The World Spinning Round (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

9. Portrait of a Wayward Aristo

July 1968
Alice

I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection as the new Lulu single played on the radio. It was a poppy, upbeat tune that directly contradicted my mood, and there was a burst of faint static every few seconds because I hadn't tuned it properly.

The song faded out as the BBC announcer came on. He went through the weather--hot and unseasonably humid; the results from the semi-final cricket tournament--Newcastle had won; and, finally, the most pressing news of the day.

Today marks the funeral for Lady Cordelia Edwards, Dowager Viscountess of Staffordshire. She died last week at the age of 83.

The mirror was absurdly oversized, an antique from the South of France that I hadn't managed to have properly hung. I squinted at my reflection, adjusting the neckline of the sedate black Yves Saint Laurent dress my mum had sent over. I'd gone to the hairdresser early that morning to get my hair pulled back in a stiff chignon held together by too much hairspray. I felt like I was wearing a costume: Portrait of a Wayward Aristo.

The Dowager Viscountess was a fixture of the social circuit in the 1940s and 1950s and will be remembered for her great wit and beauty.

I reached for a pair of diamond solitaire earrings, a gift from my grandmother. She'd given them to me in honor of being accepted to the Pan Am training school. She'd given me heirloom diamonds; my father had threatened to disown me.

She was the godmother of Princess Margaret, who is expected to attend the funeral.

I picked up a pair of long black gloves and stared at them. I remembered Paul telling me that during the Beatles' touring days, he marveled at the transformation in the dressing room from Everyday Paul to Beatle Paul just by putting on a suit and boots. Did he ever worry that he was losing a piece of himself each time? Because that's how I felt at that moment. 

In a written statement, Prime Minister Edwards expressed sadness for his mother's passing and announced that, out of respect, all campaign-related events would be canceled for the next two weeks.

Then, rather abruptly, 'Mony Mony' by Tommy James & The Shondells came on. I winced at the emotional non sequitur and walked over to switch off the radio. Reaching for an acetate sitting on the table, I placed it on the turntable and carefully lifted the needle. There was a hiss, and 'Porpoise Song' by The Monkees started to play.

My, my, the clock in the sky is pounding away and there's so much to say

A friend had lent me the pre-release a few days ago, and I was over the moon about it. I must've spent hours listening to it, losing myself in its dreaminess.

Wanting to be, to hear and to see, crying to the sky

I sat on the edge of the unmade bed, not bothering to arrange my skirt so it wouldn't wrinkle. My mother would murder me, but I couldn't bring myself to care.

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye

My father had made it very clear that there was no room for grief or sadness at the funeral. The family's role was to be the pillar of strength for those around them, not wallowing in their misery. Quelle horreur! Quelle bourgeoisie!

But that was all fine because I hadn't cried since I'd left Cavendish. I'd wanted to, but tears refused to come. It was like I'd expended all my external grief in front of Paul, and now it was locked away somewhere deep inside me.

I fell back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. Raising my right hand into the air, I looked at it curiously, like perhaps it held all the secrets to the universe. For days, I'd felt a strange, slight pressure in the center of my palm. For days, I'd harbored a suspicion that Paul's hand had left an invisible imprint there.