The World Spinning Round (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

32. Everest

Paul

My tea had gone cold. I watched the surface, which reflected the shitty fluorescent lights above. They really did need a cozier ambiance in Studio 2.  I took a sip, and winced. Not hot enough to drink, not cold enough to chuck away. A sad fucking metaphor for the album we were trying to record. 

John sat across from me doing a crossword puzzle. His hair had grown back surprisingly quickly after he chopped it off as a publicity stunt. It tumbled across his shoulders in a slightly frizzy, slightly unwashed sort of way, only to be outdone by the enormous beard that threatened to overtake his face. He wore a white shirt, white jeans and white Chuck Taylors. He was always wearing white in those days, something about the absence of color or maybe it was all the colors  combined? Hayes had tried explaining it once, but it had gone in one ear and out the other. 

Every few moments, he looked up to catch my eye, then looked down again. For those few seconds, it felt a bit like we were teenagers on our first date, except we were almost 30 and had known each other for half our lives. The silence between us was dense and uncomfortable, as I struggled not to make small talk to fill the silence. Anyone else see Dr Who last night? And what's up with the girl outside Apple who was arrested for not wearing a top? Did anyone see her knockers?

Yoko sat next to him, also in all white. Her hair had also grown back quickly, making me wonder if there was something in the water at Tittenhurst. She hadn't spoken to anyone since arriving, but somehow managed to make her presence known. She watched the glances between me and John and also seemed to feel the density of the silence. We made eye contact for the briefest moment and it felt like she could see into my soul in a way that made me feel deeply uncomfortable.

Not for the first time that day, I wished that Alice were also there. But she hated the sessions -- said they were insufferable and she couldn't bear listening to the same bits over and over again. Still, it would have been nice to have someone by my side.

"Seven across," John said suddenly. "Six letters. 'Yesterday's hero.'"

I almost said Trying to tell me something? in a silly accent to try to elicit a laugh from him, but it seemed like Yoko wouldn't find it funny, so instead I just stared down at the blank page in my notebook.

"Yester," Ringo called out from the other side of the room where he was staring intently at a chessboard. A roadie sat across from him looking mildly petrified that he had the winning move but didn't want to take Beatle Ringo's queen. He was new and untested, but seemed like a nice guy even if he was a bit terrified of us.

"That's not a word," John said. "That's yesterday without the day."

A melody floated through my brain, almost like a tickle. Not quite the old song, but something similar stripped down to its bones. I hummed the tune, then sang under my breath Time without its day, a day without its time. 

I looked up to catch John watching me, his head tilted to one side like he was trying to figure something out.

"Bit on the nose, isn't it?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Everything's a bit on the nose these days."

"Not your best," he pointed out.

I shook my head. "It's rubbish."

George stood by the staircase leading to the door, jingling his car keys. His leather jacket was already on like he was hoping to sneak out. He'd been talking about India again, practically lecturing us about spirituality and how we all needed a great escape. I got it. Sometimes I fantasized about disappearing with Alice and Louise to Scotland, but look how fucking far that had gotten us the last time we'd tried. I'd been two episodes of The Adamms Family and one playback of Mrs. Robinson away from completely losing it. Fucking mental.