Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

27. The Big Apple (Part 1)

Carnival of Light

27.

May 1968

New York City

Our arrival in New York was meant to be a secret, but when we disembarked the plane at JFK we were greeted by a deluge of reporters and determined fans spilling out onto the tarmac. It wasn't quite the reception the Beatles were treated to in 1964, but I could easily imagine that chaos raining down upon us as we were chased into the terminal.

The press were hot on our heels, snapping pictures and shouting questions at John and Paul while a flustered customs agent checked our passports.

"Is it true you're breaking up and that's why only two of you have come?"

"Probably," John said. "Or maybe not. Who knows."

"The other two were busy," Paul said.

"Is it true you're here to denounce the Maharishi?"

"We don't denounce anyone," Paul said.

"We don't condone anyone either."John said.

"Is it true the screaming teenyboppers have turned on you?"

"Maybe we've turned on them," John said.

"You always hurt the ones you love," Paul said.

Two cars were waiting to take us to Nat Weiss's apartment on the upper east side. Nat was very kindly giving up his flat so John and Paul could have some privacy for their long weekend in the city, or at least as much privacy as they could manage when the whole city knew they were coming.

We turned off Lexington Avenue onto a quiet, tree-lined street mostly populated by charming carriage houses from the turn of the century. Nat's building was the outlier on this street, a massive red brick post-war apartment block with a doorman standing guard under a green canopy.

We dropped our bags and had a wander around Central Park before dinner at a quiet neighbourhood cafe. Then Nat packed a suitcase and took off with the rest of our entourage for the very grand St Regis Hotel in Midtown, leaving John and Paul and I to our own devices

The guitars and notebooks of song lyrics came out, and I excused myself to go to bed early. I was absolutely shattered as I crawled under the covers, falling asleep to the muffled sounds of John and Paul playing the songs they wrote in India through the wall.

***

I woke up with Paul behind me, his bare chest warm against my back and his hand under my negligee, splayed out low on my stomach. I felt a flicker of arousal but acting on it seemed like a Herculean effort. My eyes were so heavy I could hardly get them open and my limbs felt like lead, impossible to lift.

God, I was so tired of being so bloody tired all the time.

I felt Paul shift behind me as he woke up too. He sighed into my shoulder and buried his face in my neck, trying to hide from the slant of grey daylight sneaking through the curtains. The window was cracked, letting in the sounds of New York City; traffic bustling and sirens wailing in the distance; people living their lives in close quarters everywhere.

"What time is it," I murmured.

Paul reached past me to check his watch on the bedside table, examining it then dropping it again.

"Eleven," he said roughly, pulling me back against him.

We laid there in silence for a while until I found the strength to roll over in Paul's arms, tipping my head back to look up at him. He smiled sleepily at me, his eyes so striking even when he was sleep-ruffled with bed head hair like he was then.