The World Spinning Round (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

3. A Flash in the Pan

May 1968

Alice

The taxi dropped me off on Redchurch Street, and I walked down the tiny side street toward Zarby. One of the reasons that I'd chosen this location was that it was so unexpected. The former warehouse had been constructed in the shape of a trapezoid, its brick walls jutting out from the small entrance. I'd left the original brickwork in place, painting the bottom half of the building a stormy blue. The discreet sign above the door said Zarby in canary yellow with a lavender evil eye just under it to ward off the bad juju.

It was a groove if I did say so myself.

The newspapers seemed to agree with me. The gossip rags had been brimming with tidbits from the launch party, and the Sunday fashion columns had dedicated space to what was being called the Zarby Look. The biggest news was that Beatle Paul and Beatle Ringo had made an appearance, and they hadn't even shown up to the launch of their own boutique. Zarby was well on its way to becoming the hippest place in all of London, and it was my job to ensure that we didn't become a flash in the pan.

I'd had every intention of attending the launch party. I'd commissioned an off-the-shoulder cream midi dress from a Moroccan designer, which I'd paired with a sleek bun and oversized antiqued bronze earrings. I'd arrived before it started, telling myself I'd attend to paperwork until the Jimi Hendrix set at midnight. But even then, I couldn't make myself walk downstairs. Instead, I pored over inventory lists as the strains of Foxy Lady seeped under my door.

Maybe I wasn't yet ready to deal with the weight of being Alice Edwards in public. Or perhaps I knew that the pre-launch of a shop in the middle of nowhere to which he hadn't been invited would be irresistible to Paul McCartney, he of the many antennae. And I certainly wasn't ready to see him yet, even across a crowded room.

The aubergine curtain separating Zarby from the rest of the world rustled as I walked into the cavernous ground floor. A few girls were in the corner fussing with a mannequin, attempting to properly pin a fuschia washed-silk kaftan with a turquoise embroidered collar. I said hello and climbed the stairs to the second floor, where my head menswear salesman, Tony, was frowning at the till that I'd found in a Paris antique shop. It mostly worked, except it would add a few shillings to the bill every now and then. But it was so distinctive that everyone agreed it was worth the accounting nightmare.

I continued walking to the back of the menswear floor to the thin cut-through that led to a rickety spiral staircase. It was steep, narrow, and creaked so aggressively that more than one vendor had refused to visit my office.

I met with our accountant and then the press officer, who once again implored me to let it slip that I was the face of Zarby. I politely demurred and buried myself in paperwork as soon as they were gone. For the next hour, I tuned out the world and was in my happy place. It was interrupted by the sound of someone running full speed up the deathtrap staircase.

I looked up, alarmed, and was about to stand when Suzie burst through the door, totally out of breath. You remember Suzie:  American, petite, and formerly a gate bird standing outside Paul McCartney's house. Yes, that one. I'd run into her several months before and hired her as my personal assistant.

"It's your father," she wheezed, shoving a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. "He's here."

My eyebrows shot up. "My father? Here?"

Suzie nodded, a light sheen of perspiration beginning to form on her forehead. "The Prime Minister, yes. He's here. His car just pulled up outside."

I froze for a moment, debating my options. Perhaps Suzie could tell him I was at lunch, except it was only half-ten. Perhaps I could hide under my desk until he fucked off. I was in the midst of going through my options when I realized that she was staring at me.