The World Spinning Round (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

10. That Kiss

August 1968
Paul

That kiss.

That fucking kiss.

That fucking kiss was slowly driving me mad.

Ten glorious seconds that had felt so right, like the whole bloody world had been created for that moment. Like I'd been sleepwalking for the past year and finally had a reason to wake up.

But then Alice had left without looking back. She'd given me an unreadable look and climbed into the taxi. So I'd fucked off back to London and spent the next week wondering if I'd taken advantage of her. Was she sitting around thinking about the kiss, or was she too busy contemplating that I'd used a fucking funeral to foist myself upon her?

I'd rung her twice as promised, and she'd accepted the call, which was more than I expected. Neither of us brought up what had happened, nor did I fess up that I was halfway to crackers because of it. But they were short conversations, barely enough time to move beyond the superficialities.

I didn't have time to worry about the kiss. I didn't. I was extremely important and extremely busy and we were finally recording my new song.

Trident Studios had the only 8-track in London, which meant it was the only place deemed suitable to record Hey Jude. Plus, we'd abandoned EMI a few days prior after a camera crew got in our faces and made it impossible to work there. It didn't hurt that Trident didn't lock up the milk at night, nor the fact that they had Dolby noise reduction technology.

It wasn't a pretty studio by any means, and they hadn't managed to keep their mouths shut that we'd be there. When I'd arrived that afternoon, at least a dozen girls were crowded around the entrance. How did they always know where to find us? Was Pattie in on it? Mo? Was Yoko writing our whereabouts on acorns and distributing it to the gate birds?

We'd been working on Hey Jude for a few hours when Derek popped by. Everyone was a bit relieved to see him, mainly because the session had gotten a bit contentious and our press officer was a welcome distraction. He'd recently returned from Los Angeles, where he'd been doing press for the Byrds and the Beach Boys. Brian Wilson had rung me up and said he was relinquishing Derek to us but to tread lightly because the pressman was a "purveyor of good vibes."

He appeared wearing a blue-and-white zigzagged shirt and chevron trousers, his aviator sunglasses pushed atop his head. His hair has a natural wave that most men would kill for, and he always knew where to score the best drugs. Good vibes, indeed.

"How do the birds always know how to find you?" he asked with a perplexed expression, walking down the staircase into the studio.

George gave him a pained look as he placed his guitar on a nearby metal chair. "I reckon it involves aluminum cans and vast quantities of string. Like that telephone game, except they actually get it right."

"I understand them standing outside of EMI," Derek continued, scratching his chin as if contemplating the meaning of life. "But how in the holy hell did they know you'd be here? I didn't even know until I showed up at EMI and they told me to fuck off."

"The birds always know," John interjected, his eyes serene behind his specs, which made him look like a wise old owl. "They're all-knowing."

"Omniscient beings," Yoko added matter-of-factly from her perch beside him. They were the first words she'd uttered in hours, ever since she noted that it was somewhat lazy of me to rhyme "better" with "better." Which it was, sure, but it worked, didn't it?

Derek glanced at each of us, trying to sense the general vibe. He was always good at reading the room and was the first to escape when he felt a row coming. I liked that about him, his strong sense of self-preservation.