Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

26. An Inconsequential Party on Mount Street

Carnival of Light

26.

I was still numb when my taxi pulled up out front of Beauford House that afternoon. Like I was in a fog that blurred all my feelings. I think it was something I did to protect myself, because whenever I allowed myself to think about Paul, especially those last few hours in Paris, I felt so terribly sad I couldn't stand it. A horrible aching sensation in my chest.

I didn't want to be home on my own so I went for an early dinner with Matthew, turning to him for comfort as I always did. I felt a shade of something like guilt, but the fog blurred that too.

Matthew met me at the Dorchester. He was beaming just to see me, and for a little while he distracted me from Paul and his intense stare and weighty silence. Now I was here in the present with Matthew, who was grinning at me and loving me and wanting to marry me. Matthew, who I knew everything about, and who would never hurt me. Who wasn't Paul.

After dinner we went for a walk around Hyde Park. We talked about our plans to go to Australia in December so we could spend Christmas with his sister. He put his arm around me, supportive instead of possessive, and as I leaned into Matthew's side, I felt warm and safe and loved.

But when I woke up the next morning, sleeping badly as usual, it was with a hollow ache in my chest and the distinct feeling that Paul was missing from the bed beside me.

***

Being with Paul nearly constantly and sharing a bed with him for five days had switched on something new between us, something more intense and complicated than what had been there before. But I told myself analysing it or giving it any oxygen was pointless. Our lives back in London were still the same, and that was all that mattered. I had this conversation with myself daily, trying to convince myself of it.

Paul rang while I was working. I was reading through the pages I'd written in the bath with him.

Mrs Fitz looked as displeased as ever to have him on the telephone.

"Paul McCartney is on the line for you, milady."

The last time he rang me I'd put on my best lingerie and practically sprinted up to St John's Wood to take him to bed. That felt like a million years ago. Paris had happened since then, and I had no idea how I would react to hearing his voice. Just thinking about it made me feel a complex cocktail of emotions, chief among them a melancholic sense of longing for him.

I didn't look up from my typewriter as I forced myself to say, "Please tell him I am unavailable, Mrs Fitz."

***

I saw Matthew most days and nights that week. Two of his closest friends from Cambridge were in London for the season with their wives, which gave us a reason to socialise away from the more swinging counterculture crowd. It was fine. Not the most exciting conversation, but fine.

We booked our flights to Australia. Matthew wrote to his sister to let her know we'd be arriving in Sydney on the 15th of December. We booked one way tickets in case we fancied staying on. We talked about visiting New Zealand and maybe being as adventurous as to visit Papua New Guinea.

I couldn't bear the idea of seeing Paul out, more than likely with another girl, so I declined Sue's invitation to see Pink Floyd. I skipped the Jim Dine opening at Fraser's gallery, and two parties at Tara's, and the Rolling Stones' London show at the Royal Albert Hall.

I went shopping with Poppy, who grew concerned when I was unusually quiet over lunch.

"Has something happened with Matthew?" she asked me gently.