, and Cynthia poked her head in.

"The driver's downstairs," she said. She took in the contrast between my most put-together self with the disheveled bed and Monkees track playing loudly.

"You're sure you don't want me to come with you?"

Teagan had offered. Hayes had offered. Michael had fake-offered. Everyone had offered, but I couldn't bear to admit that I wasn't okay to go alone, like I wouldn't feel my grandmother's presence missing so much that it would physically hurt.

I shook her head. "There will probably be press there."

Cynthia nodded. The papers were dying for a photograph of her going about her daily life; it was all she could do to avoid the spotlight. It didn't help that John and Yoko were out and about, planting acorns and going to shop openings. It made the world want to know how Cynthia was coping.

"You'll have your family, at least," Cynthia said, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. She looked exhausted. From what I'd heard, John had thrown a massive strop when he found out she was living here, though I couldn't fathom why he would care. 

I nodded, even though it wasn't true. My family would be there, yes, but there would be no tears, no heartfelt embraces, and no big emotions. All eyes would be on us. 

Cynthia noticed something in my expression and frowned. "I could change quickly; see if Mrs. B will watch Julian."

I shook her head and braved a smile. "It'll be grand, don't worry. I've been to more funerals than I can count."

She helped me affix the small black fascinator to the top of my chignon, and I picked up the black gloves and a small patent leather handbag. My costume was complete. I didn't look like myself; I looked like a square noblewoman with too much money and not enough brain space.

I was near the car when I heard my name. I turned to see a young man who looked vaguely familiar. He had a nervy feel to him, and I immediately guessed that he was a reporter. I paused and looked at him expectantly, which I'd learned long ago put the burden on the other person.

"Miss Edwards, I was wondering if you have a comment," he chirped as if it was perfectly fine to be chatting me up as I was leaving for my grandmother's funeral.

"I don't," I replied, reaching for the handle of the car door.

He frowned. "I haven't even asked the question."

"To be honest, I don't really care," I replied, sliding into the back seat. "But you're welcome to print that if you'd like."

The car pulled away, and I stared out the window. I knew exactly what he was asking about:  the blind item in the paper that morning. Which Beatle Gal Pal is rumored to be the beauty and brains behind the most swinging shop in London?

Just what I needed. To quote my ex, fucking hell.

**

My grandmother had been so incredibly vexed by her husband's funeral that she'd planned every detail of her own. The notion of organizing one's death didn't seem to faze her; she'd chat cheerfully over breakfast about which hymns must be included and which themes she wanted the bishop to highlight in his sermon. Many conversations had ended abruptly with my father's booming, Mamma! Not while we're eating the boullion!

One of her requests was that Mozart's Requiem in D minor be performed, which would necessitate a choir and at least half an orchestra if one wanted it done right. She had always been intrigued by the piece, and I had many memories of sitting in the parlor with her, listening to it on an old-fashioned gramophone.

"It's dramatic," she said reverently. "But there's humanity beneath it all. Can you hear it, Lissy?"

My father went nearly apoplectic every time she brought it up, his face reddening at the thought of a requiem mass being played at an Anglican service. It was as if he worried that God himself might smite him for allowing it to happen, or at least the Chairman of the Conservative Party.

So it was I who had arranged it all the day after Granny died. Cynthia had suggested that I ring George Martin, who put me in touch with a lovely conductor who knew all the right people. My father and I had gotten into a fighting match in his office, which ended with him begrudgingly agreeing to its inclusion. 

Granny had also requested that the funeral service be small and understated. But in our world, understated just meant that she didn't want it held at Westminster Canterbury. She'd designated the enormous chapel adjacent to the Edwards estate, which was ornate and over-the-top as far as country churches go. It would be the funeral of the decade, except we'd all pretend like it was a lowbrow affair.

When I arrived, the entire fucking ton was already there.

A smartly-dressed usher led me down the aisle past Britain's elite until we reached the front row where my family was seated. My father was in the far aisle, clapping what could only be a fellow Tory heartily on the back like they'd just concluded a deal, while my mother was half-turned in her seat so that she could speak with Lady Burns, Marchioness of Devonshire.

My niece and nephew sat further down, each looking uncomfortable in their formal black attire. I'd always thought it cruel to require children to attend funerals. Better that they run around in the field outside the chapel, thinking happy thoughts about the loved one who had died.

The north transept was filled with the orchestra, who sat solemnly with instruments at the ready. A small choir stood just in front, shifting their weight nervously while trying not to stare at the dignitaries seated a few feet away.

I shuffled as gracefully as possible into the pew, sitting in the empty space between my mother and brother. My mother kissed me on the cheek, and Clive nodded to me in a dignified way. I leaned forward slightly to smile at my sister-in-law, who was pregnant with their third and looked ready to burst.

There was a hushed commotion at the back as Princess Margaret walked in. She wore a black mid-calf crepe de chine dress and a strand of enormous pearls around her neck. She walked serenely down the aisle as the congregation stood, men inclining their heads and women dropping into quick curtsies as she passed. She finally reached her seat neat to Admiral Sir Jacobs, who bowed more deeply than necessary and offered a hand to help her into the low pew.

The congregation sat, and I watched the conductor walk silently to the orchestra. He paused and turned toward the assembly, offering a small bow with his hands clasped firmly at his side. My father cleared his throat noisily as if disavowing what was about to happen, and my brother stifled a chuckle.

The musicians began to play the first bars of the opening section, spare and severe. I closed my eyes, remembering sitting with my back against Granny's legs as we listened. Can you hear the humanity, Lissy?

There was a hint of murmuring behind me, enough to pull me out of my reverie and glance over my shoulder. Just as the choir began to sing, Paul slipped through the door. He'd brushed his hair back a bit and was dressed in an expertly tailored black suit that must've come straight from Savile Row. He looked less Hip Beatle than usual, like he'd put a lot of effort into not sticking out. 

He paused to take in the attendees, the sheer number of  discreet yet priceless jewels in the room, and the full orchestra. His eyes widened for the briefest of moments as if he was thinking, bloody hell! But he quickly schooled his expression and made his way to the closest pew in the back row. He smiled politely to the elderly Dowager Duchess of Wellington, who clearly had no idea who he was, and accepted a program from a star-struck usher.

My heart hammered in my chest as I watched him stand there, tall and somber, with his eyes on the orchestra. After a moment, he turned his head and our eyes met. He nodded--the tiniest of nods, the slightest hint of a supportive smile--but I only had time to furrow my brow in confusion before my mother hissed my name, and I turned around. 

The music reached a crescendo, the choir singing Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine – Grant them eternal rest, O God. I remembered my grandmother telling me that Mozart had written the requiem as he himself was dying and that it had been finished off by others after his death. It was the most tragic piece of music I'd ever heard, and I wondered if the whole point of this exercise was to induce a roomful of cold-blooded toffs into shedding tears as they listened to the humanity of it all.

And what was Paul doing there? He couldn't deal with funerals. He could barely tolerate the thought of funerals. He couldn't even do a proper tarot card reading because he was worried about pulling the Death card.

And yet he was there.

It felt as if the temperature in the room had been raised by several degrees, and it was also possible that the walls might be closing in on me. I placed a hand on my collarbone, trying to slow the racing of my heart.

As the soprano's voice soared, undercut slightly by the tenor, I chanced another look over my shoulder. Paul sat with his eyes on the enormous stained glass window at the front of the church. His eyes were slightly unfocused, which meant that he was lost in the music. He looked so beautiful and solemn that I was hit by the realization of the enormous loss I'd faced. Not only the loss of my grandmother but also of him.

Once the service was over, we all remained seated until Princess Margaret stood. Then there was movement throughout the chapel, and hushed voices filled the space. I must've shaken two dozen hands before I could make my way to the end of the aisle. An old friend from school clasped my forearm, telling me how sorry she was and how we simply must lunch together soon.

I was finally able to move freely in the aisle but, in my haste, ran squarely into the princess.

"I'm so sorry, ma'am," I said, wanting to wither away and die.

"I'm terribly sorry for your loss, Lady Edwards," she replied. "The Dowager Viscountess was a fine woman. My sister sends her sympathies."

I nodded, unsure what to say. We'd only met on a few occasions before, and I knew she could be highly mercurial. We walked down the aisle together, trailed by her lady-in-waiting, who managed to keep others away. The crowd parted a bit as we approached the back of the church, and my eyes were on Paul, who chatted amicably with the son of the Duke of Partridgeshire. Both of them looked over when the princess stopped in front of them.

"Mr. McCartney," she said in a clipped voice that somehow managed to convey cheekiness.

"Ma'am." He nodded his head respectfully, and I wondered if the Beatles had been given etiquette lessons before they'd received their MBEs.

And that was that. Princess Margaret kept moving, and I was forced to keep up with her.

"He's quite dishy," she murmured slyly as soon as we were out of earshot. "Can't imagine why you'd let him out of your grasp, you daft girl."

She was swept up in the crowds in the entrance hall as I stood frozen just outside the door, wondering if it was possible that she'd followed Paul and my doomed romance in the papers. Had the Queen as well? Had they both seen photographs of me in my cozzie in Los Angeles? Or the one of us walking down Laight Street to dinner? Had they believed his statement that the press had driven us apart, or did they suspect it was more likely his easily-distracted penis?

For a split second, I wanted to ring my grandmother to tell her that Princess Margaret thought that Paul was a dish. And that I'd thought of the Queen and the phrase "easily-distracted penis" in the same sentence. Then, once again, the enormity of the day washed over me, and I felt adrift.

"Alice."

Paul and his newfound friend stood across from me. Behind them, I could see clusters of aristos talking in hushed voices, some looking discreetly toward us. I wondered if anyone from the press was watching, and I could tell that Paul had the same thought.

I nodded, looking from one to the other. After a brief pause, Paul cleared his throat awkwardly.

"I'm so sorry for your loss. Your grandmother was a tremendous woman."

I nodded. "Thank you. She was."

Paul hesitated and then blinked, looking at the fellow next to him like he'd forgotten he was there.

"Do you know Jamie?" he asked. "Turns out we have a friend in common."

"Pleased to meet you," I said, extending my gloved hand.

"I wish it were under happier circumstances," he replied, his vowels sharp enough to cut through diamonds. It brought me back to my boarding school days when we'd have dances with the boys' school down the road.

I nodded. "Thank you both for coming. I-- well, there is something I must attend to. Please excuse me."

Feeling utterly flustered, I walked away briskly, plowing into the crowd and not caring that it was entirely unladylike. My emotions were too big, and they were about to get the better of me. I needed to remove myself from the eyes of everyone whom I'd ever met.

After what felt like hours of wandering around the building, I found a small, empty room lined with rounded stones. It looked like it had been part of the original structure, built forever ago. I slid down the wall, feeling each bump on my spine until, finally, I was seated on the floor.

Pulling my legs underneath me, I stared at the ceiling for a long while. Then, slowly and methodically, I took off my gloves and threw them on the floor. Next was the hat, which I tossed on the pile, and, finally, I pulled out every pin so that my hair cascaded down my back.

Once again, I felt like myself.

A sliver of sky peeked through the window that was so long and narrow that it was as if it was meant for a medieval archer. I stared at the cobalt blue, wondering if there was indeed a heaven. Paul had once told me that if you spoke to someone who had passed away, they'd be able to hear you. I frowned slightly, leaning further to my left to see more of the sky.

Hi, Granny, I whispered. You were right. Everyone bawled. Father thinks he's going to hell for allowing the requiem. Margot thinks that Paul's dishy. I miss you.

I sat there for what seemed like ages, though it could have just been minutes. The hushed chatter from the main space slowly died down, which hopefully meant that people were leaving. I had every intention of skipping the formal reception hosted by the Duchess of Lancashire, so I figured I might as well wait until everyone else left.

I sensed Paul's presence seconds before I heard him clear his throat. He poked his head through the archway, his eyes wide and full of concern. He looked slightly harried as if he'd been accosted by some well-meaning mourners desperate for an autograph.

"I just wanted to see if you were alright."

His voice was low and respectful like I was a fragile vase teetering on the edge of a narrow ledge.

I sighed and inched over so that there was room for him next to me. He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment before sitting with his long legs pulled up against him. We sat silently for a few moments before he ran a hand through his hair so that his fringe fell like it usually did. I wondered if he had the same sense of returning back to his true self.

"It was a beautiful service," he said after a moment.

I nodded and stared at the stone floor. "You hate funerals."

"Yes." He said this firmly and without thinking twice.

I looked up and over at him, and after a pause, he turned to meet my eyes. His expression was guarded.

"But you came anyway," I said.

He considered this momentarily and then ran a hand through his hair again. "I really liked your grandmother."

I nodded, and we both turned our heads back to stare at the wall opposite. After a moment, I leaned into him and rested my head on his shoulder.

"I really liked her too."

Paul stiffened for a moment and then relaxed against the stone wall, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. A warmth spread through my body, threatening to chase away the iciness I'd felt for months but not quite succeeding.

"What was the song the orchestra played?" he asked after a while.

"A requiem mass by Mozart," I replied.

"Fucking haunting, wasn't it?"

I nodded in agreement, my ear creating friction against the fabric of his coat. "Yeah."

We sat like that for a long time until the church behind us was silent save the footsteps of the clergy and the staff cleaning up. I felt like we could just sit there forever, Paul and me alone in this tiny room. Start over, far from the eyes of the world, and maybe make a better go of it.

But that was crackers.

So, after a long period of comfortable silence, I pulled away.

"Fancy a stroll?"

I was already upright when he managed to pull himself up and straighten his jacket. He eyed me up and down.

"You look like a toff, Liss."

I nodded. "Yeah."

He looked at my heels dubiously. "Can you walk very far in those?"

I arched an eyebrow. "Of course I bloody can."

The air felt incredibly fresh after hours inside the damp church, and the sun dipped lower in the sky. Everyone was blessedly gone, and I finally felt like I could breathe. I knew I'd receive the bollocking of a lifetime the next day for disappearing, but I didn't care.

We walked companionably down a dirt path leading away from the church. It felt like we were in the middle of nowhere, and I wondered again if our relationship would have fared better if we'd just stayed out of sight of the world.

"You were in the papers today," he said finally.

I glanced at him. "Just wait until they discover I'm harboring the former Mrs. John Lennon."

He grimaced. "It's a bloody mess, that. The whole thing."

I glanced at him curiously. "Is it serious then? Yoko's here to stay?"

He shrugged. "Dunno. But he brings her to the studio every day."

"To the studio?" I asked, startled. "While you're recording?"

I'd only been to the studio a handful of times and only to drop things off for Paul. The whole vibe there seemed very masculine and daunting. I wasn't sure I'd want to be there for more than a few minutes.

He nodded. "Every day."

I frowned. "Wouldn't they get bored being around each other all the time? It seems it could be a drag after a while."

Paul shrugged again. "John says it's a groove."

He trailed off and then chuckled. "And then George-- oh, he's so fucking annoyed by all of it-- so I suppose he figured he'd prove a point, so one day Pattie walks in with him.... Except she looked so uncomfortable the whole time, just sort of sitting there, y'know... so after a few hours, Ringo faked a migraine so that we could all go home and put her out of her misery."

My eyes widened. "He didn't!"

He stopped short and put a hand on my arm. "Don't tell anyone, alright?"

I rolled my eyes good-naturedly, and we continued walking until we reached a wooden fence that looked like it had been crafted by a drunken ox. It was topsy-turvy and did little but delineate the border of a vast estate.

I paused and considered my options. Then, without saying a word, I kicked off my heels and, after a quick glance at Paul, unpeeled stockings. He was looking at me with his mouth slightly agape as I put one foot on the bottom of the fence, then the other, and hoisted my body over.

"It's private property!" he exclaimed, sounding scandalized, like he'd never done anything remotely naughty.

I rolled my eyes. "Technically, it's my property. Well, a good many people would have to die before it passed into my hands, but let's not split hairs."

He covered his eyes and looked down the road toward the Edwards estate, which was far enough away that it couldn't be seen.

"But the house is a twenty-minute drive from here."

I shrugged. "We have a lot of land. Now, come 'ead, Macca."

Paul eyed the fence and then quickly clambered over it. He was slightly breathless when he reached me, his cheeks slightly flushed.

We continued to walk through the grass, and I once again wondered why it was so gloriously green. It was unnatural. Paul had once asked if we kept leprechauns in the cellars, and, at that moment, I thought that perhaps it was possible.

"Would it be inappropriate to offer you a smoke?" he asked. When I looked over, a joint dangled from his fingers.

"You brought drugs to a funeral?" I asked. "How offensive. How pedestrian. How fucking delightful; let's light it at once."

We sat in the tall grass and smoked, the world seeming deliciously hazy after a few minutes. He told me all about the studio sessions and how everything was a little bit off and he couldn't sort out what had changed in India. He sang bits of a song he was working on and asked me about Zarby. I lay back and stared at the sky, once again wondering if there was a heaven.

Paul lay down in the grass across from me and propped his head on an upturned hand. "Why'd you come by the other day?"

I flung an arm over my face. "I'm so sorry; it was awful of me. I'm sure you had things to do; I--"

He reached over to move my arm off my face, brushing my long fringe away from my eyes. "That's not what I meant."

"Still," I insisted. "How embarrassing."

He rolled his eyes and removed his hand, though his body remained close to mine. "I'd rather be crying and upset than all this pomp and circumstance."

I offered a small smile. "This is meant to be a low-profile funeral; thank you very much."

His eyes widened. "Low profile? There was an orchestra in there!"

I laughed and looked upward again as I tried to organize my thoughts. I expected he'd press me for an answer, but he just let his head fall back and looked at the sky.

"I just gave the taxi driver the wrong address," I finally said in a small voice. "I wasn't thinking, I suppose."

Paul didn't reply; he kept looking at the sun dipping lower in the sky. I glanced over to admire his face in profile. I'd almost forgotten how pretty he was, a heady mix of masculine and feminine.

Just as I was about to say more, he sat up and ran a hand through his hair as he looked around. "We're lost, aren't we?"

I shook my head and pointed to a small hut in the distance. "That's the trapper's hut. If I remember correctly, there's a telephone in there."

He looked at me doubtfully. "So I'm meant to ring up someone and tell them I'm in the middle of nowhere and to come to pick me up?"

I shrugged. "You're a Beatle."

He nodded as if I'd made a perfectly valid point, then hopped up as if suddenly energized. We walked towards the small building, my shoes dangling from one hand. The grass that we'd smoked made everything feel a little woozy and more giggly than it should be.

Thankfully, there was a telephone, and it was in working order. Paul's call to Mal was short, and I wondered why he was bothering him on a Sunday. I called myself a taxi, promising to double their fare if they drove me back to London. We didn't discuss the fact that we were heading to roughly the same place, but wouldn't be sharing a car. 

I decided we'd walk back to the main road, where our respective rides could more easily find us. The sun was beginning to set, and the entire field was bathed in shades of amber and gold. Something about the beauty of it all and having a few hours with Paul, just like old times, overwhelmed me.

"Alice?"

I turned toward Paul with tears on my face and he looked at me questioningly.

"It's all just so lovely," I said, waving vaguely toward the sunset and then toward him. He seemed to know what I was going on about, and the expression on his face softened.

"Your grandmother wouldn't want you to be sad," he said.

"She just liked you so much," I said, the tears falling more steadily and my voice breaking as I took a few steps toward him and flung myself into his arms. What was the matter with me? Was my body programmed only to cry in the presence of Paul McCartney? Had I finally succumbed to Beatlemania?

I don't know who kissed who first, but it was a brilliant kiss. It started out tentative and safe, and our bodies maintained a safe distance. Then we sort of melted into each other, and the kiss deepened, his hand in my hair and my arm around his waist. Muscle memory kicked in, and we were both left panting slightly as we pulled away. He looked at me with wide eyes, wondering what had just happened.

"You're taking advantage of a grieving person," I said, laughing quietly through tears. He reached over to wipe one off my cheek.

"Yeah," he replied half-seriously. "Probably."

"You're a cad," I said, dragging a hand across my face to erase the tears from existence.

"I'm a Beatle."

He stared at the ground for a moment like he was collecting himself. He ran a hand through his hair, catching his fingers at the end and tugging slightly. When he looked up, his cheeks were slightly flushed, and he looked almost uneasy.

"Liss--"

Before he could say anything else, there was a rumbling on the main road, and we both turned to see a black taxi approaching. The driver saw us standing by the side of the road and sped up a bit before he came to a screeching halt a few feet away.

Finally, we turned to look at each other. Paul's expression was once again guarded, and I wondered if mine was too.

"So..." he said.

"Thank you for coming today," I said, noticing his shoulders sagged a bit.

"Don't mention it."

The taxi driver opened his door and poked his head out. "Which of you is heading to London?"

I raised a hand halfway in the air, watching as his gaze went from me to Paul. His eyes widened. "Oi! Aren't you that McCartney fellow?"

I stifled a laugh, and Paul stifled a groan. "I'm his brother," he called over, and the man nodded like that made perfect sense.

Paul turned to me and offered a crooked smile. I took a step forward, feeling like I was saying goodbye all over again. "Do you want me to wait with you?"

He shook his head. "I'll be alright. Besides, I have a song knocking around my head that's begging to be sung aloud, but I can't tell if it's any good, so privacy is best."

I nodded and gave myself one more minute to take him in, all lashes and shiny hair and dark suit. Then I turned and began to walk towards the taxi, where the driver had mercifully returned to his seat. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach, but before I could even begin interpreting it, he called out my name.

"Alice."

I turned around. He shifted weight from one foot to the other, and his thumb and index finger tapped a beat against his leg.

"Could I ring you?"

I hesitated. "Ring me... when?"

"Just... ring you. You know--" he mimed, picking up a telephone receiver and adopting an accent eerily like Michael's. "'Ello there, little duckie, Paul McCartney's brother here."

"Little duckie?"

He tilted his head to one side. "I'm positive that's what people in East London are saying these days."

I grinned and looked away. When I looked back, he looked more relaxed, more like himself. Still, there was a hint of unease buried beneath it all.

Finally, I nodded. "As long as you don't call me 'little duckie.' If you do, I'll be forced to hang up."

He exhaled like he's been holding his breath without even knowing it. "I can ring?"

I nodded.

"Thank you again for coming. Good luck writing your song out here with the horses as company."

He saluted me and then made a big show of leaning against the rickety wooden fence and pulling out his notebook, which he'd somehow tucked away in his suit. I walked to the taxi and got in, never taking my eyes off him as we drove off.