Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

31. Montagu Square: Part 2 (Paul)

Carnival of Light

31.

Paul woke up Wednesday afternoon to the telephone ringing, a sharp, alarming trill that cut through the fog of a late night at the Bag. He felt Beatrix wake up in his arms with a start. Her back was to him, her body lithe and warm and pressed against his. Paul rubbed his face into her shoulder blade, making an unhappy sound when the phone rang again, and Beatrix took pity on him, lifting his arm and untangling her legs from his so she could slip out of bed.

Paul opened his eyes to watch her pad across the room, staring at her openly— long legs, perfect arse, creamy skin, all of her impossibly touchable. She stopped to pick up his shirt off the floor, gracefully dipping down in what Paul was sure qualified as a curtsey. She slid her arms into the sleeves and fluffed all that long, tumbling, grabable hair from the collar then disappeared out of the bedroom, leaving Paul staring after her, suddenly less concerned with the phone and more interested in bending Beatrix over something and taking her from behind.

He rolled onto his back and stretched himself awake, listening to the rain stream against the window and snap off the pavement on the street above, a constant torrent of sound. It was another horrible drizzly English day, but there could have been a bloody blizzard outside and Paul wouldn't have minded. He was far too happy, and far too content after how the past week had gone, especially after how shit the previous one was.

Seeing Beatrix with the posh twat that evening at the theatre had been bloody awful.

"She looked a bit poorly, don't you think?" Jane had observed once Beatrix and Lord McCleary took off, leaving them alone in the dressing room.

"Yeah, maybe," Paul said. He sounded moody and distracted, making Jane's eyes narrow.

They'd been having a nice time together before that unexpected visit. Paul hadn't seen Jane in almost a week, and that had just been in passing. Then Beatrix cancelled on him, so he brought Jane dinner at the theatre like he used to do, and she'd been pleased he made an effort, and Paul felt good about making an effort and making her happy because, you know, he wasn't a complete arsehole after all, and of course he wanted Jane to be happy.

But then Beatrix turned up with the posh twat looking fucking miserable, and there was absolutely nothing Paul could do to make it better short of grabbing her and dragging her out of there, which he'd been sorely tempted to do. It would have been messy but it would have solved all of this sneaking around secret affair bollocks too.

Sorry posh twat, sorry Jane, we'll just be going now. You may not have heard, but Beatrix and I are brilliant together and we'll be dating each other from now on. Cheers.

If only it could be that simple. Or maybe it could be that simple, which was what Paul had been fancifully mulling over as Jane narrowed her eyes at him across the dressing room.

"You could be a bit nicer to Matthew," she said, giving him a knowing look. "His friend Dougie is good pals with Mary-Beth and Emmet. Maybe we could have them all round for dinner sometime."

Mary Beth and Emmet were Jane's theatre friends, and they were a drag in Paul's book.

"McCleary's a twat," Paul complained.

"What is wrong with you?" Jane demanded. "Matthew is perfectly nice. Why do you have to be so mean?"

Paul pulled out a half smoked joint and lit it, making Jane huff in disbelief.

"You can't smoke that in here," she hissed.

"Oh, come on," Paul rolled his eyes and took a drag. "No one will care."