Paul McCartney had lost the plot.

At least that's what Barry Miles thought when his friend showed up at his door for the sixth night in a row with a bottle of whisky dangling from his hand. For hours, he'd paced around the flat rambling semi-coherently, his thoughts zigzagging like a mad bumper car ride. His statements careened from the emotional to the practical to the truly far-out.

What's the purpose of love, anyway? Suppose it's just a passing fad or, y'know, one of those mind-control things run by the Tories. We're all fucking sheep when it comes down to it, aren't we? AREN'T WE? Are you even listening, Sue?!

The coat check girl from Samantha's said that the best pot comes from Isfahan. We should get some.

Do you ever feel like a supporting character in your own story? Like the script is there and you're just meant to mime the words, but it's all so goddamn stifling that you can't. Do ya know what I mean, Miles?

And why won't anyone fucking confirm if the fucking Kinks used a fucking tape delay? Who do I have to blow to find out?!

By the end of the tenth night, it was clear that Paul had lost not only the plot but also the subplot and the bloody character arc as well.

While he never spelled out what exactly had transpired between himself and Alice, it was easy enough for Miles and Sue to deduct several things:  Firstly, it had been Alice who had left. Secondly, it was clear that Paul had done something unforgivable, which, Paul being Paul, was pretty obvious. Thirdly, the fact that she'd disappeared made him feel helpless, and that in itself was slowly driving him barmy.

"He absolutely shagged someone," Sue opined in a loud whisper once Paul had passed out on their well-worn sofa. She'd pulled Miles into the kitchen and shut the door before pulling his face close to hers.

"He shagged someone and she found out and she left him. Good for her. He's careless when he wants to be, isn't he? If you ask me--"

"Your voice is a bit loud, love," Miles interrupted, only to be shut down by The Look from his wife.

"--it's high time that he learned that the rules apply to him too."

Miles nodded and agreed heartily, but he didn't have the heart to tell her that the rules really didn't apply to any of the Beatles, and they hadn't for years. And it wasn't likely that they'd suddenly begin to anytime soon.

"Does he not have other friends?" Sue finally lowered her voice. "Why's he coming round here every night?"

Miles had asked himself the same thing several times. On the one hand, he appreciated that Paul felt comfortable turning to them when times were tough. Though perhaps they were simply the least famous people he knew, and he didn't want to attract any additional attention. Regardless, Paul working through the five stages of grief in their living room was getting tiresome. They had their own shit to deal with; they didn't have the bandwidth to look after him any longer.

Luckily for them, the Beatles soon went off on their Magical Mystery Tour. And luckily for Paul, that nonsense delayed the press from finding out that Alice had disappeared into thin air. Because when they finally figured it out, all hell broke loose.

Paul refused to comment but did slip an off-hand remark into a televised interview. While he said very little of substance, his eyes somehow managed to communicate that he was a classy fellow and none of this was his fault. Then he fucked off to Scotland to hide until the drama died down, a strategy that would serve him well for the next few decades.

Once he returned, it was clear that he was adrift. His heart was shattered, or at least severely bruised, but Northern lads didn't cry over girls. And Beatle Paul wasn't allowed to nurse a broken heart, so instead, he shagged anything in a skirt in a desperate attempt to move on. Miles would run into him at happenings around town and it was just girl after girl after girl. He wondered if Paul bothered to learn their names or just  cheerfully thanked them in the morning before sending them on their way.

So when Paul phoned him in late February '68 and asked him to pop by Cavendish, Miles put it off. Sue accused him of avoiding his friend, which he roundly denied. But... if he were being honest with himself, which he usually tried to do, he wasn't not avoiding Paul. It wasn't that he didn't want to see him, but he didn't have the bandwidth to look after him.

Plus, he was having a shit day. 

It started when Sue sent him to the shop for a missing ingredient for a recipe, and he'd come back with the wrong one. A massive row ensued, amplified when the bank called to say their mortgage fees would be raised by an exorbitant 6%. Tempers flared--bloody inflation! bloody capitalism! bloody treacle!--and Miles had left the flat in a huff.

His lime green Mini rattled slightly as he pulled into traffic and made the journey to St John's Wood. He wondered which version of Paul he'd get:  the jolly public one? The drug-fueled manic music-writing one? Or the depressive what-does-it-all-mean one?

At least a dozen girls were standing outside the gate. They stared at him, and he stared right back. Half of them were sitting on a low wall across the street, swinging their legs back and forth. The others milled in front of the gate, ready to spring into action if there was any sign of activity from within.

He parked the car and climbed out, making a big show of locking it. He'd forgotten once, and one of them had ransacked his car and inexplicably nicked a postcard from Dunbar. Paul had run out, scolding a girl called Heloise, who apparently was living in London on an expired visa and whose favorite Beatles album was Rubber Soul.

Walking up to the gate, he tried to exude an air of confidence like he had a right to be there. He hated dealing with the gate birds; that was another reason he'd been putting this off. They always made a big show of eying him up and down while he waited, making it clear that they didn't find him to be a Person of Importance.

"Afternoon, girls," he said, stifling the urge to shove his black specs further up his nose. He pushed the buzzer three times, but the button got stuck on the third go. Even from the street, he could hear the harsh noise echo through the house. Then there was a slight screech, indicating that someone inside was listening on the intercom.

"It's Miles," he said into the speaker. There was a brief pause before the lock clicked so he could push through. He was halfway to the house when the front door opened and one of the most famous faces in the world popped out.

"Miley-o!" Paul called out cheerfully. "Come in, come in!"

His hair was longer than usual, and the sideburns were more aggressive. A shit-eating grin was spread across his face, but there was just the slightest hint of melancholy tugging at the corners. He opened the door further and motioned Miles in, clapping him on the back loudly as he passed by. He then hopped to the left and raised both fists in a jokey boxing stance.

"Thought you were standing me up, man."

"You know I don't put out til the third date," Miles replied with a grin, happy to see that Paul seemed neither coked up nor close to breaking down. The Beatle threw back his head and laughed that melodic chuckle that had girls around the world making pilgrimages to his house.

Miles breathed a little easier once he was inside the living room. The house wasn't quite as much of a hellscape as it had been the month after Alice had left. God, it'd been like a drug den. Or a bordello. Or somewhere in between. Even Paul had seemed to acknowledge that it was a bit much, ordering one of the girls out of the room so the two men could have a proper talk. But even that had been interrupted by Mal Evans's arrival. He'd handed Paul a small box covered discreetly in brown paper and quickly fled the scene.

"It's for the crabs," Paul had confided in Miles in such a low voice that he swore he must have misheard him.

"The... crabs?"

"Goddamn Americans," was all that Paul would say. His expression was 10% embarrassment but 90% acceptance that this was just how things were when one lived in the fast lane.

Back in the present, Paul gestured to Miles to sit on the sofa facing the french doors. The new housekeeper brought in a stray of tea and biscuits and set it down with a clatter. As soon as she was out of the room, Paul complained that she was clumsy and had broken all his shit, but he liked her fry-ups and the fact that she didn't complain about the revolving door of girls. Miles agreed that one always had to make trade-offs but privately wondered if she couldn't be persuaded to hoover more often.

"How's Sue?" Paul asked. His foot tapped the floor, meaning he was either anxious about something or he was accompanying a beat in his head. "Is she still baking up a storm?"

Miles nodded as he poured milk into his tea. "She made a cake last week that said, 'Sod Off, I'm a Feminist' in cursive on top. Then she sent me to the shop this morning to get golden syrup, which apparently isn't the same as black treacle, which is what I got."

Paul looked up. "Is there a difference, aside from one being golden and one... well, not golden?"

Miles shrugged. "Fuck if I know. Apparently, enough of a difference that I'm sleeping on the sofa tonight because the recipe was botched."

"Women," Paul muttered with an aggrieved sigh as if he had ever faced the prospect of sleeping alone because he'd accidentally purchased the wrong sweetener.

He opened the sugar bowl and frowned slightly before pushing it toward Miles, who was surprised to see that it contained a sizable quantity of grass. Paul jumped up and walked to an antique cabinet with loads of little drawers. He had a nervous energy about him like he couldn't sort out what to do with himself.

"Excited about India?" Miles asked, taking a sip of tea and watching his friend. It seemed he'd managed to pull himself out of the deep end, but he wasn't sure this was any better. It was like he was totally anchorless but had given in to the sensation of drowning.

Paul didn't reply immediately, opening four or five little drawers until his face brightened. He pulled out a packet of rolling papers and handed them to Miles. Paul was shit at rolling joints--they always came apart after a few drags--so he mostly relied on others to make them.

He threw himself onto the sofa across from Miles, his long legs stretched out. His foot tapped on the leg of the table as Miles hunched over the sugar bowl full of pot.

"It's mostly George and John's thing, but yeah, it'll be a groove," he finally replied. "Not looking forward to the flight, though."

"It's what? 15 hours?"

"More like 20," Paul replied. But the look on his face suggested it wasn't the length of the flight that bothered him. Perhaps it was the press that would inevitably be waiting on the tarmac when he arrived. Or the fact that the lovely stewardesses on board might bring back unpleasant memories.

Miles tucked the rolling paper around the crutch and leaned forward to lick the edge of the thin paper. Finally satisfied, he passed it to Paul, who lit it and inhaled deeply. He exhaled a cloud of smoke before handing it back.

"Clem was supposed to meet us in Rikikesh, but she's having issues with her visa."

Miles took a drag and sat back against the sofa. Clementine Crawford was, as far as he could tell, Paul's sort-of... girlfriend? Side piece? He'd never met her, but he knew of her. Everyone did. She was a young photographer whose claim to fame wasn't her photography, but rather her sordid affair with Jeff Beck. Paul had met her at a photo shoot, and, so the story went, they'd shagged in the cloakroom. Jeff had found out, which resulted in a near-brawl at The Middle Earth club. Ever since, Paul had sort of been stuck with her.

"Didn't realize it was so serious," Miles said, and Paul shrugged. Maybe it wasn't serious. Perhaps he simply didn't fancy being the odd man out whilst on holiday with his mates and their wives. That didn't change the slightly alarming fact that Clementine looked a bit like Alice. Like if you were in a dim room and squinted, you'd see a less attractive and less confident version of her. Miles wondered if Paul was even aware of the similarity or if he had firmly disassociated with everything related to his former lover.

Miles passed the joint back to Paul and nodded towards the tapping foot. "Alright, mate?"

Paul reached forward for the joint and grinned. "Yeah-- just-- y'know, mentally getting prepared for India. Mal's headed there tomorrow, and it's starting to get real, and I--"

"Paul?"

A girl who couldn't be more than 18 poked her head into the room. She wore an off-the-shoulder peasant-style top that barely covered her breasts and denim trousers so low on her waist that Miles wanted to blush. This is why he hated visiting Cavendish; he inevitably ended up feeling like someone's dad. No pot in the sugar bowl! Put your ta-tas away!

"John's on the telephone," the girl said to Paul in a flat American accent.

"Tell him I'll ring him back, love," Paul replied lazily. "Tell him Miles is here."

He flashed her a panty-dropping grin. Was it even intentional, or just something he did? Miles wondered what life would be like if one could smile like that every goddamn day.

As soon as she left, Miles leaned forward.

"Is she..." He even leaned closer. "I mean, are you--"

Paul looked confused for a moment, and then a smirk spread across his face as he took a drag.

"God, no-- she's Tony's secretary. Her landlord gave her the heave-ho last month, so she's been crashing here ever since, y'know?"

Miles nodded. He did know. He'd heard rumors about the American secretary who was sponging off Paul. Not to be confused with the Dutch 19-year-old he'd met at the Vesuvio Club, where she was a coat check girl. They were definitely shagging. But at least he'd managed to move away from the crabs debacle. That was progress.

Before either of them could comment further on the situation, the girl was back.

"John said that Miles should add Gregory Corso and Diane di Parma to the list."

She flitted away as Miles looked at Paul with a slight frown. "What list am I adding them to?"

Paul didn't reply, instead staring up at the ceiling. "Diane... Diane di Parma... how do I know that name?"

"You've met her," Miles explained. "She wrote 'This Kind of Bird Flies Backwards'... she did a reading at Indica, remember? It was back in '66, maybe? Anyway, what list?"

Paul's eyes lit up with a hint of playfulness. For a moment, it was like looking at pre-breakup Paul.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," he said excitedly. "We're going to form a company-- they're working on all the legal stuff, but it's going to be a great scene."

"A company?"

Paul nodded and grinned. "Yeah, Apple Corp... get it? C-O-R-P but like C-O-R-E. We're going to do all sorts of things:  a music label, obviously... and I had this idea to put out spoken word albums... like a separate imprint... almost like a magazine subscription, but in records. Remember that demo thing I set up with Ian in '66? An extension of that."

Miles nodded thoughtfully. "You'd have to figure out a way to make it affordable-- a high-brow thing for the everyday bloke sort of thing."

"Exactly, yeah. Fucking precisely, man, that's why we want you to run it."

"Me?"

"Yeah, man, you just get it. So, just come up with a list of people you want to record, we'll get you an assistant, and you can get started. What do you think?"

Miles sat back and stared just past Paul's shoulder, deep in thought. "I'm thinking: Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Charles Bukowski, Anne Waldman... Allen, obviously... maybe Aram Saroyam?"

Paul snapped his fingers. "Brilliant. I love it. We're thinking of calling it Zapple. As in, A is for Apple and Z is for Zapple."

"Only thing is, most of them are in America at the moment. In fact, I just heard that Diane Di Parma has moved to San Francisco to join a commune... a sort of Leary-inspired thing."

"So go to America. The sky's the limit with this. And it doesn't have to be only literature. George had the idea that we could make some electronic music, maybe some lectures-- anything off-beat, really."

Miles straightened up and took a sip of his tea. "Yeah, sure, send over the contract when it's all sorted."

"The contract?" Paul frowned slightly as if the notion of salary or legal parameters hadn't entered his brain, which perhaps should have made him wonder if he--or any of them--should collectively be in charge of a company. "Oh, yeah, the contract. Yeah, of course. I'll get Neil on it."

They shook on it just before Miles rolled another joint, this time with his own grass. Paul had a thing where he was suspicious that people were taking advantage of his largesse, never mind that he had three-and-a-half girls living at his house rent-free. The telephone rang, and Paul went off to take a call with Alistair Taylor. When he returned, he had that frenetic energy again, like his body was actively fighting against the soothing effects of the drugs.

"You sure you're alright?" Miles finally asked.

Paul looked up and exhaled slightly. "Yeah, sure. It's all great."

He trailed off, and his foot started to tap wildly against the carpet again. Miles looked at the polished shoe and then back to his face.

"Have you seen her?" he asked carefully.

Paul paused and then shrugged. "Nah."

"Still?"

He paused again. "She came to Eppy's memorial last October. Did I ever tell you that?"

Miles shook his head. Fucking hell.

He nodded. "Yeah, she showed up and sat in the back row. Then she just-- well, she just sort of left. Haven't seen her since. She's probably sitting on a beach in Tahiti. ...why, have you seen her?"

Miles shook his head. He declined to say that he had it on good knowledge that Lady Alice Edwards was back in London. Rumor was that she'd been back for months, keeping her head down and working on a new project. The fact that Paul--who knew everyone and always had his antennae up--hadn't heard the rumor meant that Miles wasn't the only worried that he couldn't handle it. Maybe it was easier for him to imagine that she's become a permanent expatriate.

"Well, I suppose when you're an Edwards, you can just fuck off until you're ready to be found," Paul said bitterly.

Something about how Paul said it made Miles wonder if he still hoped Alice would reappear unexpectedly and offer to start over. Maybe Sue was right: perhaps he had lived in this fucked-up bubble of a world for so long that he'd begun to lose his grasp on the rules that governed the rest of mankind.

"But yeah, India will be a groove," Paul repeated. "Donovan's going to be there. Mike Love too, I think. Hopefully we can get some sleep and write some songs. And meditate, of course."

Miles nodded and glanced at his watch, surprised to see that he'd already been there for two hours. He needed to get back home to apologize again for the syrup/treacle disaster in the hopes that he'd be able to sleep in his own bed and maybe even get lucky that night.

Paul looked slightly disappointed when his friend stood and brushed off his trousers. But he covered it quickly, bounding over to the door with him.

"Have fun in India," Miles said as he opened the front door. "Say a mantra for me, will ya?"