Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

19. Andy Warhol Comes To Town

Carnival of Light

19.

The Beatles Are Bigger Than Jesus debacle spiralled out of control on a global scale in the days leading up to their American tour. Their songs were banned from American airwaves. There were bonfires to burn their records. It was suggested that there had been death threats. The media was lapping it up, spreading the story far and wide, and so was everyone else.

Even Matthew had something to say about it when I rang him for our daily chat.

"Bloody hell, what the devil is going on with the Beatles? McCartney must be losing his biscuits over this. Poor chap."

Poor chap indeed.

Then I saw Paul on the BBC, smiling for a camera beside John, who looked decidedly less than fine.

"This religious controversy — does it worry you that it's going to boil up when you get the states?" the BBC asked.

"Oh, no, no, no, it's gonna be fine," Paul smiled genially. "It'll be fine. Just you watch."

There was a touch of irony in his voice, but otherwise he was wearing a magnificent poker face – it rivalled my mother's.

I hoped whatever he did after that interview, it included getting well and truly pissed.

***

Paul's monologue about sharing moments stuck with me philosophically, and Tara had made a persuasive if not delusional argument about getting Paul out of my system so I could happily live the rest of my life with Matthew. I reminded myself that Paul was a horrible scoundrel whose hotel room would shortly become a revolving door for young women, and Tara's wife had left him for having a mistress – neither of them were ideal for advice. And yet I wanted what I wanted even if it was senseless, stupid and selfish.

I wished I could be more like Robert Fraser – unconcerned with consequences.

But it didn't especially matter. Matthew was returning to London the day after Paul went to America, and I could only hope that with Matthew, my sanity would return to me. I didn't expect to see Paul before he left, which left me with a disappointed yet relieved taste in my mouth.

Two days before Paul was due to leave and three days before Matthew was due to return, Andy Warhol's friend Barbra Rubin rang me up to let me know Andy was in town. She invited me to join them and Fraser, along with some other 'cool people' for dinner that evening and of course, I said yes. Dinner with Andy Warhol? Absolutely.

I wore a sleeveless black brocade dress that felt appropriate for dinner with New Yorkers in swinging London, and gave my fringe a quick trim in the mirror so it fell just right for Warhol – artfully messy instead of unruly messy, slightly split in the middle. It was too hot for tights but I wore them anyway, then stepped into a pair of little black shoes and made sure I had at least two full packets of cigarettes in my handbag before calling a cab to take me to Chelsea.

I'd been to Baghdad House with Robert Fraser before. It was a middle-eastern restaurant on Fulham Road that allowed you to smoke hash after you ate, which of course was its primary draw. I arrived just as Christopher Gibbs and Fraser were climbing out of his chauffeured Rolls Royce with Muhammad behind the wheel.

"Why have I been invited?" I asked Fraser.

"Because you're obscenely rich, my love," he smirked, patting my shoulder.

"Don't be naughty, Robert," Gibbs tisked. "Barbara says Andy adored your book, sweetie."

My eyebrows shot up, surprised by this news.