Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

41. The Monogamous Mr McCartney (Paul)

Carnival of Light

41.

January 1967

Paul was late getting to the studio but he had a very good excuse. His new housekeeper Mrs Mills had just started and she was still getting used to the eccentricities of Cavendish. She was a nice older lady who "didn't mind what young people did", which meant she didn't mind drugs. She also had numerous recipes to make the house stink of cabbage, which was something Paul had always desired in a housekeeper.

The Beatles had stopped bothering to hide that they were smoking grass during sessions, and Studio 2 had taken on a noticeable semi-permanent smell ever since— the pungent musk of incense barely masking the herbal stench of weed. That smell and the familiar hum of studio chatter washed over Paul as he crossed the parquet floors toward his bandmates, a bounce in his step and his guitar case swinging in his hand.

John was at the Steinway, his elbow braced on the closed lid and his chin in his palm as he spoke to George, who was standing over him, absentmindedly strumming a Gibson. Ringo lounged on a chair nearby, wearing a scarlet royal officer's coat with gold buttons, wholly focused on ladling baked beans into his mouth. Mal and Neil were fussing with a tall, spindly lamp with coloured lights, both of them sporting handlebar moustaches they'd grown over the holidays.

John caught Paul's eye, and George was familiar enough with that look of connection to know Paul was behind him.

"Hey, man," George turned his head. "How're you doing?"

"Not too bad, Georgie," Paul replied cheerfully.

He set his guitar case against an amp and shrugged off his coat — camel coloured with a black tartan print — and tossed it over the back of a chair, pushing the sleeves of his red jumper up to his elbows before rolling up the cuffs of the blue shirt beneath it.

"So, you've sorted it out with your posh bird, have you?" John observed wryly, correctly reading Paul's sprightly mood.

"Yeah, I s'pose so," Paul grinned, ruffling his hair then smoothing it back down.

"Well done, mate," Ringo held up a forkful of beans in cheers.

"We're gonna take it slow," Paul said. "Try to keep it from the papers for now."

"How long do you reckon you can manage that?" George frowned.

"A few months, maybe," Paul palmed his pocket for a packet of fags and slid one between his lips. "Y'know, just as long as we can really."

"Bea's embarrassed to be seen with you in public, is she?" John accepted a fag before calling over his shoulder, "Mal! Sort us out a cuppa!" prompting Mal to abandon Neil to deal with the lights on his own.

"Fuckin' hell," Neil muttered, squinting at the lamp, then shaking it experimentally.

"What's taking it slow mean?" Ringo wanted to know.

"I dunno," Paul leaned in for a light off George and took a drag. "Date each other? I guess?"

Date each other exclusively, as Paul and Beatrix had discussed at length on the drive back from Wiltshire.

It got a bit heavy at one stage. Paul pulled over to the side of the motorway so he could look Beatrix in the eye as he promised her that he wasn't a complete arsehole and wouldn't cock it up. She said she trusted him and kissed him in that brilliantly desperate way of hers. Things escalated quickly, and they ended up shagging in the driver's seat of the Mini on the side of a motorway with Beatrix's tweed skirt up around her waist and her knickers pulled to the side.