Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

19. You Keep Me Hanging On

Carnival of Light (Part 2)

19.

I walked home to the Chateau Marmont, feeling wretched.

There was a party happening at the pool like there always was, especially when Atlantic Records' founder Ahmet Ertegun was staying in one of the bungalows. He was the first person to offer me cocaine in LA and he paid for an open bar whenever one of Atlantic's bands were playing a gig on the Strip. That was the vibe when I got "home" after having a confusing cry over Paul and pulling myself together again.

Jim Morrison was out by the pool, wearing vinyl pants with no underwear and his shirt unbuttoned to his navel. He had his arm around a blonde and a bottle of bourbon in hand as he staggered up to me.

"Where's Eve?" Jim slurred, eyes rolling.

"Shagging Paul Butterfield," I replied, heading for the bar.

I got pissed and found an exceptionally handsome out of work actor to take me to bed. I kicked him out in the morning and had a hot shower to wash away the feeling of his hands on me. I felt even more wretched with a hangover and some distance from the night before as I considered my situation.

To say I was happy in LA wouldn't be accurate. I wasn't slowly going mad like I'd been in London, but I wasn't thriving in California either. I should have been happy here. I had friends. I met interesting people. It was sunny all the time. My novel was an outrageous success and I was a celebrated writer featured in Life and Newsweek and the New York Times. But I wasn't quite happy, and seeing Paul again made it difficult to ignore why.

Spending months pining for the person you love but can't be with is exhausting. It doesn't leave you with much energy to be happy.

It wasn't fair that time and space hadn't done anything to make me less in love with him. It wasn't right that even though he'd been completely useless and pushed me away when I needed him, I still loved him like a fool. He'd been in London, no doubt enjoying all the perks and freedoms of being the single Beatle while I'd been killing time in Los Angeles trying to get over him. And he wasn't making it very bloody easy by turning up making me realise what a rubbish job I was doing.

Why couldn't they have sent Ringo to LA to sort out the Beatle Business? Why did Paul have to come?

Paul was in all the papers again that morning. I drank my coffee and read about his visit to the Capitol Records Tower and how he'd been seen out for dinner in Beverly Hills with record label executives. Sorting out his Beatle Business, and nothing to do with me.

The telephone rang and I dragged myself out of bed, hoping it was Janet ringing to have a go at me, but when I picked up the receiver there was a crunchy crackling sound that meant it was an international call.

"Hello?" I asked when no one said anything.

"Bea Bea? Can you hear me?" Poppy's voice fuzzed across the line.

"Poppy?" I brightened. "Yes, I can hear you."

"Oh, Bea Bea, thank God," she huffed tearfully, and the smile dropped right off my face as visions of Tara's crushed convertible crushed flashed in my head.

"What's happened?" I demanded. "Is everyone alright?"

"Golly, Beatrix," Poppy sniffled. "I thought about writing to you about it. You were always marvellous at letter writing but I'm just useless at it and anyway I wanted to hear your voice. I'm completely freaking out."

"Poppy, what the hell has happened?" I pressed, exasperated

"I'm pregnant," she hissed. "Oh my God, Beatrix. I'm having a baby."