Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

39. A Thousand Volts of Light

Carnival of Light

39.

It was freezing and I had no coat, but I stood there at the edge of Mason's Yard for a good ten minutes, staring at the spot where Paul had been standing at the mouth of the passage out to St James Street.

I tried to decide what I wanted to do – something reckless like going back to Indica to get off with Tom McGrath. Something sensible like going home to bed where I'd never get to sleep. Something stupid like turning up at Cavendish only to be rejected by Paul again, left out to shiver in the cold with the gate birds.

Ultimately I didn't even bother to get my coat. I wrapped my arms around myself and hurried up to Piccadilly Circus, flagging a cab and giving the driver Tara's address. There would be a party at Tara's, one with plenty of drugs and drinks and interesting people to keep my mind occupied so I didn't have to decide anything.

Every choice I'd made thus far had been a total disaster.

A party was in full swing at Eaton Row. Cream's debut LP Fresh Cream was playing on the stereo while Georgie Fame and members of the Animals rubbed elbows with a gaggle of bohemian aristocrats and some of Chelsea's most psychedelically inclined tailors. There were scotch and cokes to drink and pre-rolled joints tucked into vases like bouquets, tabs of acid floating around and pills everywhere you looked.

There was something about the party that felt frozen in time. Like I'd been to this party a hundred times before and this same party would always be happening at Tara Browne's house. The guests and the music and even the drugs might change, but the consequence-free hedonism of youth was all Tara.

I shared a joint with Hung On You's Michael Rainey and his Vogue-writer aristocrat wife Jane Ormsby-Gore, who were as obsessed with Jimi Hendrix as everyone else. I got a handful of amyl nitrate capsules — poppers — off Eric Burdon of the Animals and the party became a blurred sea of familiar swinging faces. I spoke to all of them until I ran out of energy for smiling, and ended up in the back garden alone, watching the sky lighten from smoggy black to hazy navy.

Tara came out to find me. He looked beautiful in a magenta velvet tuxedo with flared trousers, a gold Aries badge pinned to his lapel and a pink floral cravat knotted loosely at his throat. He seemed bewildered to discover me sprawled out on his sun lounger, alone without a coat, a cigarette burning down between my fingertips.

"Darling, what on earth is going on?" Tara's eyes swept over me. "You must be freezing."

"A bit," I agreed.

Tara came to sit beside me, taking my cold hands and urging me to look at him.

"Are you alright?" Tara asked, searching my face. "Beatrix, what's happened?"

I thought about not telling him, and decided Tara would never let me get away with it. I tried to pull together the words to explain and a horrible weepy feeling swept over me, tears gathering in my eyes.

"I told Paul I loved him," I admitted tearfully. "He said I'm too much work and he can't deal with my bollocks all the time."

My voice broke, making Tara's eyes widen, and for the first time since I'd met him I saw something like anger flash across his normally carefree face.

"Oh, that stupid bastard," Tara huffed indignantly. "Did he really?"

I nodded and my eyes began to stream, making my cheeks sticky and itchy in the cold.

"I've messed it all up, haven't I," I croaked.

"Oh, darling, come here," Tara sighed, putting his arms around me.