The World Spinning Round (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

19. New York (pt 1)

December 1968
Alice

Bleeker Street was crowded despite the late hour. A smattering of people milled around outside The Bitter End, trying to hear the end of Crosby, Still, & Nash's set. Across the street, moviegoers filed out of a second-run film house, which advertised an old Bette Davis film on its marquee. Next to that, laughter spilled out from a comedy club infamous for the arrest of comedian Lenny Bruce in the early '60s.

As I stepped out of the taxi, the flickering light of a seedy hotel cast a glow on the pavement. The pastel swirls on my Pucci coat were momentarily illuminated with each flicker. Something about the light pattern made me slightly dizzy and intensified the mild nausea that had plagued me for the past month.

Behind me, Ali McGraw and her boyfriend, Robert, tumbled out of the taxi. I'd met Ali years before when she worked for Diana Vreeland at Harper's Bazaar. Teagan had introduced us one wild night when we had a layover in the city, and we'd kept in touch. She'd since branched out into modeling and acting, and I'd scored a coup by having her agree to be the face of Zarby America for the first year.

Robert peered at the neon signs surrounding us to get his bearings. His thin tie was slightly askew, and his hair curled quite fetchingly over one side of his forehead.

"Which way is it?" he asked.

Ali tucked a long strand of dark hair behind her ear and put a hand on her hip as she looked toward Thompson Street. The pink light from the hotel sign looked almost mauve against her olive skin.

"I get so confused in the Village," she replied. "Everything seems topsy-turvy."

We'd started the evening with dinner at Elaine's with John Cage and his partner, the choreographer Merce Cunningham. We then migrated to The King Cole bar at the St. Regis, where we ran into Ali's former flatmate, Gloria Steinem. She'd recently written a scathing op-ed about men and power and looked slightly displeased that she was being forced to share drinks with a Beatle's concubine. (Her words, not mine).

I'd wanted to call it a night then, feeling slightly lightheaded from not being able to stomach more the cream crackers and American root beer, both of which were done furtively so as not to arouse suspicions about my condition. My brain felt ready to explode from all the logistics involved in opening a store in a foreign country, and I'd nodded off three times in the taxi as we headed downtown.

Still, I'd understood Zarby's press officer's brief: be seen all over town wearing fabulous clothes, better yet if my picture ended up in the papers. That night I wore an empire waist floral lame dress -- what the Americans called a hostess gown -- with a pleated skirt and flared cuffs. I'd already received several compliments on it, demurring on the exact opening of the shop since we were having problems securing a permit needed for the gas lines.

Ali, Robert, and I walked a few blocks east to the striking facade of the Cafe Au Go Go nightclub, which had its name emblazoned in enormous cursive letters. A sign on the ticket booth announced that the night's performance with Jimi Hendrix and James Cotton was sold out, which we ignored as we gave our names to the bloke at the door.

"Have you ever seen him perform?" Ali asked as we walked into the crowded main room and joined a group of their friends sitting at a large round table. I nodded to Joe Butler from The Lovin' Spoonfuls, who was seated two tables away. I prayed he wouldn't come over and mention that he'd seen me nearly starkers a few months earlier when he dropped by Cavendish unexpectedly.

"A long time ago," I said. "And then I met him briefly in London the first time he visited... I think Jimi and Paul get on well."

"God, your life is amazing," Ali said dreamily as she lightly pushed against Robert's forearm. He was talking to an author who had just published a bestselling novel and a pretty young woman who was too young and too pretty to be his wife.