Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

02. The Miles' Flat on Hanson Street

Carnival of Light

02.

Having your arse groped by a Beatle in front of your boyfriend isn't something you forget about. I didn't consider myself a fan – I preferred Nina Simone, Billie Holiday, John Cage – but the Beatles were impossible to avoid in 1966. They were the biggest band in the world, and outrageously popular. But despite his fame, Paul McCartney didn't mean anything to me, and the incident soon found its way to the back of my mind as I got myself re-settled in London.

A year ago I'd been working as an editorial assistant at The Evening Standard and sharing a flat with my friend Poppy, living quite the bohemian life. Now I had no job to keep me occupied and lived at Beauford House, my family's London home in Belgravia. It was far too large for just me, but my brother Barney insisted and I didn't want to cause a fuss.

Matthew couldn't live there since we weren't married or engaged. He was supposed to be looking for a flat, but I suspected he was happy to stay at his club indefinitely, or at least until we were officially engaged.

I was writing every day, trying desperately to get my novel back on track with limited success. A week after Fraser's party I tracked down Indica Books in Mason's Yard, where I found Sue Miles behind the register. She laughed when she saw me walk into the store.

"Holy cow!" she whooped. "Miles told me he ran into you. I didn't really believe him!"

I grinned – Sue was English but grew up in California, giving her a wonderful hybrid accent full of Americanisms.

"Why on earth wouldn't you believe him?" I asked.

She hugged me, a proper American hug, which I wasn't used to, then pulled back to look me over. She seemed satisfied that I really did exist.

"You just disappeared!" she exclaimed. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"My father was ill," I explained. "I went home to spend time with him before he passed."

"I'm sorry, doll," Sue made a sympathetic face. "Hey, how about a drink, huh?"

I agreed, and Sue closed the store early. We walked up Regent's Street and turned into Soho for a drink at the French on Dean Street. Four hours later, I was drunk on cheap red wine and confessing my entire pitiful story to Sue, including the last six months with Matthew.

"We went to New York after the funeral,"I explained over our third bottle of burgundy. "It was supposed to be for a few weeks, you know, to get some space, but it turned into months. Then Matthew wanted to stay abroad until I finished the book. So it was Paris for ages, Nice, Monte Carlo, uh... Geneva. I think he fancies himself the bloody Zelda to my Scott Fitzgerald."

"So did you finish your book?" Sue demanded drunkenly.

"No," I sighed and slopped more wine in our glasses. "We just spent heaps of money and swanned about like bloody Edwardians. I seemed to lose the thread somewhere."

When the French closed we staggered down the street to the Mandrake where we drank lager and smoked hash with a group of Jamaicans. I don't remember leaving, but somehow we made it back to Sue's flat where we carried on.

I woke up on her couch the next morning, my head pounding and my throat dry as a desert. It took ages to open my eyes, and even longer to drag myself into the kitchen in search of water. Sue's husband Miles was there, making tea and toast. He laughed when he saw me leaning against the door, looking an absolute state, my hair and clothes a mess.

"Morning," he chirped. "How'd you find the couch? Allen Ginsberg slept there for a month last year."

"Golly," I croaked. "Maybe I'll get lucky and some of his genius will have worn off on me. Have you got a cigarette?"