Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

28. The Big Apple (Part 2)

Carnival of Light (Part 2)

28.

May 1968

New York City

In the morning, we woke up to John's bed banging against the wall as he gave the maid what sounded like the best shag of her life.

"Fucking hell," Paul rubbed the heel of his hand into his eye. "What time is it?"

I picked up his watch off the bedside table. "Nearly nine."

"For Christ's sake," Paul grumbled and reached behind his head to bang on the wall with his fist. "Oi! It's too bloody early for that."

The wall creaked perilously and the noisy shagging carried on. Paul seemed to accept the situation for what it was and yawned lazily, pulling me closer so he could bury his nose in my hair.

"Did you think that would work?" I asked.

"Nah," Paul sighed. "A good shag's the only thing that gets John up this early. Best leave him to it."

I groaned and pressed my cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart instead of John's voice coming through the wall, low and nasal and breathless. The maid mewled lustily.

Paul walked his fingers up my arm, and I lifted my head to look at him.

"Is this doing it for you at all?" He arched an eyebrow.

I stared at him for a moment.

"Is listening to John cheat on his wife with the maid turning me on?" I asked incredulously.

"Alright," Paul held his hands up. " I wouldn't judge you for it if it was, that's all."

"Oh, God," I rolled away from him to hide my face in my pillow. "A stiff breeze turns you on."

Paul sighed like he was deeply aggrieved and pulled himself out of bed. I opened one eye to watch him cross the room in his boxers, yawning and mussing his hair and just looking rather fetching as he disappeared out into the hall, and a few seconds later the pipes squealed when the shower turned on.

It didn't sound like John and the maid were in any sort of hurry so I got up to make a cup of coffee. There was a stack of newspapers on the side in the kitchen with the New York Times on the top of the pile. Bobby Kennedy was on the Times' front page, but the rest of the papers featured pictures of John and Paul arriving at the airport with headlines speculating about the Beatles breaking up.

I was successfully hiding behind Mal in most of the pictures, but they still mentioned me

McCartney brought his new bride, who we understand to be an English duchess and heiress. The two married in April after a whirlwind secret romance, breaking the hearts of Beatles fans the world over.

I dropped the paper on the counter and pressed my lips together.

It didn't bother me like it might have done once. Perhaps because I had much bigger things to worry about, like the looming threat of motherhood.

Besides, it may not have been the whole truth but it wasn't far off unless you were being finicky about British peeress titles. Back home in England I had a secret closet full of tweed and a pile of Tory money in the bank. There wasn't any point pretending otherwise.

I poured my coffee down the sink and strode back down the hall, ignoring the noisy shagging in John's room and letting myself into the bathroom.

Paul pulled the shower curtain aside when he heard me shut the door. His hair was wet and sticking to his forehead, water droplets sparkling on his eyelashes as he watched me take my clothes off.