Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

25. Paul's Harem Parade Vol. 2 (Paul)

Carnival of Light

25.

One of the things Paul liked best about Beatrix was how she could never manage to hide her feelings. They were always written plainly across her face, no matter how bloody hard she tried to cover them up.

She had intensely expressive eyes — bedroom eyes. Whatever that was meant to be, Beatrix had them, and Paul had done quite a lot of staring into her eyes over their long weekend in Paris.

He could see everything, and it just bloody killed him how she could lavish him with all this warmth and desire and affection just by looking at him when they were doing nothing more than standing on a street corner. It made him so intensely happy he wondered if he wasn't falling in love with her.

"I reckon she'll throw her posh boyfriend over for you," John had announced, like a parting shot on his way out the door in Paris

They'd been discussing EMI's need to feel like they had some control over the Beatles — they didn't, and EMI knew it, but they insisted on doing a little phone-tag song and dance about it to make themselves feel better — and this was meant to be the last chat Paul and John had before John went off and made his film.

"You what?" Paul laughed.

"Your posh bird," John inclined his head to the bedroom door Beatrix had disappeared through. "I dunno what's wrong with her, but she's into you."

"Yeah, maybe," Paul attempted nonchalance even though the idea of Beatrix sacking off the posh twat made him want to do bloody cartwheels.

"Fucking hell," John laughed, his eyes twinkling behind his granny glasses. "Look at yourself. No fucking dignity. You're arse over tits."

"Fuck off," Paul rolled his eyes, smothering a grin.

"What'll you do about Jane?" John asked, then laughed again at the shocked look on Paul's face, which he hadn't been able to cover up.

"Don't you have a plane to catch," Paul pointed out irritably.

"You're out of your fucking mind if you think that one's gonna be another one of your birds," John predicted, pushing the suite door open. "I'll see ya," he tossed over his shoulder.

"See you," Paul agreed, distracted.

Over their remaining time in Paris, Paul indulged in numerous overly-sentimental, rose-tinted fantasies about what it would be like to be with Beatrix properly, or at least to have her without Lord McCleary in the picture.

He'd write music and she'd write poetry. She'd want to shag him morning, noon, and night, and he'd happily oblige. She'd ask him if he was alright and look at him like she never wanted to be anywhere but with him, and the maddening parts of Paul's life would become background noise when he was with her.

It was less easy to imagine a world in which he threw Jane over for anyone, an idea that made Paul incredibly uneasy. So he simply chose not to think about it. Easy as that.

On the last morning in Paris, he'd been working through all of this, including the fact that he may have unwittingly stumbled into a ménage-à-trois despite Beatrix warning him off it months ago.

Paul had a look into her eyes to get an idea of what she was thinking, what they would do now that Paris was over. Beatrix stroked his hair and looked into his eyes, gazing at him with such unguarded sadness, and Paul knew then that she had no intention of carrying on with him back in London. She was calling it off. Ending it when they'd only just gotten started. That hurt. It hurt enough to make Paul realise this bird could drive him well and truly crackers if he let her.