Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

10. William Faulkner's Mint Juleps

Carnival of Light (Part 2)

10.

There were reporters and Beatles fans gathered on the pavement — the sidewalk, in American — out front of the hotel in the morning.

I watched them from the window as I smoked a cigarette. I had a flight booked to Los Angeles at midday and I could still be on it. I was already packed. I could breeze past those reporters and fans, jump in a cab to the airport, land in LA, and be checked into the Chateau Marmont by dinner time.

Paul could make his own way on the private plane Mr Livingston had sorted out for him. Or he could go back to bloody England if that suited him.

I looked at the newspapers spread out beside the ashtray I'd nearly filled since I woke up that morning. My book was getting rave reviews in all the biggest newspapers in America, and I'd indulged in reading most of them. People were reading my book and connecting with it, and that felt extraordinary.

There was a knock on the door. I took a drag off my cigarette, knowing instinctively that it was Paul. I exhaled a plume of smoke and took another drag, making him wait a bit before I put my cigarette out and went to open the door for him.

Paul looked tired and unshaven and he had obviously slept in his clothes, his white suit jacket balled up in his hand and his shirt rumpled. His hair was messy like he'd been fussing with it, and there was a bluish tint in the circles under his eyes. I immediately wanted to take care of him and get him sorted out.

"Hey," he said, distracted. "Can I come in?"

I held the door open wider and stepped aside so he could pass me, then closed the door behind him.

"I've been found out," Paul said, peering out the window at the fans and reporters in the street below. "Bloody hotels. There's not even a chance of keeping it quiet at a place like this, y'know?"

"Sure," I agreed, taking a seat on the couch and reaching for another cigarette.

"Nat's sorting us out a house in LA so we don't have to deal with this bollocks there," Paul continued, rubbing his hand over his face then accepting a cigarette from me. "Derek says we can stay with him and Joan tonight."

"That's very kind of them," I struck a match.

"Yeah," Paul leaned in for a light then pulled back, eyeing me thoughtfully as he took a drag. "I can't believe you locked me out of the bloody room," he shot me a wounded look.

"I can't believe what a complete arsehole you were to me last night," I replied mildly.

"I wasn't an arsehole to you," Paul insisted. "I didn't call you a tart."

"Of course," I said wryly. "You only said I'd spent the last five days flirting with men so they'd write nice things about me. What's insulting about that?"

"I didn't mean that," Paul sighed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. "You know I don't think that. That wanker chatting you up just got me all wound up."

"He wasn't chatting me up," I said.

"Baby, he was chatting you up," Paul rolled his eyes. "Christ, it's like you're oblivious to people fancying you."

I frowned. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing," Paul set his cigarette aside in the ashtray and dropped to one knee beside the couch so he was eye level with me. "Can we forget about it?" He picked up my hand and held it between both of his. "Please? I'm sorry I upset you, but I don't like other blokes smelling you."

"Smelling me?" I said incredulously.

"Peonies," Paul inclined his head to the vase of flowers on the table. "He was literally sniffing around you right in front of me."