Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

11. Knickers, My Dear (Paul)

Carnival of Light

11.

Paul walked out of Annabel's feeling equal parts elated, conflicted, and sexually aroused. That was much better than how he'd walked in, bracing himself for a meeting with Eppy and a tax lawyer to go over how financially painful the Manila disaster had been for the Beatles. Brian had only just managed to rid himself of the anxiety-induced full-body rash he'd broken out in on the flight back from India, though he was still a trembling mess from God only knew what combination of pills he'd taken.

Imagine Paul's delight when he spotted Beatrix sitting in a booth with Fraser across the club, looking bloody lovely in a pale pink dress with half of her hair knotted up, the rest flowing free in loose curls down her back. She was already looking at him over her shoulder, giving him an inviting little smile, and it took just about every ounce of self control Paul possessed not to go straight over to her.

She'd warmed up to him significantly since that night in Tara's back garden, when she told him about her family and how she grew up, which couldn't be farther from how Paul grew up. Governesses and boarding schools and Mamma were a far cry from raucous McCartney family gatherings and a council house without an indoor toilet. Paul knew which he preferred.

Beatrix had been warm and kind to him when he needed it that evening at Tara's, and their conversation ended on an unexpected note, one Paul thought about frequently.

She stood over him and ran her fingers through his hair. That was something people did to Paul all the time, and it was usually uninvited. Having his hair petted was one of many weird and infuriating side effects of being a Beatle. But when Beatrix did it, looking at him softly, curiously, Paul felt days' worth of tension drain right out of him. It was soothing, and he didn't want her to stop.

Then she ran her fingers down his cheek and over his mouth, her pink lips parting just a bit, and Paul's thoughts of how calming she was were immediately replaced with a vivid fantasy about what licking her through her knickers might be like.

All those thoughts were buzzing around his head again after spending a few hours sitting beside her at Annabel's, holding her hand under the table. It had been innocent enough, but it was also the most eager she'd been for his attention yet. Paul knew when a bird wanted him, and if he'd played his cards right, he could have been walking out with Beatrix instead of alone.

But she was still with that posh twat, and she'd obviously been high as a kite, her pupils blown wide as she beamed at him with those bloody lovely eyes. Self control kicked in the moment Paul heard the word engaged, and he took off before he could trick himself into believing shagging Beatrix just the once would be anywhere near enough.

Mal was waiting for him outside Annabel's in his little green Ford Cortina, the engine running. Paul fell into the passenger seat and Mal wordlessly passed him a freshly lit joint.

"Cheers," Paul took a drag and slumped down, thinking.

"How'd it go?" Mal asked.

He meant the meeting, but Paul shrugged, thinking about Beatrix.

"Yeah, alright," he took another drag.

Here he was getting stoned with Mal, when he could be about to have his way with Beatrix, finally finding out what her knickers looked like, and maybe what they tasted like too.

"Back to Cavendish?" Mal asked.

Ah, Cavendish. In an ideal world Paul would have been able to go home and shag his girlfriend to ward off thoughts of Beatrix, but Jane would be asleep by now, and she was currently furious with him. Paul thought that was very fucking rich considering she was the one who booked a holiday with her mates when he'd only just gotten back from nearly being made a political prisoner in the bloody Philippines. That row with Jane still made him bristle.