Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

07. She Said She Said (Paul)

Carnival of Light

07.

You don't know a thing about me.

That night at Dolly's started off well enough for Paul. He shared a few joints with Miles and had a quick shag with Maggie before they were due to head over to Ronnie Scott's to watch Albert Ayers play some very far out jazz. They decided they fancied a drink first and strolled down to Dolly's on Jermyn Street.

Paul spotted Beatrix the moment he stepped into the club. It was like his eyes were drawn to her instinctively. Or maybe it was that he was always found himself looking for her lately.

Beatrix was sitting with Sue, laughing with her over a drink with a cigarette between her fingers. She was wearing a black polo neck and skinny trousers like a French beatnik poet. A really sexy one. She was a really sexy beatnik poet who spoke French though, wasn't she.

Maggie grabbed Paul's hand to get his attention, shooting him a grin.

"Is that her?" She asked.

One of the brilliant things about Maggie was she truly did not give a toss if Paul was shagging other girls. He'd never met a bird like her before — it was as if she was incapable of envy. She just wanted to have a laugh and a shag and he could even complain about Jane to her.

Paul may have complained about Beatrix to Maggie too. In addition to seeing Beatrix everywhere, she'd been running hot and cold with him — sometimes she was warm and friendly, flirting with him coyly. Other times she was frosty like he'd done something to offend her, though Paul couldn't imagine what that would be.

Maggie's theory — based on what Paul told her — was that Beatrix was snobby and spoiled and maybe prone to hysteria, and that Paul should shag her to get her out of his system — was she in his system? It sort of felt like it if he was looking for her everywhere he went.

"Yeah, that's her," he glanced at Maggie.

"She's got great hair," Maggie grinned.

Beatrix did have great hair. Long, thick, wavy dark hair that tumbled down her back. More than once Paul had to stop himself from touching it, or maybe winding his fingers into it, or maybe grabbing it and pulling it. But he couldn't fathom Lady Beatrix Beauford being the sort of bird who liked her hair pulled in bed. Not that Paul would be taking her to bed anytime soon. Half the time she seemed to hate him, and she was dating that posh twat. Paul did not like to share, and he already knew once would not be enough with this bird.

He and Maggie followed Miles over to Beatrix and Sue, and that's when it all started to go downhill.

Beatrix composed her face into this gracious smile like she was about to curtsey or pull out her bloody scepter and knight someone. There was a weird duality with that smile and what Paul knew about her — he knew her to be very intelligent, very independently-minded, and a very talented writer interested in the avant garde. That smile was all well-trained debutante, which Paul noticed she defaulted to when she was uncomfortable.

Maggie then made a very big faux pas, teasing Beatrix about her title. It wasn't supposed to be mean, just a friendly piss take, but Beatrix obviously didn't take it that way. The gracious smile wobbled, and she doubled down on the lovely young lady act, going out of her way to be kind and courteous to Maggie while she was visibly tense, chain smoking one cigarette after another.

"She's so nice," Maggie said cheerfully when Beatrix got up to leave. "Maybe she just doesn't like you," she gave Paul a knowing look.

"Yeah, maybe," Paul agreed distractedly. "Just a mo."