The World Spinning Round (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

14. Pheromones and Vibes

September 1968
Alice

Before I even opened my eyes, I knew I was still a bit stoned from the night before. Despite my best efforts, my eyes popped open, and I slammed them closed in reaction to the harsh early morning light.

I shifted slightly and froze.

Bloody hell.

Paul was sound asleep next to me.

Slowly, I opened my eyes again to take him in. He lay on his back, his hair frightfully mussed like he'd also slept fitfully. One arm was thrown above his head; the other lay heavily atop my thigh. I breathed a sigh of relief that we were still clothed and wondered what this all meant. I'd told him that it meant nothing, but, of course, it meant something. I'd gone out of my way not to spend the night with anyone for ages--since the last time I'd slept in Paul's bed, actually--and now I'd gone and done something hasty.

And, of course, he looked younger and more innocent in repose, like he'd never harm a fly. Like his todger wasn't a menace, like it hadn't been inside half of London by now. He looked like someone who would never hurt me, who would never dream of it.

That clearly wasn't the case... and, yet.

And yet...

I could've spent hours staring at him, obsessing over the tiny details of his face, which looked much more delicate in profile. Instead, I showed a modicum of restraint and inched my way from under his arm. Once free, I quietly stood and padded into my dressing room, worried I might awaken him, thus forcing a much-needed but highly-awkward conversation.

Ten minutes later, I stole out of the room wearing light blue palazzo pants and a cotton sleeveless blouse. Cream-colored espadrilles dangled from my hand as I carefully closed the bedroom door, not allowing myself a final glance back.

Mrs. Bennington had just arrived and was tidying up the foyer as I crept down the stairs. She straightened, obviously startled that I was awake so early on a Saturday, and began to ask if I wanted her to put on the kettle.

"Shhhh!" I said much more loudly than intended. I winced and looked upstairs as if Paul might materialize. Mrs. Bennington glanced upward and then at the shoes in my hand. Then, I swear to God, the tiniest smirk appeared on her face.

"Mr. McCartney is upstairs," I said, wondering why I suddenly had defaulted to formality. "He'll... well, at some point, he'll have to leave."

She nodded, somehow managing to school her expression despite this ridiculous conversation I was forcing her into.

"You mustn't be unkind to him," I admonished. "Just.... offer him a cuppa and see him out, is all... but do be sure he leaves."

She nodded again, looking like she was using all her self-restraint herself not to judge me. We stared at each other for a long moment, and then I hastily nodded. The telephone beckoned to me, practically begging me to ring a taxi to take me to Weybridge. All my childless friends would be asleep, but surely Cynthia would be awake?

As the car approached Kenwood, I realized it was my first time there when no girls were hanging around. It was a strange sight: a little too peaceful, just the sound of actual birds chirping as my manicured finger jammed the buzzer. After a long pause, it squawked and shrieked as I said my name.

Cynthia greeted me at the door in her dressing gown, with curlers in her hair and an unlit cigarette dangling from her fingers.

"Alice," she said, looking genuinely pleased. "I wasn't sure it was really you. What a lovely surprise."