November 1968
San Francisco

Theo Dormer's sister was hopeless when it came to calculating time zones. Either she thought California was six hours behind London, or perhaps that Theo lived in New York City. Regardless of the reason, she routinely rang him well before the sun rose, always cheerfully assuming that she was calling at an appropriate time.

This was one of those days.

"Did you see it?" she asked breathlessly, not even bothering to say hello. "It's everywhere here, in every single newspaper. Everyone's gone absolutely mad with either envy or relief. And, I have to say, the photograph makes her arse look a bit on the large side."

It had only been three hours since Theo had fallen asleep, and it seemed like his eyes had gone on strike and were refusing to open at such an ungodly early time. He rubbed them as he replied in a raspy voice thick with sleep.

"Whose arse?"

There was a pause. "So you haven't seen it."

Finally, one eye managed to unstick, and he looked up at the ceiling, which was the faintest shade of blue. He forced the other eye open to look at the clock, which, as expected, showed that it was 5:12am. Or, in Penny's mind, 8:12am.

"It's 5 in the morning, Pen... I've no idea what you're on about."

"...I thought for sure I'd gotten it right this time... you're not six hours behind?"

Theo shook his head tiredly even though she couldn't see him. "I'm nine hours behind London. Nine."

"Nine," she repeated. "I'll write it down so I'll remember next time."

He'd heard this promise before, but the results had never materialized.

"Well," she continued more brightly. "Ring me once you've had a chance to see it. Feel free to reverse the charges since you're an impoverished writer now! Ciao, darling."

The line went dead, and Theo went back to sleep for several hours, forgetting all about whose arse was large and what he was supposed to see. It wasn't until he was drinking a cup of English Breakfast tea and staring at the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle that he saw it.

Beneath the headlines about Nixon's recent election and a proposed tax relief bill was a black-and-white photograph of one of the most famous faces in the world and an attractive brunette, neither of whom was looking at the camera. The girl was clasping the guy's hand rather tightly, but the expression on her face was calm, as if the situation wasn't her cup of tea but it also wasn't her first rodeo. Theo squinted at the tiny print below.

Rumor has it that Beatle Paul McCartney and socialite-turned-magnate Alice Edwards have rekindled their romance. The star-crossed lovers were spotted leaving Dizzy's in London hand-in-hand, looking blissfully in love. However, the question on everyone's mind: will it last? And are Paul's fans around the world rejoicing or in mourning?

Theo scoffed and tossed the newspaper aside, debating whether to ring up his friend who worked at the Chronicle to complain about how valuable front-page real estate was wasted on this drivel. How had Paul and Alice managed to keep it out of the papers for this long, anyway? At least three people had told Theo separately that the pair were back together, and each time, it failed to surprise him. They didn't have a Shakespearean, star-crossed romance. They were just two idiots in love with each other, for better or for worse.

After a hurried shower, Theo left his house on a tiny street in the quickly-gentrifying Marina District. Pocketing the keys, he turned onto the much busier Cervantes Boulevard, relishing the hustle and bustle that came with living in America. It was brilliant, really. These people actually got up every morning and thought, boy-oh-boy, today's a new day and something exciting is going to happen! Depending on his mood, Theo found the unabashed optimism either endearing or disgusting, mostly the latter.

He walked a short distance to the Presidio, where he climbed aboard a crowded bus headed toward Market Street. He clutched a leather strap attached to the wall, holding his breath as the bus reached the top of a particularly steep hill. As was his habit, he marveled at what a spectacle the city was: suited businessmen smoking furiously while they sidestepped hippies and stepped over deadbeats sleeping on the sidewalk, all while nodding politely to the society ladies out walking their dogs. It was so unlike what he'd experienced in London, and every day, he felt grateful to be part of the groove.

The bus dropped him at Pier 27, where he crossed the Embarcadero and entered the industrial warehouse neighborhood that hadn't yet been given a name. It was not-in-a-good-way gritty and gave his inner Englishman a secret thrill every time he stepped foot in it. Trudging past a row of warehouses, he turned onto Brannan Street and stopped in front of the slaughterhouse.

And there, in a nondescript gray building across the street, was the headquarters of Rolling Stone magazine.

The receptionist's name was Winter, or so she wanted everyone to think. She was waifish and scantily clad, which was the de rigeur look for most women who stepped foot in the magazine's headquarters. It was like someone had created a rule that a woman's belly button must always be visible and bonus points for ample cleavage.

Probably Jann had created that rule, the pervert. Theo wasn't sure if anyone actually liked him or if they all collectively pretended to. What was clear was that Jann couldn't be trusted since he was always on his soapbox about something but didn't hesitate to switch loyalties when it suited him. He was easily blinded by celebrity, and Theo harbored the suspicion that he had started the magazine so that he himself could be a celebrity. So, in other words, a starfucker.

It also didn't help matters that Theo had been shagging Jann's wife every so often since Labor Day. They'd met at a party, so off their faces that they didn't realize who was married to who and who worked for who. The good news was that Jann and Jane (how ridiculous was that! Jann and Jane!) seemed to have a somewhat open relationship, which was how Theo justified it to himself.

"Hiiiiiii, Theodore," Winter purred as he walked in, manipulating her body to make her breasts even more prominent.

"Hey," he said with a curt but friendly nod. She had a raging crush on him, which he attributed solely to his accent, and he didn't want to do anything to encourage it.

"Did you seeeeeeee this?"

In her hand was the morning edition of the Chronicle, which she dangled in the air. He nodded and kept walking toward his tiny desk in the back corner.

"Did you ever meet them?" she called after him. "The Beatles, I mean. When you lived in London."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jann look up from whatever he was editing as if he, too, were very interested in this answer. For a brief moment, Theo debated responding that yes, he was great mates with all of them, and John Lennon himself had just rung him that very morning to offer up an 8,000-word feature-length interview for a fledgling, near-bankrupt magazine not even imported to the UK.

Instead, he shook his head. "London's a big city."

Winter followed him to his desk, where he made a big show of pulling his typewriter toward him and pulling out a fresh sheet of paper.

"I can't believe he's taken," she said sadly, staring down at the photograph of Paul and Alice, who, incidentally, did not look like she had a giant arse.

Theo looked up at her, his nose scrunched in confusion. "Did you think he was saving himself for you?"

Winter looked taken aback, like no, of course not, but also, maybe, yes.

"This is a place of work," Theo said gruffly, causing her face to fall. "Sorry, love," he said more gently. "I'm just stressed about the deadline for this Fleetwood Mac thing. Can we chat later?"

It was late afternoon when he finally emerged for lunch. Most writers brought their own, but he'd forgotten to pick it up on the way to work. So, with a sigh, he trudged back toward the docks, all the while thinking of clever but friendly ways of saying that Fleetwood Mac's self-titled album lacked originality and was utter shite.

The H&H Automat on Cheshire Street was the saddest, most American thing Theo had ever seen, and it made him slightly depressed every time he was forced to come here. All the sad little windows are full of sad little food. And the pie -- who needed to choose from 34 flavors of pie? That was the problem with America; there was too much choice, which had resulted in the foolhardy optimism surrounding him.

It was well past rush hour, so the store was virtually empty as he stood in front of the vast wall of windows, debating between a gloopy chicken pot pie or a dry ham sandwich. Finally, he opted for the latter and pushed a nickel into the slot. There was a whirring sound as the door popped open and he was able to retrieve his meal.

He heard the distinct tap of a woman's stiff soles hitting the linoleum floor and sensed her stop a few meters away. As he debated whether he wanted shitty American coffee or dreadful American tea, he watched out of the corner of his eye as she bent down to examine the lower shelves with all the different pies.

"Pardon me," she said, sounding polite but slightly vexed. "Do you happen to know what butterscotch pie is?"

Theo stilled. Bloody hell.

"Or orange chiffon pie," the woman continued in her semi-posh British voice that he would know in his sleep. "I've never heard of that."

What were the odds? What were the fucking odds that Alice Edwards was here? Here in San Francisco? Here at the dumpy Automat next to the docks? Next to the bloody docks!

She was still peering down at the labels, unaware of whom she was speaking to. Slowly, he turned his head to take her in, half expecting her to be decked out in a fur coat and jewels. But she looked irritatingly normal in tailored black trousers and a maroon silk blouse that was saved from being boring by an intricate pattern of what appeared to be snails. Her hair was longer than he remembered, and it was swept over one shoulder as she examined all the desserts.

Theo took a deep breath and shifted his weight to one leg, slouching a bit so he looked more casual. For once, he had the upper hand when it came to Alice.

"Butterscotch pie is just a flavored custard," he replied, his voice echoing throughout the empty Automat. "I've no idea what orange chiffon pie is, but you should know they've all been sitting on those little shelves since 8am this morning."

Alice looked up, startled. He'd hoped this was one situation where she would feel like a fish out of water, but she somehow managed not to look terribly surprised. He wondered what it cost her to always be in control of her surroundings.

"Oh, gosh, Theo!" she said, standing and throwing her arms around him. He stiffened, still unused to random hugs despite having lived in America for six months. After a moment, she pulled back, looking thoroughly chagrined.

"I'm so sorry," she said, stepping back and reaching an arm between them as if to prove that she had created the necessary distance. "I didn't mean to-- well, I suppose one spends two days in America, and all of a sudden, one is accosting people left and right. It's-- well, it's been a day."

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and looked at him apologetically. He knew that look because his sister had perfected it as well. It was the look of entitled English noblesse who knew they would get away with murder as long as they looked demure doing so.

"This doesn't seem like your scene," Theo said, gesturing around the Automat. At that moment, a homeless man walked in and stared hopefully at them, then looked longingly at the sandwich in Theo's hand. He realized he probably wasn't going to eat it anyway, so after a moment, he walked over to the man and handed it to him, along with a few dollar bills from his pocket.

When he turned back to Alice, she was taking him in, no doubt comparing the Theo in front of her to the one she'd last seen in London. He glanced down at the floor, trying to imagine how he looked from her perspective. He'd quickly ditched the suits upon arriving in San Francisco, replacing them with the flared corduroy trousers, plaid or paisley shirts, and slightly faded jackets that were the uniform of the San Francisco intelligentsia. He'd grown his hair, obviously, and cultivated a bushy mustache to match.

Alice had a look on her face that he'd never seen before, a raw vulnerability and perhaps a twinge of shock. He'd planned to be an unfettered wanker to her--sly barb after barb, really getting it all out--but something about her expression stopped him in his tracks.

"Alright, Alice?" he asked, and she nodded, looking a bit dazed.

"Yes," she said. "It's just..."

"You're in all the papers," he offered, and she nodded.

"I'd rather not be, but it doesn't seem to be up to me."

Perhaps you shouldn't shag pop stars, he thought. Try staying away from film actors as well, just to be safe.

"Quite," he replied. They stood awkwardly until she broke the silence by taking a nickel out of her purse and pushing it into the slot. A moment later, a slice of orange chiffon pie was deposited into her hands. She stared at it momentarily, shaking her head and muttering bloody hell.

"What're you doing here, Alice?" he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Oh--" she looked up, startled as if she'd almost forgotten he was there. He wouldn't say he knew Alice well, but he knew her well enough to know something was amiss. "I got lost on the way to the sandwich shop, but then I saw the Automat, and it seemed so deliciously American that I thought I'd try it out... it's almost like being in a film, isn't it. Is it true that people have pie for breakfast?"

She looked down at the dessert again, wrinkling her nose like she wasn't sure if it was actually edible or perhaps second-guessing her decision not to go for the butterscotch pie.

"No," Theo said with a small laugh as a mother and her small child walked in. The boy scurried directly to the hamburger window, and the mother hurriedly produced a coin. "I meant, what're you doing in San Francisco? In America?"

"Oh," Alice said, grinning. "Right... Well, one of my designers has their workshop nearby, so I popped in to see their spring collection. I'm meant to be in Los Angeles, actually, but with the... with all the pictures in the paper, I thought it best to go off the grid."

The mother was carrying the morning edition of the Chronicle in her hand. She glanced at Theo and Alice briefly, then back at her son, who was pulling on her skirt. She then did a double-take, examining Alice with amazement and surreptitiously glancing down at the photograph of her in the paper.

"Let's split," Theo said, brushing his hand against Alice's elbow. "Keep you off the grid."

They walked companionably down the street and crossed the Embarcadero back into the warehouse district. Alice offered him a bit of pie, which was surprisingly good, and they shared it as they walked in silence. She had a nervous, restless energy that he'd never seen before. He was about to break the silence with banal small talk when she came to a halt and reached out to stop him.

"I'm pregnant," she whispered.

Then she covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide. "Oh God, I can't believe I said that. I can't..."

His first reaction was to joke; is it mine? His second was to ask, do you know who the father is? But he heroically managed not to utter either question.

Instead, he asked, "On purpose?"

Alice lowered her hands from her mouth and stared at him for a moment before shaking her head. "No, not really."

Then, after a moment, she added: "It's Paul's."

Of course, it was Paul McCartney's fucking love child -- Paul probably had hundreds of love children scattered around the world -- but once again, he managed not to say any of this aloud.

"Well, that's... nice. Are you two... happy about it?"

What was one supposed to say when someone dropped this information into one's lap uninvited? Though judging how Alice looked like she was about to freak out, perhaps she wasn't happy about it.

She blinked. "Oh, I haven't told him."

Theo's eyes must have widened because she once again looked flustered.

"I just found out this morning," she said almost defensively. "Just a few hours ago, and I had to run to my meeting."

She continued to chatter nervously about the fact that she'd switched hotels at the last minute -- it was a habit from when she was a stewardess and was constantly changing hotels so no one could ever find her, which she quite liked -- and she wasn't quite sure how her assistant had managed to find her, which meant that her doctor knew how to call her.

"I'm so sorry," she said, suddenly looking a bit teary. "I don't know what's come over me. You don't want to know any of this."

She looked so miserable standing there, trying her best not to cry, that Theo sighed and pulled her into a hug. He wondered if it was serious again with Paul or if they were just fucking around and had managed to get caught on film. He hoped that Paul would do the right thing and marry her, but then again, he wasn't sure she was the marrying sort.

Finally, she pulled away, looking mildly horrified about the previous five minutes. "I'm so sorry, Theo. I've-- I mean, you must think I'm crackers. I haven't seen you in six months... and I know we didn't leave things... sorted... and here I am blubbering like a whale and-- oh, I get so splotchy when I cry, I'm so sorry."

She was indeed splotchy and a bit snotty, and it annoyed Theo how pretty she was even with all that going on. Not for the first time, he angrily thought that Paul McCartney was one lucky bastard. Not only did he get the girl, but he got to release shitty record after shitty record to the fanfare of the world.

"Anyway," she continued. "I'll-- well, I'll sort it all out. I just-- I suppose I felt really far from home today... just really, well, alone... first, the doctor called, then all the bloody newspaper articles... anyway, I guess you just reminded me of home."

He decided to defuse the situation and make her feel less awkward, a choice that made him feel rather heroic.

"So you would've cried on the shoulder of any Englishman you came across?" he asked gently with a small smile. "Is that what you're saying?"

She nodded gratefully. "Yes, precisely."

He sighed and stared up at the sky momentarily, wondering why the universe had wanted them to be in the same place at the same time. After coming up with no good answer, he looked down at her.

"Want to share a joint and come see the Rolling Stone office? It's just around the corner."

Alice didn't hesitate. "Oh god, yes, please."

He produced a semi-squished joint that he'd rolled the previous evening and then forgotten about, and she offered up an enameled art deco lighter from her purse. They set off down 7th Street as he railed against the cultural vacuum that produced most of today's albums. When she asked if there were any records that he did like, he paused for a long time before tentatively replying that he immensely enjoyed "Yummy Yummy Yummy" by Ohio Express but that he'd vehemently deny it if she ever told anyone.

Winter had thankfully left for the day by the time they reached the office. Alice managed not to comment that it was housed in a run-down building on a shitty street across from a slaughterhouse, which he appreciated. Instead, she oohed and aahed appropriately about how groovy it was that he was making a name for himself and how happening it all seemed.

They walked through the main space, which was an open floor plan. Only Jann had a dedicated office, which was currently being used by his editor, Ben, who was interviewing two members of the Grateful Dead. Three other writers were hunched over their typewriters at their desks, focused on hyping up or destroying whatever album they were reviewing.

"So this is where the sausage is made," she commented as they walked past desk after desk, typewriter after typewriter. She turned around slowly, surveying the room. "This is the room where Cream died."

He scoffed. "It's bollocks that the review made Clapton quit. What sort of fellow quits because of a mediocre review? Don't get into the music business in the first place if you can't take a well-balanced critique."

He pulled a rickety chair up to his desk and made them each a cup of tea. Alice grimaced when she took a sip, and he explained that there was no electric kettle, so he was forced to use the heated water from the coffee maker. He was showing her the next month's layout when the door to Jann's office opened, and Bob Weir and Jerry Garcia walked out. There was a flurry of "thanks man" s as they clapped Ben on the back and made their way to the exit.

"Oh, there you are, Theo," Ben said, walking towards him. "How's the Fleetwood Mac thing coming?"

Alice's back was to Ben, but even from that vantage point, it must've been apparent that an attractive woman was in the office. Ben ran a hand through his shaggy black hair and adjusted his specs as he rounded the corner to Theo's desk, acting surprised that someone else was there.

"Oh-- hi, there. Ben Fong-Torres."

Alice stood as he extended a hand for her to shake. He held it a bit too long, causing Alice to grin.

"How do you do," she said. Then, after a pause, she said jokingly, "Americans do love a good handshake, don't they?"

"Ahh, another Brit," Ben said, giving her a once-over before looking at Theo. "Friend from home, Dormer? And how's the Fleetwood Mac thing coming along? You swore I'd have it by 5."

Theo looked at his watch. "It's 4:15. You'll have it by 5."

Ben shot him a knowing look. "You haven't started it, have you?"

Theo shook his head and then rubbed his collarbone. "No, man, but I've listened to the record. Twice, even. It won't take long to write about how it tries but fails to show promise. I'm thinking of a headline that really pops." Theo put his hands out in front of him as if imagining a marquee. "Debut Album Dies the Slow Death of Derivativeness."

Ben looked at Alice with a knowing grin on his face. "I'm convinced this guy doesn't really like music."

Alice raised an eyebrow. "Or he likes it so much that he can't bear anything less than perfect."

Ben clapped his hands together. "Either way, the readers eat it up, and they--" He paused and looked closer at Alice. "Hey, how do I... have we...." A longer pause as both Theo and Alice braced themselves for what was coming.

He dropped his hands and took a step closer to Theo. "Is it possible that..."

Then he looked back at Alice. "You're Alice Edwards, aren't you? Oh, man, my girlfriend is gonna flip. She's absolutely nuts about your store. Spends all her money having your clothes shipped across the ocean."

Alice paused, clearly not anticipating this turn of events. "Oh," she finally said with a warm smile. "Yes, that's me."

"How does Kelly know about Zarby?" Theo asked, sounding slightly surprised, and Ben rolled his eyes.

"Who doesn't, man?" He stepped closer to Alice and lowered his voice, suddenly sounding more businesslike. "I've actually been thinking-- what if we did a story about the intersection of fashion, culture, and music. I think there could be an angle there."

Alice nodded. "That sounds brilliant, but I'm afraid that I'm not in the position to comment publicly on anything at the moment--"

"Sure, sure," Ben said, interrupting. "Because all the papers are blabbing about how you're Paul McCartney's girlfriend... again. How's he in bed, by the way? Just kidding, oh, wow, you should have seen your face! I couldn't give a fuck how he is in bed, though I'm sure he'd not half-bad. Though-- speaking of Paul, and I apologize in advance for having to ask this, but any chance he'd give us an interview? Could be part of the same article about music and fashion. Or not-- could be about anything, really."

Alice shot him a bemused look. "I'm not sure he'd be into the idea."

Ben put a hand on his hip. "Really? Why not?"

"Well, first of all, I'm not sure he's ever heard of Rolling Stone. Is it even available in the UK?"

"It's not," Theo interrupted. "Because England is a cultural backwater."

"And secondly," Alice continued, "didn't your magazine say that the Beatles must've chosen the track order on the new record by -- and I quote -- 'forcing a drunken ape to throw shit at the wall to see where it would land'?"

Theo leaned forward, a twinkle in his eyes. "Did they really print 'shit'? I thought it might not make it through the censors."

At the same time, Ben's face brightened. "The Beatles read Rolling Stone?"

Alice tilted her head to one side and squinted slightly. "Oh, I've no idea... a friend showed me. But, regardless, I imagine their press officer would ferret out that review, and you'd find them not very amenable. Especially Paul."

Ben turned to Theo. "Great, man, now you've fucked up our chances with the Beatles."

Theo scoffed, sounding totally unrepentant. "Please. Have you heard the record, all ten hours of it? The cognitive dissonance of going from 'Glass Onion' to 'Oh-Bla-Di, Oh-Bla-Boring' is unreal, man." His head swiveled to look at Alice almost accusingly. "You weren't there when they were sequencing the tracks, were you?"

She laughed and shook her head. "Afraid not. But look..." She trailed off and then glanced at Ben. "When everything... calms down... maybe we can see about the article about fashion and music and all that."

"Yeah, it's a fucking drag, isn't it?" he said, rubbing his chin. "It must be heavy, huh, having everything out in the open. Will you be mobbed the moment you're back on your side of the pond?"

"No," Alice said, while Theo replied with a resounding "Yes!"

"I won't," Alice said, sounding uncertain. "Will I? ... Oh Christ, I will, won't I. They'll get to me at the airport."

She looked between the journalists and then nodded decisively. "I'll just say 'no comment.' It'll be fine."

"No, no, no, no," Ben said hurriedly. "No, that's the worst thing you can say to people like us. That just makes us hate you a little more than we already do."

"But what if I have no comment?" she asked.

"May as well invite the pressmen over to your house, have them in for tea," Theo said. "You know what you should do... give that smile... you know, then one where it looks like you're being polite but also taking the piss?"

Alice shook her head. "I don't have a smile like that."

"You do," Theo said shortly. "So give that smile and say..." he trailed off, running through all the options. "Something like..."

"Aren't you cleeeeeever?" Ben said in a feminine, British voice.

"Yes!" Theo said his voice almost a shout, which caused one of the other writers to look over to see what all the fuss was about. "Yes, that's fucking it!"

Alice looked between them again. "'Aren't you clever?' That's what I'm meant to say?"

"But with the smile," Theo corrected. "It won't work without the cheeky half-smile."

Alice blinked a few times and then nodded. "Alright, well, I'll take it under consideration... much like I'll also take into consideration flying private so I don't land at Heathrow."

Ben shook his head. "They'll expect that. Rookie move."

He looked down at his watch. "Fuck, man, I gotta go. It's my lady's birthday, so..." he trailed off and waggled his eyebrows, giving the impression of the drinking and sex that would ensue. He leaned over to kiss Alice on the cheek and squeezed her waist, making her jump slightly like she was ticklish.

"Nice to meet you, doll. Dormer-- you never fail to surprise me. And get me that fucking review, man."

He walked away just as quickly as he arrived, stopping by to remind the other writers of their deadlines and then breezing out the door. Alice and Theo watched him go before daring to make eye contact.

"I'm so sorry," Theo said, holding up his hands. "I didn't realize you'd get pitched. Or that Paul would get pitched vis-a-vis you. That's not why I asked you up here."

Alice pulled her hair into a ponytail and let it fall to her shoulders, a nervous tic he remembered from long ago. "No, it's alright; I suppose it would be silly for a music magazine not to ask for an interview with a Beatle. Or all four of them."

She paused for a moment, lost in thought. "Although, perhaps you should offer to print John and Yoko's new album cover. It's... not my bag, you know? But John's obsessed with the idea of it, and I heard it may have trouble with the American censors...." She trailed off. "Just a thought."

Theo grinned. "I'll be sure to mention it to the editor-in-chief. A famous foreskin seems right up his alley."

Alice made a show of looking at her watch and grimacing. "I should go... you have your deadline, and I have...." She looked down at her waist, which was tiny as ever, and Theo had difficulty believing that she was harboring a little human in there.

"I have to deal with some things," she continued. "Work-related calls, I mean. Not..." she trailed off again, looking flustered. "I'm sorry again to unload on you earlier... and I'm sorry... about everything... in London, I mean. I shouldn't have called you self-important."

She gave him that look again, the raw, vulnerable one that made him want to protect him. Running a hand through his hair, he took a step closer and lowered his voice.

"It'll all work out, Alice..." he waved a hand in the vicinity of her waist. "You'll be a good mum."

That statement he most definitely didn't believe, not because he didn't think that Alice as an individual couldn't be a good mum, but because he didn't think that anyone of his ilk could be a good parent. How could they be, raised by governesses and unfeeling parents who could barely give them the time of day? How could they possibly even know how to begin to be a proper parent?

Alice was looking at him in a way that made him think that she shared this idea and that it scared the shit out of her.

"I suppose we'll have to see," she said rather primly like she appreciated the sentiment even though she knew he couldn't possibly mean it.

"I mean it," he said, surprising himself that he actually did mean it. "You're brilliant with Hayes. He always says you're like a mum to him. That has to count for something, doesn't it?"

She smiled at that and fiddled with her purse. "Given the 11-year age gap between us, I prefer to think of him as a little brother or a first cousin, perhaps. But speaking of Hayes, thank you for writing to him at boarding school. I think he's fairly miserable there, and I think--"

"Hayes is going to be his generation's greatest music critic," Theo said seriously.

Alice looked at him dubiously. "Well, that's kind of you to say... he thinks so, that's for sure. And the zingers that he lobs at Paul, well... I'm not sure their relationship will ever recover."

Theo hid a smile because he had supplied several of those zingers, and he was pleased that they'd gotten under the cocky wanker's skin. He made a note to write an entirely new review of The Beatles' album when it was released in the US. It was a ridiculous album, about 27 songs too long. They hadn't even bothered to come up with a title for it or, God forbid, artwork for the cover.

Alice twisted her fingers, looking out of place for the first time since he'd run into her. Since the first time he's met her, come to think of it. It occurred to Theo that it was possible that he intimidated her -- that he intimidated her. Jesus Christ, what a revelation.

"Well..." she trailed off. "It's been good seeing you... let me know next time you're in London, and tell Penelope that I said hello."

They air-kissed each other, something Theo had left behind in Swinging London, and, with one last tentative smile, Alice left.

Two days later, he was half-listening to the evening news while he edited an article when Walter Cronkite said in his deep voice that Lady Alice Edwards had landed back in England after days of speculation as to her whereabouts. Theo looked up to see grainy footage of her walking through a throng of reporters behind a giant hulk of a man, who he presumed was some sort of Beatles security.

The newspaper men shouted questions at her and shoved unwieldy metal microphones in her face. "Are you back together?" one asked, causing Alice to pause briefly. She looked directly at him as one side of her mouth curved up, causing her to look both friendly and supremely annoyed.

"Well, aren't you clever?" she purred before pulling sunglasses down over her face and continuing to walk forward, causing the man to shout, almost defensively, "What's that supposed to mean?!"

The phone next to Theo rang, and he picked it up.

"Did you see it?" Ben asked, his voice deeper than in person.

"Oh, I saw it," Theo replied, fighting to keep a grin off his face.

"Fucking stunning," Ben said. "That was fucking stunning. Everyone's going to be asking what she meant and why she said it, and-- hats off to us, man."

"Hip, hip, hurrah," Theo said drily, even though he secretly thought it was all pretty great.