Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

32. Montagu Square: Part 3

Carnival of Light

32.

Paul and I woke up early on Thursday — before midday was early for both of us —and spent the morning rolling around in bed together, each of us fighting to be on top. Then when we'd had our fill of each other we shared a few cigarettes and settled in for a chat.

"D'you fancy going to the theatre tonight?" Paul asked, propping himself up on his elbow.

I reached up to run my fingers through his hair, brushing it off his forehead. "Did you have something in mind?"

"There's this Joe Orton play about coppers and death and catholics I've been meaning to see," Paul explained. "I want to have a word with him after. We need a bloody screenplay for the next film."

I hesitated instead of immediately saying yes like I wanted to.

"I think I need to go home and do some work," I admitted.

"Some work?" Paul groaned.

"You need to do some work too," I reminded him. "Mal said Mr Martin keeps ringing him."

"I'm on holiday," Paul reminded me. "And anyway I've got ages."

I rolled my eyes. "Well, my book won't write itself and I need to work."

"No, you don't," Paul gave me a knowing look. "You can be on holiday too. C'mon, I want to spend time with you while I can. I'll be back in the studio next month and then you'll be begging to see more of me."

I scoffed in disbelief. "We'll see about that, shall we?"

"You watch," Paul grabbed my waist and pulled me up against him. "You'll be begging, little lady."

"I don't beg," I lifted my chin imperiously and Paul raised an eyebrow, a smirk dancing on his lips.

"We both know that's a lie, love."

I gasped indignantly and tried to push him away, but Paul just grinned and pulled me closer, rolling squarely on top of me and pinning me down.

"You'll be begging," he promised, kissing me. "Just you watch."

"Your ego is outrageous," I laughed and put my arms around his neck, pulling him down to me.

***

Paul rang Mal to bring him another change of clothes and a disguise, including a rather funny fake moustache so we could spend the day in town together. We rode the bus to Trafalgar Square — Paul loved buses — to see the Aubrey Beardsley exhibition at the V&A, then we had a bite to eat on Orange street and shopped for books on Charing Cross road. As the afternoon dwindled we stopped by the British Museum where I showed Paul my favourite William Blake etchings and tried to convince him that he should care about Blake's influence.

"Just think about it," I insisted. "The idea is that the reality we perceive is an imperfect copy of a reality that we can't access with our conscious minds. It doesn't have to be literal, it can be a metaphor for how society is a construct of rules and people need to have their eyes opened to look past those arbitrary rules so they can be free to live and speak and paint and create pop music —" I shot Paul a knowing look — "However they want."

Paul raised an eyebrow, looking unconvinced. I knew he was just winding me up but I tried a different tact anyway.

"Okay," I spread my hands, making him grin. "Grass made you more aware of the world around you, right? It helped you decondition yourself from ideas about what it means to be normal?"

"Mm," Paul agreed warily.

"By altering your consciousness, you liberated yourself from your limited perception of reality," I insisted. "Freeing you from your ego so you can make art without restrictions. In your case those restrictions are the kind of music you're expected to write."