The World Spinning Round (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

5. An Old Soul

May 1968

Alice

When I arrived back in London, I went straight from the airport to my flat and crashed. My heart felt heavy, and the sense of inertia was almost more than I could bear. I wondered again if Paul had been right so long ago; if one slows down for too long, then there's a good possibility that one may just give up altogether.

When I awoke the next morning, I refused to get up. Tangled in brushed linen sheets, I stared at the telephone sitting by the bed. It was manufactured in Morocco in the 1940s, the ecru receiver inlaid with tiny circles of mother-of-pearl. I'd picked it up for 50p at Portobello Market and then paid a fortune to restore it to working order.

The telephone rang at least every half-hour while I lay there. Each time, I was startled but made no move to reach for the receiver. Mrs. Bennington made trip after trip to my door to announce the caller: Suzie, my mum, my grandmother, Suzie again, Theo Dormer, and Suzie yet again. Each time, I told her to take a message. Jet lag is a bitch, I told myself to explain away my behavior.

But my biggest fear was that if I got out of bed... or even moved closer to the telephone, there was a good chance I'd ring Paul. I'd pick up the receiver, dial his stupid number, and probably his stupid girlfriend would answer. Although, perhaps that would be preferable since I'd at least come to my senses and indulge in an unjustified strop.

But if Paul answered... well, then I couldn't be trusted. So knows what I would say or what I would do.

So, instead, I stayed in bed all day. The shadows stretched across the room as day turned to night, and I tossed and turned. Jet lag may be a bitch, but insomnia is even worse. My stomach had been tied in knots since I'd run into Paul on the streets, and everything felt off-kilter. I replayed every moment of our interaction, analyzing what he'd said and trying to determine if I'd successfully held onto my poker face. It had been a monumental struggle, but perhaps I'd managed to mask the panic I felt that, despite everything, there was still an intense pull between us.

I miss you, Liss.

Those words had nearly broken me. I'd wanted to throw something sharp at his head, but also throw myself into his arms. I hated these warring emotions inside of me, and most of all, I hated the fact that being in such close proximity to him had made it so apparent that there was still a spark there. There would probably always be a spark.

Bloody hell.

The next day, I finally felt sufficiently in control to go to Zarby. We were opening to the public a few days later, so I put my head down and worked. For 72 hours, I buried every emotion I'd felt seeing Paul under a pile of paperwork and mannequin pins.

Opening Day was a raging success to the point that we had to close early because we simply had nothing left to sell. Eric Burdon stopped by, cameras documenting every embroidered shirt that he admired. Marianne Faithfull waltzed in midday looking fabulous in a short fur coat--no matter the spring weather--and created such a buzz that I wasn't sure if Shoreditch would ever recover. Finally, in a show of solidarity, Beatle George Harrison slipped in through a back entrance and purchased two jackets, one of which he was photographed wearing several weeks later.

Zarby was on the map.

A few days after the opening, Suzie shooed me out of the office and ordered me to take a long weekend. It started off with a lie-in and then a long bath. But then the nervous energy set in, causing me to roam aimlessly around the flat. I turned on the telly and flipped through the channels, finding nothing that could calm the buzzy energy in my brain.

I was about to ask Mrs. Bennington how to operate the hoover or how to dust the shelves, but was saved from domestic insanity by a call from Michael, who was in town for a few days between filming.