Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

13. John Lennon's Dressing Gown

Carnival of Light

13.

I slept most of the day following my adventure to Staffordshire, but by the evening I was up and working, ploughing through the pages that would become the first chapter of my novel. I wrote prolifically through the night and into the next day, napping in the wingback armchair beside the study fireplace whenever sleep became too necessary to ignore. That was how Mrs Fitz found me a few days after Staffordshire, when she came in to inform me I had a telephone call.

"Milady," she gently patted me awake and I sat up with a start, blinking and bleary. "Paul McCartney is on the telephone for you," she said, almost drily.

I frowned at her, raking my fringe off my face. "Is he?"

Paul had never rang me before. He didn't have my number, but more importantly, we weren't really friends, not the sort who would ring each other up for lunch, as I'd once pointed out to Tara. It turned out lunch was exactly what Paul was ringing me up about. He wanted to introduce me to his friend from California, a pressman called Derek Taylor. I agreed to let him pick me up the next afternoon.

"What sort of lunch is this?" I asked him, stifling a yawn.

"What d'you mean?"

"I mean what should I wear?" I pressed.

"Wear whatever you like," Paul said smoothly. "You always look good."

Christ. He was charming even when he wasn't trying to be.

It was blisteringly hot out the following day, so I wore a mauve linen dress with leather sandals and a leather belt cinched around my waist. I draped a few delicate gold chains around my neck then tried to sort out my fringe, but it refused to do what I wanted because of the heat. I was starting to think messy sort of suited me better than sleek. It was much more California at any rate.

Paul picked me up in the dark green Aston Martin I'd heard so much about. He was dressed very nicely — black jeans, pale green shirt, tan jacket, spotted pink pocket square, a groovy pair of round sunglasses tinted blue. His hair was still a bit wet from a shower or a bath, and he wasn't quite clean shaven, like he'd run out of time to finish getting ready. Perhaps, I thought wryly, because there had been someone with something to hold onto in his bed.

"Hullo, love," Paul leaned over to kiss my cheek – his face was scratchy. "You look gorgeous."

"Thank you," I laughed and passed him an advanced copy of my book, one from the stack my the publisher sent over. "It's not quite a Beatles test pressing but the best I can do."

Paul twirled his sunglasses between his fingertips as he turned the book over, examining the front and back cover.

"Cheers, love," he glanced at me. "But I've already got one."

"What?" My eyebrows rose. "How?"

"Sometimes it pays to be a Beatle," Paul shot me a knowing smirk. "We've got connections."

"Oh," I turned that information over, unsure what it meant.

"You got me excited about your story Tangerine on the drive back from Staffordshire," he explained. "I asked about, and someone at your publisher sorted me out."

"Oh, right," my eyebrows rose again, surprised he would go to the trouble, which made Paul laugh as he reached for my hand and threaded our fingers together, catching my eye meaningfully.

"It's really fucking good, Beatrix," he grinned. "Too good to keep to meself, so now I'm showing it to everyone I know," he added with a wink.

I remembered saying something similar to him about Revolver, and I didn't so much blush as warm up like I was glowing from the inside out. I leaned over the gear stick to cup Paul's face in my hand and kiss his scratchy cheek.