Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

05. The Girl With The Sun In Her Eyes

Carnival of Light (Part 2)

05.

Paul slept the whole next day after our night out with David Crosby while I fruitlessly tried to force myself to write. I went down for a cup of tea and flipped through the papers on the side. The Daily Herald was on top of the pile, and they had another BEATLE PAUL'S NEW GIRL: WHO IS SHE? piece in the gossip section that made my heart sink. By some stroke of luck my face was shielded by a well-placed wave of my hair.

It was almost March, but it was still cold out. I pulled on the fuzzy black coat Paul bought in Austria while the Beatles were filming Help! over my dressing gown and went out to the back garden with Martha. She bounded around the tangles of weeds happily while I lit the first of many cigarettes and examined the Alice in Wonderland figurines scattered around the garden. I was exhausted from stress and not enough sleep and my thoughts were a complete jumble.

Paul came out to find me, yawning and pulling a second jumper over the one he was wearing. He rubbed the heel of his hand into his eyes, half awake with bed head hair.

"Morning, love," he yawned. "Or afternoon, I s'pose."

"Hi," I said distractedly, pulling the fuzzy coat tighter around me.

Paul yawned again as he wandered up to me, his intention obviously to draw me into his arms. I side stepped him when he reached for me, feeling too prickly to be touched.

"What's going on with you?" he frowned.

"Nothing," I said, taking a drag off my cigarette.

"C'mon," Paul sighed. "You've been giving off weird vibes the last couple of days. I can practically feel you through the bloody walls."

"It's nothing," I said.

I tossed the rest of my cigarette away and turned to go back into the house, brushing past him.

"Well, I can't read your bloody mind, can I?" Paul complained to my retreating back. "And I can't have you sulking about all the time like this. Doesn't make for a very groovy vibe."

"Sulking about?" I spun around to stare at him. "You think I'm sulking?"

Paul rolled his eyes. "C'mon, love. Don't be like that."

I watched Martha do a lap around the garden, feeling like there was a cold stone sitting in my stomach. The buzzer went off in the house like a siren's wail. I couldn't think of anything to say so I shook my head and turned to go back inside, but Paul caught my wrist, forcing me back around to look at him.

"What's going on with you?" His eyes swept over me. "Are you pregnant or something?"

"Pregnant?" My eyebrows shot up. "Why on earth would you ask me that?"

"Because you're acting fucking weird, Beatrix," Paul said, exasperated.

"Do you really think I would be up all night taking drugs if I were pregnant?" I demanded.

"I don't know, do I," Paul shrugged helplessly.

I was exhausted and my patience was hanging by a thread, and right then I found that feigned helplessness absolutely infuriating. It was just so bloody male and Paul was anything but helpless.

"No, Paul, I'm not pregnant," I said tartly. "But I can't write while I'm living with you in this madhouse and it's driving me bloody barmy."

Paul looked confused as he thought about that. "But you're writing all the time."

"No, I'm not," I said hotly, and then the floodgates opened. "I can't work with people coming and going at all hours, and that bloody buzzer always going off, and you — you distract me just by existing. I can't write with you around, and even when you aren't around, this place is nonstop chaos. I have editors and agents in London and New York breathing down the back of my neck to finish this bloody novel but I can't find any time to write. I can't be out every night with you when I need to write and finish this bloody book. It's driving me up the fucking wall, and the only thing I can think to do is get as far away from you as fast as possible before your life swallows me up entirely and I never finish it!"