Yeah Yeah Yeah (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

30. That Awful Mustache

October / November 1966

Alice

I first met Michael Caine on a flight from Stockholm to London.

He wore thick black spectacles and spent half the flight looking around the first-class cabin like he should be in the back with the regulars. It was the day after he'd been nominated for a BAFTA award for Alfie, and he seemed both elated and knackered, like he'd been up far too late celebrating. He was hungover as shit, but he wasn't terrible looking at all.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked in his distinctive East London accent as I handed him a fresh vodka tonic.

It wasn't the first time I'd been asked that since my picture had been splashed across the papers for two solid weeks. Lady Alice snags a Beatle! Beatle Paul snags a Lady! And those who didn't dare to ask would look at me curiously as if surely we'd met, but they couldn't quite place me. Paul said I'd become accustomed to it, but I wasn't sure I wanted to.

"I get that all the time," I replied to the actor as I reached for his empty glass. "I must have one of those faces that looks familiar."

He took a sip of his drink and squinted slightly as if trying to work out if we'd slept together or I'd once asked for an autograph or if perhaps I was his sister's childhood friend.

"You're sure we haven't met?"

I shook my head. "I'd remember. I adored Alfie."

He raised an eyebrow flirtatiously. "Did you?"

I nodded. "My boyfriend did too." A chime sounded overhead. "We'll be landing shortly, Mr. Caine. Let me know if you need anything else."

The taxi ride to my flat proved that Swinging London was in full effect, just like the papers promised. Everyone was dressed in brightly-colored clothing, and it was almost as if the city had been abandoned by the older generation because they knew that change was inevitable.

I nearly tripped over a pile of magazines that had accumulated by the door in my two-week absence. I glanced at the headlines as I rummaged around for my key. "A Swinger's Guide to Good Times in the Land of Mod," one proclaimed. "Girls Are Looking Like Boys Who Look Like Girls," said another bold-type caption over the picture of an androgynous model. Finally, "A Lusty, Shock-Filled New Elizabethan Era."

I'd barely managed to pull on an oversized men's dress shirt from Hung On You when the buzzer rang. I fastened the buttons as I ran across the flat, cinching a wide leather belt around the waist.

"Be right there," I said into the intercom as I reached for a pair of tall boots and my handbag. The lift took forever to come, so I ran down the stairs and peered through the glass door before exiting. Marianne Faithfull was standing next to a waiting taxi, surrounded by five American Beatles fans who seemed to have taken up permanent residence outside my home.

The girls looked towards the door expectantly as I exited, their faces crumpling with disappointment when they realized that Paul wasn't with me.

"Will you sign for me, Marianne?" one of the girls asked, her voice almost a whinge. She was called Veronica and apparently had been hanging around the Beatles ever since the '64 tour. She was a big girl with big hair and an even bigger ego.

"Where's Paul?" a timid blonde girl asked as I hurried past them to the taxi.

"Liverpool," I replied as I opened the taxi door. "He's gone all week."

Marianne finished signing for Veronica, who then looked up at me snidely. "He brings other girls home when you're not around, you know. We see it all."

I kept my face perfectly neutral as I jumped into the vehicle, even as my hand was itching to slap her. Mari scooted in a moment later, slamming the door behind her.